CK's digs.

I am going to my own fortress of solitude. I want to see the sky again, without the heat of the sun.

I am getting out of the grid. to discover kisses again and curled sleeping fingers.
get caught in a light drizzle and feel the earth beneath my feet.
and hear the laughter of my daughter.

for some time, for some time and forever.

for now, I wish you cold evenings, and warm embraces.

three nights. (disquiet, beer and some reflections)

I'm trying to collect and piece together fragments of the last three nights; the fading and the weird convoluted design of the tapestry by those three recent evenings because it has the consistency of a dream right now, which I hope would get clearer as I write.

The first night was a celebration of some sorts and I think a prologue for reflection. Though we kept dipping into the stories of the past years, how our paths had went, how others twisted and turned, we still came back to the possibilities of the future, At the risk of sounding much too serious than it actually was, we were actually laughing most of the time, and there was sunlight was when we turned ourselves in for the day, dreaming of the different paths that we had taken and happy when our individual paths met and crossed for some time. Saturday was a road trip and promised of adventures, and collected stories.

And woke up to Sunday, and the remains of those stories and promises. And Sunday night had a different theme, it was about the present and it run haphazard and tragic, and wove around love and the need for companionship. And yes, about the seeming and apparent loss of it. And the kinds of hope that we clung on to, hopes that we wrap around ourselves in during those times. And of the kinds of despair we clothe ourselves after we discard those hopes like previous garments. And how after some time we wear some bits of pieces of those fabrics, interwoven and side by side, those hopes and despairs. And though only one of us wore black despair like it was second skin, we knew how form-fitting and snug that felt. And his tears never came that night, but they will come, and keep on coming for some time, eight years is, well, a long time. And he'd be black for as long as he'd feel like it, but I guess the primary colors will creep in after some time. And we slept, feeling the frailty of our bodies against the intoxication of alcohol and the indifference of love sometimes and what our bodies tend to do in excess of those things. And woke up Monday, looking at the remains of that Sunday, the ugly aftermath of unwashed dishes and nuked emotions. And as he declined an adlib for beer and the eventual emotional bypass surgery, the contrast of white and black in his shoes perhaps mirrored his current state of mind, in the context of hope and despair.

This is the reason why beer the next day, at past three in the afternoon tasted funny and sublime, bitter most of all. I guess the news of a seeming loss of an eight year love could do that. Our present cast of characters drinking had changed, and we still couldn't help but think and imagine our personals ifs and perhaps, and ended chalking it up to the uncertainty of everything and absence of any assurance. The concept of destiny tarnished a bit under the afternoon sun. The day wore on and everyone knew we were drinking more than we should but the food was great and it lifted spirits up, not that it really needed some lifting. But the taste of beer stayed the same, still funny and sublime and perhaps more bitter. Thinking about it, I wonder if Monday night was about the past, as we settled more comfortably with the stories of the years gone; old great loves notwithstanding and the accompanying emotions that we each silently remembered and then came out as stories and laughter. Then we slept, because a bit of our age was showing around the edges when beer consumption was concerned. The plastic modular table was a scarred ghost town of beer, dinner leftovers, cigarette burns, watery soup, liver gravy and those discarded emotions that were picked up each and every time we noticed that they were lying around.

I slept a dreamless sleep. I wondered about my drinking companions if they too had the same slumber. or perhaps they had nights of disquiet and rage that the resulting dreams were unrecognizable from their present reality. or if they had lovely dreams, of old loves perhaps. I wonder...

I guess I had to write about this and even if I left most of what transpired hidden, I know that I should leave what I have written unedited lest I regret pushing the delete button. A hard rain falling Monday night would have been the perfect thing to end it but I guess we had to make do with the angry purr of our old electric fans as we fell asleep. Drunken and a little wiser, only if we could remember the stories and connect the right emotions as they happened.
I miss Rain and my Love, that is certain and despite all the uncertainties.

-o0o-

for Che, Don, Joy, King, Noy, Pat, and Zar. In no particular order and not according to the amount of beer and Mountain Dew partaken. Yes, I took the time to alphabetize.

for want of loud angry music.

It seems the words are too lazy to come floating around my mind tonight , having fewer hours of sleep than expected. And perhaps I just turned a shade darker again under the sun. I can only love the sun twice during the day, sunrise and sunset. The midday sun is cooking temperature already, and midafternoon is, well, the iron maiden when you miss someone.

