Sourcing an instructional video for persuasion led to me Joshua Bell which led me to watching violin conciertos.
That led to memories of many, many evenings in dark concert halls:
my short legs swinging from the seat, falling into the seat from folding and unfolding it a little too enthusiastically;
watching papa's back, his hands swishing back and forth, controlling instruments, voices;
going through mama's bag for candy, finding a pen, drawing on the concert program, breathing in her perfume;
falling asleep to that smell and the music.
That led to listening to Bach, Paganini, Beethoven, then Sibelius.
That led to remembering our dog, whom my dad named Sibelius and we called him Belly. But our yayas were Bisaya, so they called him Billy. And soon he wouldn't respond to Belly, so we all called him Billy.
He was a good dog. He died and we never had a dog again.
Back to work, then.
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Sometimes
Sometimes, it's lonely.
And sometimes, I am especially aware of how broken my parts are. And then I don't know anything.
And so I stay away, stay hidden, stay home. Because I don't know how to tell people that I am just so lonely, so I'll stay away from y'all. Because I don't know if that will make sense.
I had plans today. But I stayed home. Because it's too much for me out there. And so I'm here, with my daughter, who has made up her mind to hug me the whole day.
I wish I were thinner, prettier, happier. I will die alone. I will die alone. I will die alone.
The thoughts have been racing and racing and racing for weeks now. I haven't been able to sleep properly. The meds make me sleep, but I wake up around midnight and then think and think and think and think.
Somebody told me very recently how happy my vibe was, how much I lit the room. I make everyone laugh and smile.
I'm worried, because I know I'm being manic again. Or at least I'm leading up to it again. So now I'm going to cry a bit. And be quiet. And write this down.
People like me, people want to be around me. I'm fun. I make people laugh. That's what the people are telling me.
But all I want to do is run away.
But I'll be okay in time for tomorrow, for when I have to be with other people again. It's what I do.
I wish I were beautiful. I wish I were invisible. But I wish someone would find me. Find me beautiful.
Sometimes, I'm lonely.
And sometimes, I am especially aware of how broken my parts are. And then I don't know anything.
And so I stay away, stay hidden, stay home. Because I don't know how to tell people that I am just so lonely, so I'll stay away from y'all. Because I don't know if that will make sense.
I had plans today. But I stayed home. Because it's too much for me out there. And so I'm here, with my daughter, who has made up her mind to hug me the whole day.
I wish I were thinner, prettier, happier. I will die alone. I will die alone. I will die alone.
The thoughts have been racing and racing and racing for weeks now. I haven't been able to sleep properly. The meds make me sleep, but I wake up around midnight and then think and think and think and think.
Somebody told me very recently how happy my vibe was, how much I lit the room. I make everyone laugh and smile.
I'm worried, because I know I'm being manic again. Or at least I'm leading up to it again. So now I'm going to cry a bit. And be quiet. And write this down.
People like me, people want to be around me. I'm fun. I make people laugh. That's what the people are telling me.
But all I want to do is run away.
But I'll be okay in time for tomorrow, for when I have to be with other people again. It's what I do.
I wish I were beautiful. I wish I were invisible. But I wish someone would find me. Find me beautiful.
Sometimes, I'm lonely.
Friday, September 19, 2014
Doodle Couch
I was a bit stern with Lucia this morning. I was dressing her little, half-awake, punkle self and I was telling her she couldn't wear her dress. I was in a rush because I had to dress up for work and there was a storm and we didn't have electricity and the world was about to end and I'm melodramatic and extra batty in the morning.
"You have to wear pants, Lucia. The mosquitoes might bite you."
"But I don't want to wear pants, Mommy!"
"But you have to! I said so!"
And then tearfully, she looked at me and said, "Are you mad at me, Mommy? What did I do? I'm sorry..."
Guilt, shame, humility, and love, love, love, love, love came rushing from the very pit of me with such force that I thought I was going to vomit or cry or whatever—anything to release that overwhelming sensation of just being so imperfect and human. I scooped her up in an embrace that forms lifetimes and epiphanies and then all was well.
