DANCING LIFE
Whenever I feel that I have succumbed to the dull patterns of everyday life; that I have forgotten to live, I drop everything and dance, play the music within, abandon existence. We often find ourselves trying too hard in seeking after for the basic necessities of life that we fail to attend the necessities of the soul. Dancing life is not difficult. Its like pausing a minute and feeling breathing; feeling the presence of air that you could not see, feeling the passing of time that is actually non-existent. Dancing life can be done without even moving like standing still while your eyes are closed and remembering yesterdays---sway and follow your thoughts; allowing it to enter grace. Dancing life is traveling back to the geasily forgotten memory of childhood;h the memory that faded like the sand castle washed away by the waves that you built in a beach somewhere on one fine summer vacation day. Dancing is remembering those moments that happened like lighting and yet, stayed like rain. Dancing life can be done without too much effort like simply walking without knowing where to go; without thinking distance, forgetting that you are yourself. Dancing can be done by simply looking at people as they go on with their lives; feeling the urgency to stop them and say gLet `s dance!h Dancing life is contemplating but in saying this I have to say that contemplating is not thinking. Contemplating is an act of imagining: Seeing yourself of who you have become and coming up with who you can still be, knowing what you have done and what you can still do. Dancing life is knowing happiness but being careful in knowing what happiness is because sometimes it is deceiving; knowing that happiness is not having what makes you happy, but knowing despair and in spite of this, still be braving to live.g We are a tiny drop of water in a mighty riverh and to be so does not mean to simply go with the flow. We can dance and so when we reach the all embracing ocean, our sense of fear will disappear, knowing that we have lived truly, knowing life fully that it is not existing but living.
FOLLOWING YOUR DREAM
I bruised the skin of the ocean and started paddling without looking back; without fearing. Having a dream is like creating poetry. You compose. You labor. You look for metaphors. You feel joy. You feel agony. I am now writing poetry and sometimes, I am tormented in not finding the right image, the precise word to express what is within. I become ignorant. I become human. In the end, I always remind myself that as a poet, I have to be patient. I have to wait for the thousands of butterflies to lift me up in the air, for the thousands of flowers to bloom under my feet. I have to be patient in waiting for the tepidity of the sun to tear the skies, that soon the poetry will become fire.
FOR ROBERTA
(From Bari, Italy)
We are gypsies. We journey possessing nothing but the intense wanting to know, the overwhelming feeling to embrace life, and the bravery of forgetting the self. Without knowing if the decision to always leave is right, we still sail. We still oar and oar without knowing where tides will bring, where waves will hit. We are gypsies. I asked you, gWhen will this wandering will end?h and you answered, gWe will know.h We are gypsies. We say we will know even we are actually not sure if we ever will.
CONVERSATION
In the middle of our conversation, I suddenly realized that it was actually going nowhere. We were actually just trying to hold each other. Expecting; hoping that in one sitting, we could divulge who we really are, pass hurriedly the rituals of introduction and leap into the dance; into the celebration---enter ecstasy. Realizing this, I felt joy. I felt your body against mine. I heard your breathing. I heard whispers. I decided to be silent. I decided to look at you intensely, pretend that the uttered words matter. I decided to talk to your body. I decided to use the language of gesture, facial expression hoping they would convey the profound emotions then, you decided to do the same. We started really talking. We felt the sense of wanting but we suddenly felt the sense of hate---why something beautiful cannot last forever? This made us afraid to dive. This made us measure distance. This made us realize the inevitable; made us keep in mind that every minute, we come close to an inevitable end, to an inevitable separation. Towards the end of our conversation (felt through the hesitations and inhibitions), I suddenly felt the urge to kiss you; be the final rite but I was afraid. I know you also wanted to do the same but you were afraid as well. We were both afraid. We were both fools.
CENTRAL STATION
Once again, I found myself in the central station, standing still in the middle of waves, of rushing people. This often happens. I closed my eyes and randomly selected a destination. Inside the train, I watched myself through the window pane, not minding the images of trees, houses, and people disappear so fast. I was just looking at myself and thinking how years had already added to my face. How I had become estranged to myself. Reaching nowhere, I depended on the kindness of people to give me directions (I pretended that I am going somewhere). It is amazing that deep in the heart of some people there is the space for wanting to help, that kindness still exist. An old couple drove me all the way to my invented destination---a park near a lake. In this place, I realized how kindness struggles to survive in the midst of prevailing hate; prevailing apathy. I realized that in getting lost, you find yourself.
