Indulgence

moments

Alan Watts
Trying to define yourself is very much like trying to bite your own teeth.

I bought some Tic Tacs, orange flavoured. I was surprised since the plastic was coloured orange, but the Tic Tac is still white. For a few minutes, I was confused. Because of the plastic colouring, I thought that even the Tic Tac would be orange as well. I was mistaken. It was a moment of disjointed reality.

Yesterday, I was having dinner at Ziggurat with my friends Anne, Jaypee and Mon. It was a sort of business meeting since we were thinking up of a project we could work on but being friends, personal stories and general merriment was the atmosphere of our dinner. We laughed as much as we thought hard on certain things. We thought of things on an artistic sense and in a personal sense as well. It was a nice time. We thought as much as we felt. It was a welcome change.

We lost our volleyball game this morning. It was a needed win because our opponent, the Corporate Services Group had yet to be beaten. No one was there to cheer us on except people who we've fought before. They cheered us on, our former opponents from game's past because they didn't want CSG to take the first round in a sweep. But we lost. We were doing good, actually, we were leading and we were doing fine. Then the pressure hit and one mistake led to another and tempers flared and we lost concentration. We lost it. We lost the game. But I wasn't pissed. I did feel bad and I do wish we won. I could see all our mistakes so clearly, run it through my head like some video player with the camera pointed at the right direction, capturing it all in the frame. But there's no point. Considering 2 of our good players were not there, we did pretty well. I'm proud of what we were able to do. It's just sad we dropped the ball. We gave in to the pressure. We got into each other's nerves.

Things are getting easier now. Paying off some debts. Very soon, probably next week, I'll be able to move out and get myself settled at my brother's. Things will be different there. The rules will give my life some level of order, structure. There will be more or less impetus to stay or leave. There will be more reason to the things that I do. And I see that as a good thing.

On the day that I got a big paycheck from one of my projects, I went around and ended up giving coins and change to beggars and kids around me. If anything, I know what it is like to some very tiny, small degree. I can't properly enjoy my hard earned cash and see these people starving. I did what I can, as pathetically small as it was but it was the only way I could feel good about getting paid. It's just the way I am, I guess. Maybe it is just some sense of guilt, I don't know...

Anyway, I just want to share an old poem of mine. I'm ending this entry with my poem entitled "Poem."


Poem

1.

He quotes from somewhere “All
stories are about love.” This is after,
I quote “At its most basic, all stories
come from only four possible plots.”

That means he knows I’m in love.

That means there are only four possible
beginnings and endings.

And that the only reason stories are written
is love. Because of, in the search of,
in the validation of.

2.

That was two hours later, drinking
coffee with literate friends and artists
of the body and of the mind.

Two hours ago, I was with you.

I found myself keeping still while I was laughing;
you might’ve been inspired and decided
to take my photograph.

I’ve always wanted to be remembered for my laughter.
A simple sound, a little gesture of the mouth,
the tilt of the head. And always:
the eyes are closed. A little bit of bliss.

But you continued focusing on the door,
the lights, the drawing of the sun and moon
That you made for me.

Two hours ago, I was with you,
you were holding your camera steady
gauging light; finding beauty in wood, cement,
tile, fluorescent.

I was watching your back arch
as you stooped to catch the light from above.

I remember the drawing.

3.

The moon cradled the sun,
cupping it and holding it close.

From any angle, their noses will touch;
if only there was movement in drawings.

But there are none.
So any message we acquire
is nothing but our eyes finding meaning
from curves and straight lines.

4.

We bid each other good bye.
A ritual of pain through words;
we say one thing and mean another.

So if all stories are about love,
are all poems about pain?

This time I watch your back
distance itself from me.
You are going home.

I rush to the café and find peace
in café lattes with six packs of sugar,
artists of the body and of the mind,
who are friends, who know

5.

“That all stories are about love.” And who will
listen to the fact that all stories “stem
from only four basic plot structures.”

They know I am in love,
I wouldn’t be there, otherwise,

and this has only four ways of ending.

And all poems are about pain, anyway.

posted by wanggo @ 1:56 PM