She's taking her afternoon nap now, and as I stare at her and drink her in, I still can't believe she's mine despite every single blessed mistake I've ever made.
---
The past few weeks have been a little difficult. Our beloved yaya finally left for Malaysia and so for about two weeks (cumulatively), we had no yaya. Lucia had to be shuttled back and forth—mornings at her dad's place then evenings back at ours. It was pretty exhausting, to say the least. But there were moments when I would just sit still outside on the steps, and thank God for another day that we were able to complete together.
She's taken to drawing on our—what I now call—Doodle Couch. She started drawing here and there to my utter horror. When I posted a picture online, one of my former students suggested that I just let her continue drawing on the entire couch. The idea was genius and now Lucia is all over this thing. Well, her drawings are.
A friend came over to visit and she noticed that the drawings have a singular theme: they're of me and Lucia (okay, and occasionally, her Dora doll) in different situations and settings. I guess this is Lucia's way of dealing with her new reality, and a way for me to see that she's okay. (Or so I hope.) So far, all her drawings are happy, albeit lacking in sexual diversity. She still has a good relationship with her dad, but I think she's starting to understand how daddy has his own house and she and I have our own house—and that's okay.
This single parenting is hard stuff, I tell you.
I'm sorry, Lucia. Mommy's not mad, mommy is just an asshole sometimes. (Don't say that word...just yet. But it's the only word I can think of to describe myself right now.)
"It's just you and me. Me and you!" she likes to keep saying now. To which I always reply, "Forever."
"You have to wear pants, Lucia. The mosquitoes might bite you."
"But I don't want to wear pants, Mommy!"
"But you have to! I said so!"
And then tearfully, she looked at me and said, "Are you mad at me, Mommy? What did I do? I'm sorry..."
Guilt, shame, humility, and love, love, love, love, love came rushing from the very pit of me with such force that I thought I was going to vomit or cry or whatever—anything to release that overwhelming sensation of just being so imperfect and human. I scooped her up in an embrace that forms lifetimes and epiphanies and then all was well.
She's taking her afternoon nap now, and as I stare at her and drink her in, I still can't believe she's mine despite every single blessed mistake I've ever made.
---
The past few weeks have been a little difficult. Our beloved yaya finally left for Malaysia and so for about two weeks (cumulatively), we had no yaya. Lucia had to be shuttled back and forth—mornings at her dad's place then evenings back at ours. It was pretty exhausting, to say the least. But there were moments when I would just sit still outside on the steps, and thank God for another day that we were able to complete together.
She's taken to drawing on our—what I now call—Doodle Couch. She started drawing here and there to my utter horror. When I posted a picture online, one of my former students suggested that I just let her continue drawing on the entire couch. The idea was genius and now Lucia is all over this thing. Well, her drawings are.
 |
| In the early stages. There are more drawings now. |
 |
| I got the one at the upper right corner tattooed on my arm. :) |
 |
| One of her many mommy-and-me drawings. |
This single parenting is hard stuff, I tell you.
I'm sorry, Lucia. Mommy's not mad, mommy is just an asshole sometimes. (Don't say that word...just yet. But it's the only word I can think of to describe myself right now.)
"It's just you and me. Me and you!" she likes to keep saying now. To which I always reply, "Forever."
Friday, August 15, 2014
Night
Somebody asked for a writing sample from me this morning. I was looking for something that makes me sound intelligent. Instead, I found this. :P
I wrote this the day before I broke up with a boyfriend. Because melodrama. Because early 20s. (BECAUSE HE DESERVED IT. HEH.)
Written on April 8, 2004. Edited this morning.
Night
She tries to dig the sand with her toes without actually moving the rest of her body. It is hard as she keeps slipping into the shallow grave her toes made for her, but she doesn’t really mind. She is engaged in a rather sober flirtation with the crashing waves. The moon is rising and the shore along with it. She isn’t actually wet yet, but the shore inches closer and closer, and the waves, seemingly just for the fun of it, kiss her cheeks with soft sprays of sea water from time to time.
She looks into the deepening darkness. The sky taunts her into thinking of an exact color to describe what she sees. Once, as a child, she hit her shin on purpose. She wanted to know how fast a bruise would form and how the colors would develop—for fun and because she had to know.