I love the moon then and cool wondrous Rain.

the only thing right about work these days is climate control, nothing else. And when your reveries of misty mountain hikes and mud between your toes attain art heaven, the thought of HR is Dada. you know, the H in HR is sometimes amiss these days.

The beach is a hot dehydrating place to be during the day, despite the obvious presence of water. As I said, I can only love the sun twice during the day. The moon is perfect for the beach.

-o0o-

It's been so long since I have written stories. I kept putting it off, that even the material I had I had forgotten. And thinking about it, perhaps I should start again, though like all exercises, I probably should do some warm-ups first, a stretch there and a bit here. And a deadline. For starters, I guess I could muster a cheesy love story without being tempted to put in a twist or two. and sometimes I forget I am writing here. I should pay a visit to my old dependable journal, which seems neglected these years that I have been working.

-o0o-

At times I'd prefer the embrace than the long lingering kiss.

black slumbers.

just that perfect dreamless sleep, one point you're suddenly asleep and then it's 7 or 8 hours later and you're fully awake. This should be slightly reminiscent of the sleep after the final thesis defense. I'm in a daze though and all things for the past 20 hours or so are passing in a blur, focus, blur and time lapse photography. And since I can still smell Rain I should be okay for the next couple of days, more than okay probably.

Though the heat is trying to break me. I feel you, all who work the graveyard shifts. I think I am supposed to thump my chest area with one closed fist at this point. I'll be melting in the midday sun too barely two weeks away, trying to find slumber.

by the way, they do talk about penis sizes. I can finally stop my wondering about that myth concerning what girls talk about, or women for that matter. Confirmed. And one of them was going to google about it. And yep, somebody quipped "forward mo sakin ha." I am not going to question why they were doing this when I was mere two seats away. I really wouldnt call that eavesdropping now would I? Now this is why I like large pantries.

see, told you. focus, blur, focus, time lapse. lovely collage of thoughts. My parents called me scatterbrain for sometime, before I ever learned to read.

but, hey.

another thursday.

The scene outside is turning to gray, six hours before another day. The feeling of being stuck comes on again like an expected refrain, and as it lingers I wonder if I'll go home singing it, watching the clock tumble digital numbers then it's 3 am again and I have to put the current book I am reading or turn the TV off and try to sleep off the song, thinking that it's another friday.

And that song plays even if I had somehow managed to do something creative, something outside of work, or some other sort of lipputian sources of transcendence. Things just enough to make me feel somehow that this is not all a dream. I have to admire Sisyphus during these times. Though that doesn't really translate to the Myth; Sisyphus happy? really.

Now, if I can just find someone who I can converse with right now, with or without the beer, a little mindfuck for these Sisyphean times. Show of hands, anyone?

the probability of downtime.

Evening again; I can see the nightglow from where I am, masking the stars, of the collective brilliance I haven't seen for a long time and yes, I am wishing for home again. And also the ocean this time, some 30 minutes away from Naga.

I have been gone so long, there's really no probability of coming back again. I guess there's really no coming back to Ixtlan, don Genaro. This is why I need some time down time, even if it is a scheduled defragmentation.

I keep staring outside, but I can't lose myself, because after some moments I see the thick glass again me separating from the little surrealism left. Ideas, emotions, anxieties, frustrations, and a kind of hunger even is crowding me too much right now. I got to go uncork myself.
Everything's going ghostly on me, the real is sort fading at this point in time.

the ghost of downpours talks to me while I stand quietly in the fading rain.

It's still raining, but it seems to fall without purpose this time, or just cleaning up the parts that the downpour a while ago didn't happen to hit, like a lazy afterthought of cruise missiles after a nuclear strike.

inside, this is something about too much rain this time.

and clasping my wet hands together I seem to be looking at failed intromissions of a dream, fading softly in my mind like how i imagine snowflakes would be when they touch my skin. trivial regrets that can only nip and nibble softly, never drawing blood or pain but they have their moments. Stuff of legend those moments. they endear, and cling like leeches in their endearment, at this point they draw blood already and you wish the rain could perhaps fall a little more harder and a little bit more colder that visibility would be lacking and the coldness would numb you more.

and another year just up and went.