SELF mirror odette pink

Quitting Livejournal

I have had my livejournal account for several years now. It has survived four boyfriends, three different schools, several jobs, and my mother's death.

Part of the reason that I am leaving LJ is that I feel that I do not have an existential crisis anymore. I want to be able to separate certain parts of my life like this.

I will still keep my livejournal active for personal rants and personal posts, but let me move to wordpress because I feel like this is the next crucial step to deal with an impending quarter life crisis.

I am not saying goodbye, LJ. You have been my home. You still are.

Today, my paid account will expire. Thus the date I am moving.
MISC teapot

Saint Munditia: Patron Saint of Spinsters

Here, have a poem. (I have two minutes of mental break)

St. Munditia
VAHNI CAPILDEO, from the collection "No Traveller Returns"

What have you seen today, my dear?

The female tourist.

Turning to her fear, to the unlit room,
taking it in, with a kind of disregard,
opened her eyes on what lay back of the
unlined curtains, she stuck her breasts like mouths
into the dark, told them, Swallow, swallow.
So it was that sleep was wished upon her.

Is St. Munditia
Patron Saint of Single Women,
those who live alone,
bachelor queens, spinsters, solteras.
Take a good look.
St. Munditia.
Dug up from her burial
a millenium and a third since the flesh fell off her.
She's back in church.

Was it easy for you to find, my dear?

But the preliminaries...

The people lounge on the london steps,
queuin for europea tourist visas,
getting used to no shelter.
It can't rain all the time.
The man with the blue umbrella
stabs between the feet of fellow strangers.

Look, the would-be travellers,
they're after culture.
People hanging on to a mystique,
they hail from the wrong area.
Ticketed and quizzed
like a load of illegal orange-pickers.
Look at the faces,
those london faces,
it's everyone you don't think of,
when you think of europe's nations.
It's like going home.
"Impossible to issue."
Alien spouse.
The wife's denied.
Mother and child,
Waiting to be allowed to love?
The lucky ones are stamped,
the lucky ones are charged.
What fun.
At the airport, it'l start again.
Places that don't care a straw for their prayers.
Let the journey begin.

Wasn't the weather brilliant?


Magnetised by tunes, a walking jangle,
the flip of a cape, the end of the day,
jackboots under sequins, satin jockstrap,
a sunset cocktail for the happy hour,
the god apollo giving up the mike,
a new song slashed for its virus asterisk.

St. Munditia,
centuries later,
bewigged, bolted and belted with jewels,
a skimpy skeleton in a cheesecake posture
ribs full of air,
half sitting up,
ready to launch into an aria,
glassed off like the snake room at the zoo.

You saw...?

SELF! me times four

My Mother's Body Has Split Into Four

It's been a year.

And I don't think people actually get over heartbreaks of this kind. But things have become bearable for the four of us, my brother and my two sisters.

I guess part of the reason why the year has been less sad than usual are the all the people who serve as pillars who stand by our turbulent lives and brave us through each and every sadness, pain and heartbreak.

I still cannot properly write about my mother or her death. Sometimes I still believe that she is on a long vacation somewhere in Pangasinan.

And hello Gratuitous Picture of the Four of Us:

I am on a bit of hiatus from my LJ, I am still on the verge of moving and I have not decided whether I awnt to keep this journal. :(
MISC girl in a red dress with a camera

Questions On Writing (An Identity Crisis)

In a class that I attended several weeks ago, the instructor said that there are too many photographers in the Philippines. There is a paradox somewhere, if everyone is a photographer, then truly there is no one (who is a photographer).

In a similar sense, if I write ten letters a day, to ten random people informing them that their child/daughter is weak in reasoning and that they need to read more, does it make me a writer?

Let's simplify it then: If I write twenty useless articles I hardly understand, does it mean that I am a writer then? If I do as little as hold a pen and then like the idea of holding a pen, can I claim that I am a writer? If I buy ten different sets of pens and use these pens everyday, does it make me a writer?

What qualifies me to say that I am a writer then? If everybody claims to be writers, then who is truly one?

Who provides me with the proper entitlement to claim that I am a writer if I want to be so?

I think the same goes for all the entitlement we want to attach to our identities, if I buy a guitar, am I immediately a musician? If I buy a camera and take and print some pictures, will I be called a photographer? If I buy a set of paints and paint the walls of my house, am I a painter?

Somebody should award me that entitlement to claim myself as so because I want to be.
WORDS break the monotony

Fascination/ Imagination

Sometimes I feel that if I become a tad bit more cerebral than what I am now I am going to start losing my fascination with people and things. I fear that I might wake up one day and figure out the patterns to people's predictabilities.