The sky now reminds her of that bruise.
A huge gust of wind blows from the horizon and she smells the day winding down: The heady perfume of sweat on skin that city folk call stink; the smell of fried fish mingling with the smell of dried fish; the clean scent of steam from newly cooked rice; and the sleepy aroma of fires being stoked. From the distance, angry mothers call their children (full names, odd nicknames), anxious to collect all their offspring to scold, to clean, to feed, then to love. She closes her eyes and listens for a mother who will no longer call for her, and there is only silence. She breathes in all the smells and her lips tremble as she smiles, and her eyelids tremble as they fight back tears.
He comes silently behind her. She is unaware of him for a while—six waves crash to the shore and she still doesn’t notice him. He takes the opportunity to look at her. To see her. They sense each other, but decide to keep looking at the lazy sun, looking at each other only through the corners of their eyes. He gives in though, and he looks at her, sees her still digging the sand with her toes.
Again, that stillness. He sighs loudly, and for a fleeting moment…he hates her...He reaches out, tests a hand on her forearm. She does not move, but he feels her flesh react. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t come closer. All he feels is her skin, crinkling at his touch. And it hurts him, more than anything she had ever done to him. He tries his other hand on the other arm and waits for a reaction. Three waves crash to the shore. And still, that stillness.
He wraps his arms around her from behind and smells her hair. The pungent smell of sun exposure fills his nostrils. He breathes it in again and smells the dying fruity fragrance of her hastily-washed hair. It makes him think of the home he has always wanted, the only kind of home he has ever known. He holds her tighter, so tight that she almost buckles underneath his might. He uses her frail shoulder blades to cup his face, and he braces himself to cry.
But she is the one who gives in now and she breaks down. Their bodies face the bruised sky and they hold each other this way. It is easier to weep without seeing each other, facing the unknown instead. That is where she has to go, it is useless to look at him. She knows this now, and so must he.
“Please,” he says.
Wave. Crash.
Wave. Crash.
Wave. Crash.
She releases herself from his grasp, then she releases herself from her self-made grave. She realizes that she managed to bury herself till her ankles without her knowing. She looks at the foot-shaped hole. In an instant, another wave crashes to the shore, fills the hole, and it is as if it had never existed.
Triumphant, she turns around and looks at him straight in the eye. His eyes are sad, angry, questioning. But her proud eyes say no, and her trembling voice says, “No.”
And then the waves finally touch her feet, calling her. It is time.
She walks away, towards the ferry at the pier, towards the now-gone sun, towards the promise of a new life.
Night has finally arrived.
I wrote this the day before I broke up with a boyfriend. Because melodrama. Because early 20s. (BECAUSE HE DESERVED IT. HEH.)
Written on April 8, 2004. Edited this morning.
Night
She tries to dig the sand with her toes without actually moving the rest of her body. It is hard as she keeps slipping into the shallow grave her toes made for her, but she doesn’t really mind. She is engaged in a rather sober flirtation with the crashing waves. The moon is rising and the shore along with it. She isn’t actually wet yet, but the shore inches closer and closer, and the waves, seemingly just for the fun of it, kiss her cheeks with soft sprays of sea water from time to time.
She looks into the deepening darkness. The sky taunts her into thinking of an exact color to describe what she sees. Once, as a child, she hit her shin on purpose. She wanted to know how fast a bruise would form and how the colors would develop—for fun and because she had to know.
The sky now reminds her of that bruise.
A huge gust of wind blows from the horizon and she smells the day winding down: The heady perfume of sweat on skin that city folk call stink; the smell of fried fish mingling with the smell of dried fish; the clean scent of steam from newly cooked rice; and the sleepy aroma of fires being stoked. From the distance, angry mothers call their children (full names, odd nicknames), anxious to collect all their offspring to scold, to clean, to feed, then to love. She closes her eyes and listens for a mother who will no longer call for her, and there is only silence. She breathes in all the smells and her lips tremble as she smiles, and her eyelids tremble as they fight back tears.
He comes silently behind her. She is unaware of him for a while—six waves crash to the shore and she still doesn’t notice him. He takes the opportunity to look at her. To see her. They sense each other, but decide to keep looking at the lazy sun, looking at each other only through the corners of their eyes. He gives in though, and he looks at her, sees her still digging the sand with her toes.
Again, that stillness. He sighs loudly, and for a fleeting moment…he hates her...He reaches out, tests a hand on her forearm. She does not move, but he feels her flesh react. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t come closer. All he feels is her skin, crinkling at his touch. And it hurts him, more than anything she had ever done to him. He tries his other hand on the other arm and waits for a reaction. Three waves crash to the shore. And still, that stillness.
He wraps his arms around her from behind and smells her hair. The pungent smell of sun exposure fills his nostrils. He breathes it in again and smells the dying fruity fragrance of her hastily-washed hair. It makes him think of the home he has always wanted, the only kind of home he has ever known. He holds her tighter, so tight that she almost buckles underneath his might. He uses her frail shoulder blades to cup his face, and he braces himself to cry.
But she is the one who gives in now and she breaks down. Their bodies face the bruised sky and they hold each other this way. It is easier to weep without seeing each other, facing the unknown instead. That is where she has to go, it is useless to look at him. She knows this now, and so must he.
“Please,” he says.
Wave. Crash.
Wave. Crash.
Wave. Crash.
She releases herself from his grasp, then she releases herself from her self-made grave. She realizes that she managed to bury herself till her ankles without her knowing. She looks at the foot-shaped hole. In an instant, another wave crashes to the shore, fills the hole, and it is as if it had never existed.
Triumphant, she turns around and looks at him straight in the eye. His eyes are sad, angry, questioning. But her proud eyes say no, and her trembling voice says, “No.”
And then the waves finally touch her feet, calling her. It is time.
She walks away, towards the ferry at the pier, towards the now-gone sun, towards the promise of a new life.
Night has finally arrived.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Second. Seconds. Always.
"The day after Neil killed himself, you went to his desk, opened the official DPS book, and wept.
That's how it'll be for me today.
But I get it. I really do. And that's why today will be tough
-August 12, 2014. 7:37 am"
Yesterday, first thing in the morning, I found out that Robin Williams died of an apparent suicide.
For the rest of the day, I saw posts remembering and celebrating his work, his person. I spent most of the day either crying or stopping myself from crying. I couldn't believe that my beloved Mr. Keating had died the way Neil did. It might sound trite, but the first time I watched Dead Poets Society was the first time I fell in love with teaching. (And with Ethan Hawke. But that's a story for another time.) And then for quite a while, I used that same movie to teach poetry to my students. Every year. So, yeah. That movie meant something to me. He meant something to me.
I also saw numerous posts about depression, addiction, and suicide. I read an interview years ago where he mentioned that he had been battling with depression, too. So I have known about his struggles for a while now, but his suicide was no less shocking.
And everything just got too real. Everything hit a little too close to home. The past month...epic. Too close to home.
I struggled to get through the day. I managed to pretend long enough so that the kids wouldn't notice, but it was such a difficult, difficult day.
And then on my way home from work, I got mugged at knifepoint. Because, sure, why not?
I got off the LRT and started walking my usual route along EDSA (a walk that takes me from Taft to Roxas Boulevard where it's easier to get a jeep—yes, I do this every single damn day). Since there were so many people walking around me, I thought it would be safe to transfer my backpack behind me as my back was starting to ache. I suppose I wasn't walking as quickly as usual or whatever, but I suddenly felt a presence behind me. Just as I was about to turn around, I felt something sharp on my right hip. "Wag ka na lang lumingon para di ka na masaktan." ("Don't turn around so that you won't get hurt.")
I froze and in seconds, he was gone. Or rather, the knife was gone. He was just a knife to me, dreadful synecdoche. A cab passed by in front of me and I hailed it and got in. I checked my bag and realized my phone was gone. Perhaps my phone was the only thing he managed to grab in the few seconds he had me paralyzed. I think that's the only thing he took. I haven't really assessed the damage. I can't even look at my bag right now.
So, let's look at the last few weeks, shall we?