Or maybe this is the reality that growing up brings: the realization that everything just depends on one thing or two, that the life we all live are echoes and repetitions of somebody else's.

Or maybe this is just my excuse to the fact that maybe I am losing my imagination.

Posted via

FOOD blue cupcakes


The days are swallowing me whole again, I am not complaining about it. Although sometimes, I feel like maybe I am spreading myself too thin with the things that I am doing/plan to do. But these days, I welcome every bit of activity that comes with this busy-ness.

I feel like the days are moving too soon too fast but if I stop--even just for a minute-- to digest the fact that September will come, I might start bawling out.

Dear universe, give me something to do. Life wouldn't come too soon.
FEET kissing converse tiptoe

counting down

100, 8 June 2010
I have a hundred days before I send my favorite boy away on a plane.

My ribcage feels like collapsing from my expanding heart. This is the kind of grief that I will never have the time to prepare for.

99, 09 June 2010
Today, I realized that everything is getting smaller except my heart.

What is the sound of a heart breaking?

98, 10 June 2010
Outside your office window, the streets glisten like silver. Will you forget the way the streetlights reflect the wetness of the pavement once you arrive in that foreign country?

If it rains in your country, remember that day you took my hand for the first time. Remember the blue dress I was wearing. Remember when my umbrella broke and you had to get out of your office to take me to mine.

Remember the rain in this country and this girl, who has no one to share her big umbrella.

97, 11 June 2010
Before we slept at 1 in the morning, I told you that I was a cartographer except that I was blind; The only way I can map your face is to press my lips to your skin.

97 days from now, I will begin another count to the day I can hold your hand and kiss your face again.
WORDS life is a battle

Almost Profound Thoughts Nos. 1-5*

01. Somebody made me sign a contract that states that I agree to write something everyday. While I do not have the time to actually do that, I suppose it is a welcome challenge to preserve all the almost profound ideas that pass me each day.

02. All the writing that I will do actually just means that I am piling fragments of compelling thoughts and momentous clarities that no audience would read or understand or deconstruct because they are (precisely) too fragmented and dis-contexted.

03. I try to stop myself immediately when I find myself  when I start to envy 25-year olds and their regular "high-paying" jobs, these so-called professionals who fit exactly in the box of "What People Expect You To Be at 25." I bite my tongue knowing that if  say one more envious word, in praise or in criticism against these people, it means that I am just entertaining impatience.

04. Of course, it also means that I do not like to fit in the box of "What People Expect You Not To Be at 25." I will try to stay away from boxes.

05. I will delay gratification, times seven-hundred seventy-seven.

* Partly from Muriel Barbery's The Elegance of the Hedgehog

Please take notice of the music I am listening to; Don't you just love exclamation marks in songs? 
WORDS rudeunkindbutsotrue

(my friends know that I hate Willie Revillame with a passion)

Sometimes I am convinced that the general population is a masochist of some sort. (In Psychological profiles, these people would be the Feeling types who are merciful versus the Thinking types who prefer to be just.) As much as I do not like to cram my beliefs into people's throats in situations like these, I really truly believe this masochism is globally detrimental.

Recently, Willie Revillame tendered his appeal to ABS-CBN asking the network to release him. Ricky Lo's article is more interesting to read as the journalist paints this idea of Willie Revillame as if the latter is the one who was backhanded by the spat.

Ricky Lo even had a clause implying that this battle is against the upper class versus the lower class, stating that people in the AB social strata are the ones who are bullying Willie to resign via facebook while the CDE social strata (or those who do not own any internet social media, according to the article) are those who perfectly understand the struggle of the entertainment show host.

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MISC today i feel

Out Loud, Like This.

01. I like watching people gratify themselves when they write or when they talk about themselves extensively as if it were a graceful ballet performance we would all enjoy watching. I like knowing that people are conscious of the eyes looking at them. More so, I like seeing them fumble as they make a joke of themselves and assume that when they hear laughter, it is people laughing with them and not at them.

02. Like how I am doing now: I like the grave I dig for myself when I waste words like this.

03. I wonder if there would ever be a time when I would detest the precision of words and language, that time when I would have nothing else to say.

04. I feel like a fraud when I teach students to write in the active voice, to use strong verbs, but I realize that I do not use the language lessons that I force upon them. I like passivity more these days; I feel that I am a joke when I engage in teaching people something that I do not so myself.

05. I like observing clichés, knowing that sometimes I am one myself.