- My spouse has left, marriage is over. (Again, and for now, I'd like to keep it that way. There, there. It is what it is.)
- I got charcoal pumped into me. (Because, yes, again...I know.)
- Robin Williams has died. (I still can't quite explain why I feel this a little too keenly...or maybe I can and I just won't.)
- I was mugged yesterday. (Still surreal.)
But.
It's my 2nd Other Birthday today. And today I celebrate the fact that I did not die. Not two years ago, not a month ago, not yesterday.
I did not die. I lived.
I think, I need to change several things in my life right now (y'think?) and I will.
Tomorrow. I'll start tomorrow.
Today, I am afraid and wary of humanity. Too many. Too noisy. Too dirty. Too...there.
Today, I shall lie in bed. And read yet another article on Robin Williams. On depression. On suicide.
Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll continue making airplanes out of old photographs with my daughter. (Hey, that's one way of getting rid of those damn pictures. And it was her idea. Burning photographs, so high school.)
Whatever. Sorry, I'm not making sense. I made it this far into this blog post, right?
Some guy had me at knifepoint for a few seconds. Big deal. (Actually, yes, big deal.) Now to get to these demons with their whispers. They never leave.
Today, I say to them, "I lived. I'm alive."
Happy 2nd Other Birthday to me.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
Soon
So I had to take a step back and willfully prevent myself from writing anything these past few weeks because I was just really, really, really angry.
I've forgotten the order in which these stages come, but I can't really say that I'm done with the rage part just yet. Thankfully, my sense of humor has kicked in and now I'm acerbically laughing and at this whole mess. Because, sure, let's just make fun of everything.
I'm quite good at it, too. People who have heard my story laugh (with the prerequisite shaking of head, natch), and it helps me deal with it. But at the end of the day...well, no. At the end of the day, my meds kick in and I sleep.
Apparently, drugstores have phased out the formulation of this one medicine I take. The pharmacist assured me that I'd still be taking the same dose, but it wasn't the "slow-release" kind anymore. Whatever, I didn't really listen. I just bought the meds and left. I tend not to linger in drugstores because people always look at me funnily when they see how much I buy. (Aside: True to Filipino tactlessness, one old lady asked me once, "Ba't ang dami mong gamot? Mamamatay ka na ba? Nakakahawa ba yan?" I said, "Opo," and then I coughed at her. Okay, no, I didn't. I REALLY, REALLY, REALLY WANTED TO, THOUGH.)
Anyway, because of this new formulation (actually, I was on this formulation before), I now get sleepy just.like.THAT. Like, I'd be talking to my daughter one moment and then I'd feel this overwhelming surge of drowsiness and then, bam!, I'm asleep.
I guess all this sleeping is helping. Ish. Between commuting and teaching and being with Lucia and commuting and commuting and, oh have I mentioned?, commuting, I hardly have time for anything else. Because commuting.
Which is a lie, of course, because in pockets of mental aimlessness, I feel the Anger. And it is dark and heavy and moist and patient. And every time I make a joke or laugh, it chuckles along (nefariously, natch) because it knows we will have to deal with each other sooner or later.
But not now, Anger. You wait. I don't have time for you yet. Soon. (Also, how on earth do I start? Where?)
Oh, but when I do. It shall be glorious. I assure you.
I've forgotten the order in which these stages come, but I can't really say that I'm done with the rage part just yet. Thankfully, my sense of humor has kicked in and now I'm acerbically laughing and at this whole mess. Because, sure, let's just make fun of everything.
I'm quite good at it, too. People who have heard my story laugh (with the prerequisite shaking of head, natch), and it helps me deal with it. But at the end of the day...well, no. At the end of the day, my meds kick in and I sleep.
Apparently, drugstores have phased out the formulation of this one medicine I take. The pharmacist assured me that I'd still be taking the same dose, but it wasn't the "slow-release" kind anymore. Whatever, I didn't really listen. I just bought the meds and left. I tend not to linger in drugstores because people always look at me funnily when they see how much I buy. (Aside: True to Filipino tactlessness, one old lady asked me once, "Ba't ang dami mong gamot? Mamamatay ka na ba? Nakakahawa ba yan?" I said, "Opo," and then I coughed at her. Okay, no, I didn't. I REALLY, REALLY, REALLY WANTED TO, THOUGH.)
Anyway, because of this new formulation (actually, I was on this formulation before), I now get sleepy just.like.THAT. Like, I'd be talking to my daughter one moment and then I'd feel this overwhelming surge of drowsiness and then, bam!, I'm asleep.
I guess all this sleeping is helping. Ish. Between commuting and teaching and being with Lucia and commuting and commuting and, oh have I mentioned?, commuting, I hardly have time for anything else. Because commuting.
Which is a lie, of course, because in pockets of mental aimlessness, I feel the Anger. And it is dark and heavy and moist and patient. And every time I make a joke or laugh, it chuckles along (nefariously, natch) because it knows we will have to deal with each other sooner or later.
But not now, Anger. You wait. I don't have time for you yet. Soon. (Also, how on earth do I start? Where?)
Oh, but when I do. It shall be glorious. I assure you.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
3.89
How are you?
How are you?
How are you?
How do I explain the nuances that hold together the varying degrees of sadness and anger and hatred and happiness (there are pockets of it, yes, for there is Lucia) and...and...ennui? Will I rate myself again? How do I explain that a 2.97 is vastly different from a 2.96?
This morning, I got an email from my best friend. She didn't ask me how I was. She just described how she was feeling, showing me how she was feeling exactly the way I was. Her empathy allowed me to feel less numerical. More human.
But now I feel a little less human. So.
2.34, 5, 5.489, 4.39, 6.9, 2.09, 4.87, 4.88, 3.89.
How are you?
How are you?
How do I explain the nuances that hold together the varying degrees of sadness and anger and hatred and happiness (there are pockets of it, yes, for there is Lucia) and...and...ennui? Will I rate myself again? How do I explain that a 2.97 is vastly different from a 2.96?
This morning, I got an email from my best friend. She didn't ask me how I was. She just described how she was feeling, showing me how she was feeling exactly the way I was. Her empathy allowed me to feel less numerical. More human.
But now I feel a little less human. So.
2.34, 5, 5.489, 4.39, 6.9, 2.09, 4.87, 4.88, 3.89.
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Snippets, Volume 3.824
She doesn't remember much.
Just that damn tube up her nose going to goodness-knows-what part of her body. Dispensing charcoal directly into her stomach. It was painful and uncomfortable enough to rouse her from her stupor, long enough to beg that they remove it.
She couldn't see anything. Or, she doesn't remember seeing anything. She just knew that it was so bright.
"Please, get it off! Get it off!"
Someone—a woman, the nurse, most probably—kept cooing, "Sandali na lang, sandali na lang..."
At one point, someone's thumb rubbed her brow. One of her last charitable acts would be her assumption (hope?) as to who that was.
But perhaps it was the nurse who kept saying, "Sandali na lang, sandali na lang..."
Sandali na lang.
Pero ang tagal na.
Just that damn tube up her nose going to goodness-knows-what part of her body. Dispensing charcoal directly into her stomach. It was painful and uncomfortable enough to rouse her from her stupor, long enough to beg that they remove it.
She couldn't see anything. Or, she doesn't remember seeing anything. She just knew that it was so bright.
"Please, get it off! Get it off!"
Someone—a woman, the nurse, most probably—kept cooing, "Sandali na lang, sandali na lang..."
At one point, someone's thumb rubbed her brow. One of her last charitable acts would be her assumption (hope?) as to who that was.
But perhaps it was the nurse who kept saying, "Sandali na lang, sandali na lang..."
Sandali na lang.
Pero ang tagal na.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Of Sleeplessness, Of Dreams, Of Nothing, Of...
The First Dream
(Billy Collins)
The wind is ghosting around the house tonight,
and as I lean against the door of sleep
I begin to think about the first person to dream,
how quiet he must have seemed the next morning
as the others stood around the fire
draped in the skins of animals
talking to each other only in vowels,
for this was long before the invention of consonants.
He might have gone off by himself to sit
on a rock and look into the mist of a lake
as he tried to tell himself what had happened,
how he had gone somewhere without going,
how he had put his arms around the neck
of a beast that the others could touch
only after they had killed it with stones,
how he felt its breath on his bare neck.
Then again, the first dream could have come
to a woman, though she would behave,
I suppose, much the same way,
moving off by herself to be alone near water,
except that the curve of her young shoulders
and the tilt of her downcast head
would make her appear to be terribly alone,
and if you were there to notice this,
you might have gone down as the first person
to ever fall in love with the sadness of another.
(Billy Collins)
The wind is ghosting around the house tonight,
and as I lean against the door of sleep
I begin to think about the first person to dream,
how quiet he must have seemed the next morning
as the others stood around the fire
draped in the skins of animals
talking to each other only in vowels,
for this was long before the invention of consonants.
He might have gone off by himself to sit
on a rock and look into the mist of a lake
as he tried to tell himself what had happened,
how he had gone somewhere without going,
how he had put his arms around the neck
of a beast that the others could touch
only after they had killed it with stones,
how he felt its breath on his bare neck.
Then again, the first dream could have come
to a woman, though she would behave,
I suppose, much the same way,
moving off by herself to be alone near water,
except that the curve of her young shoulders
and the tilt of her downcast head
would make her appear to be terribly alone,
and if you were there to notice this,
you might have gone down as the first person
to ever fall in love with the sadness of another.
From The Art of Drowning, University of Pittsburgh Press, 1995
---
The winds are unwelcome visitors tonight and I find myself sleepless in their presence. I've been mostly asleep since Monday morning, sleeping away the last remnants of that which I had hoped would take away some of the pain. Maybe that's why I'm so awake right now. (But so very tired.)
They did not.
Perhaps when I am much older, at the brink of (natural) death, I will look upon this evening with a sigh. Now, all that sigh are the winds that tell me terrible things are being wrought all around me. And inside of me.
I wish I have the exactitude to define, delineate, and analyze this mess. Timelines are meaningless. It is what it is.
It is
death
brokenness
incomplete thoughts.
---
The winds are unwelcome visitors tonight and I find myself sleepless in their presence. I've been mostly asleep since Monday morning, sleeping away the last remnants of that which I had hoped would take away some of the pain. Maybe that's why I'm so awake right now. (But so very tired.)
They did not.
Perhaps when I am much older, at the brink of (natural) death, I will look upon this evening with a sigh. Now, all that sigh are the winds that tell me terrible things are being wrought all around me. And inside of me.
I wish I have the exactitude to define, delineate, and analyze this mess. Timelines are meaningless. It is what it is.
It is
death
brokenness
incomplete thoughts.
If you were to see me, you might fall in love with my sadness.
But beware,
nothing good has ever come of that.
But beware,
nothing good has ever come of that.
Monday, July 7, 2014
Saturday, May 10, 2014
Suddenly, Finally, Motherhood
March 2008
The snow is slushy outside. I go to Rite Aid because I need moisturizer. But really, I go to buy a pregnancy test. I end up buying three. The cashier smiles at me. They are always friendly here.
April 2008
I buy lip gloss and three pregnancy tests. The cashier smiles. I buy gum.
May, June 2008
I just buy one test, each time. The cashier says, "It'll happen, honey. It'll happen."
September 2009
Who the hell am I kidding?
January 2010
Ah, well.
March 2010
The nurse tells me I'm pregnant. I cuss at her, thinking it is a bad, bad, bad joke. I projectile-ugly-cry. She asks if someone will be with me during the pregnancy. I explain I'm married and that I'm actually crying tears of joy.
March 2010
I hear my daughter's heartbeat for the first time.
July 2010
I bleed. We worry. I go on bed rest. But all is well.
November 2010
- Birthday nyo ngayon, ma'am?
- Ang cute naman! Sabay kayo ni baby!
Until...
- Ay, birthday nyo pala kahapon? Sayang 'di pa umabot.
Until...
- I can see her head!
Until...
- She needs a C-section. The baby's head won't go down.
Until...
- Congratulations!
Until...
- Ma'am, you're in the recovery room. You're okay. The baby's okay.
November 2010
My own mother is explaining why my breasts are hurting like they have never hurt before. "Your milk is coming in." The pain is excruciating.
I breastfeed for 22 months.
November 2010
I see my own mother, asleep on the rocking chair, my daughter in her arms.
January 2011
I go back to work. Another co-teacher who had also just given birth walks into my cubicle. Together, we cry.
February 2011
I am typing a script with my right hand, my left hand is cradling my daughter, making sure she can still comfortably suckle my breast.
April 2011
One whole month with just my daughter.
December 2011
I am exhausted.
2012
My daughter gives me reason to live. My mother makes sure I remain alive.
January 2013
My daughter is growing too fast.
May 2013
My mother flies in to help me and my daughter settle into our new home. My daughter gives me reason to live. My mother makes sure I remain alive.
December 2013
My daughter is growing too fast.
January 2014
My daughter kisses me and says, "I love you." She is old enough to know what it means now. And she says it. And means it.
May 2014
My daughter is growing too fast. She gives me reason to live. My daughter is Tarzan-clasping my left leg. She giggles. Perhaps in her dreams we are swinging on trees, catching moonbeams. She said she wanted to climb a tree to get the "crescent moon", right before she drifted off to sleep.
May 2015
It's just me and my daughter now. There is motherhood, and there is single motherhood. It defines me and refines me. There is so little but she gives me so much. She tells me about her day and says, "We have a good life, Mama."
The snow is slushy outside. I go to Rite Aid because I need moisturizer. But really, I go to buy a pregnancy test. I end up buying three. The cashier smiles at me. They are always friendly here.
April 2008
I buy lip gloss and three pregnancy tests. The cashier smiles. I buy gum.
May, June 2008
I just buy one test, each time. The cashier says, "It'll happen, honey. It'll happen."
September 2009
Who the hell am I kidding?
January 2010
Ah, well.
March 2010
The nurse tells me I'm pregnant. I cuss at her, thinking it is a bad, bad, bad joke. I projectile-ugly-cry. She asks if someone will be with me during the pregnancy. I explain I'm married and that I'm actually crying tears of joy.
March 2010
I hear my daughter's heartbeat for the first time.
July 2010
I bleed. We worry. I go on bed rest. But all is well.
November 2010
- Birthday nyo ngayon, ma'am?
- Ang cute naman! Sabay kayo ni baby!
Until...
- Ay, birthday nyo pala kahapon? Sayang 'di pa umabot.
Until...
- I can see her head!
Until...
- She needs a C-section. The baby's head won't go down.
Until...
- Congratulations!
Until...
- Ma'am, you're in the recovery room. You're okay. The baby's okay.
November 2010
My own mother is explaining why my breasts are hurting like they have never hurt before. "Your milk is coming in." The pain is excruciating.
I breastfeed for 22 months.
November 2010
I see my own mother, asleep on the rocking chair, my daughter in her arms.
January 2011
I go back to work. Another co-teacher who had also just given birth walks into my cubicle. Together, we cry.
February 2011
I am typing a script with my right hand, my left hand is cradling my daughter, making sure she can still comfortably suckle my breast.
April 2011
One whole month with just my daughter.
December 2011
I am exhausted.
2012
My daughter gives me reason to live. My mother makes sure I remain alive.
January 2013
My daughter is growing too fast.
May 2013
My mother flies in to help me and my daughter settle into our new home. My daughter gives me reason to live. My mother makes sure I remain alive.
December 2013
My daughter is growing too fast.
January 2014
My daughter kisses me and says, "I love you." She is old enough to know what it means now. And she says it. And means it.
May 2014
My daughter is growing too fast. She gives me reason to live. My daughter is Tarzan-clasping my left leg. She giggles. Perhaps in her dreams we are swinging on trees, catching moonbeams. She said she wanted to climb a tree to get the "crescent moon", right before she drifted off to sleep.
May 2015
It's just me and my daughter now. There is motherhood, and there is single motherhood. It defines me and refines me. There is so little but she gives me so much. She tells me about her day and says, "We have a good life, Mama."
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