FOR YOU WHOSE BLISS IS MARGINAL
Did I promise love when I left? Did I give hope or did I only utter words without meaning? Did I just say an empty message? You feed me here. Your poems make me alive. They warm me in these cold winter nights---they become fire, they become blanket---allowing me to sleep bare. You feed me with g I am writing this poem to shape the hurt, to know what I suffer.h The more we grow distant, the more I am becoming closer to you. I make love with your poems. Through them, I feel your presence. I am knowing you more. You are becoming familiar. I make love with gIs it too hard to ask for love? Is it too much to swing this world to forgiveness?h When this happens, I forget myself. I feel no shame. Even I am away, I am learning so much from you. I am learning to glove the whiteness that takes a lifetime to do so, that a touch can claim a country, that there is violence in silence, that when the moon knocks with a silver fist, I should be writing.h When I return, I hope you have not forgotten my promise, that I have not forgotten the promise. g We will push aside the emptiness of a room. We will visit darkness. We will enter into a memory. We will claim each other `s countries. I will recite your poems and my voice will split the silence. The stars will collapse then, no one shall stay behind again watching the other disappear, no one will need to bear. There will be the brilliant no-breath of forever!h
IN THIS WHITENESS
The snow started to fall today. I went outside to welcome it. I looked up with my arms wide opened desiring to contain its immensity but soon, I humbled, I surrendered--- for even these mountains surrendered without contention. They all became small. In this whiteness, I feel how small I am. (The feeling of being alone flows and floods brutishly. The pang of loneliness is always implacable and unforgiving.) In this whiteness, seeing things standing still and mute, I acknowledge space. In this whiteness, I perceive time---how I have survived all these years, how I have endured the coming and going of things; the impermanence. In this whiteness, I trace memory--- I try to remember the past that does not know how to wait, always quickening. I reconcile with those that I have opted to forget. In this whiteness, I bethink of those people that makes living essential, that makes the unfathomable existence, bearable. I think back how other lives converged with mine, how some chose to become more than just familiar; who chose to become intimate; who chose to share lives (The cause of separation is swing into forgiveness by the realization that building a relationship is a great feat) In this whiteness, I recall vaguely the shape of desire. The desire that cannot be easily extinguished, the desire that burns. In this whiteness, I look for love---the love that knows how to abandon the self; the love that knows no fears, no boundaries. In this whiteness, I look for the sun. I look for fire. I look for you.
FOR MAREN
(From Bergen, Norway)
It was a poignant moment that made leaving hard. I felt I was leaving- even just for a short period of time- people that I have known for such a long time, that I was leaving a place I grew up from. I know soon we will have to say our goodbyes, our parting words. This time, it will be harder. It will be more difficult. What will make it bearable is as soon as we have shed the tears, we will realize that we came in this foreign country with nothing and we are leaving with so much--- If moments are to be packed in our luggages, they would over flow. We would never be cleared from immigration. We would never board our planes--- Once home, we will be filled with the memories that are like those delicious cookies that you gave me for my trip. We can wake up one night, forget a diet pact, open the jar and be filled with childlike remembering. For sure, even we are in the opposite far end of the world, we will share the same smile. We will enjoy the same laugh.
TIREDNESS FINALLY CAME
I am tired of explaining how you had been deaf for hundred of years. How you had suffered under the hands of those who claimed whom we owe nothing. How strong you are that you have endured. How your will is growing each day each time you are faced with the question of survival. I am tired of speaking these languages. My tongue always tripping, stumbling in words. I long to speak your language without so much effort, without thinking--just let words come out naturally; let them have their own lives. I am tired of meeting new people. I long for your familiar faces; the places that gave me beautiful growing memories. I long for my family and friends. With them, I am at ease. I truly belong.I am tired of eating these foods. I long for your kaldereta, sinigang na isda, pinakbet, hipon, alimango, kare-kare, binagoongan. The mouth-watering sweetness. The face-squeezing tropical sourness. The taste that is undescribale in one word. I am tired but I continue, for I know, when I come back, you will be filled with hope, telling stories in your language will be a delight, embraces from your familiar places, family and friends will be really warm, and your food will bring unexplainable savory.
WHEN WE GO BACK TO OUR FORMER LIVES
Time can claim everything but there are certain things that can withstand---Moments, special ones, for instance, can survive the coming of days. We can hold on to this and when we do, we will have something that even time cannot take away.
FOR TAKUJI HARAO
We met in an overnight bus from Tokyo. I searched my limited Japanese and said the faintest line to meet you. You recognized my wanting to talk. You recognized that though I am struggling with the language, there was the strong desire to know. You said 'thank you' because you wanted to do the same, only if you speak English well, you would have initiated. We started talking, pausing every now and then to think if that is what we really wanted to say, if the other truly understood. When they switched off the lights, we tried to continue talking but they reminded us that we were on a overnight bus. Talking is prohibited. I got desperate because I was talking to someone really beautiful. I was talking to someone really interesting. We looked for another way. We looked for another way. We talked through your handy phone. For two hours, pressing those buttons, composing lines, we were able to divulge who we are and what the future holds for us. You said you would be graduating soon in Kinki Daigaku in Osaka, that you would go back to your hometown in Kumamoto Kyushu then prepare yourself for work in Tokyo. I told you that I am studying in Kyoto, that when I go back to Manila, to the University of the Philippines, I will be graduating as well, that if I will get another scholarship, I would like to study in Tokyo. If not, I will work. Where? I don`t know. Your phone runned out of battery. On bus stops, we would go down and be brave the cold just to be able to hear each other. Be brave the negative two just to exchange some more stories. (How I stumbled with my Japanese and how you eagerly tried constructing an English sentence.) When there were no more stops and no more ways to talk, we slept. When I suddenly woke up, I saw your hand open on my side as if waiting for me to hold it and so I laid my hand beside your`s. Though scared, I tried to let my skin touch your`s then moved it away, waited if you would respond, if you would try to do the same. You did. It was undescribable. I was happy. Before I could finally hold your hand, the lights turned on. We were already in Kyoto. I already had to leave. We said no goodbyes. It was already morning, the sun was starting to wake up. I knew it was going to be a bright day. Hours later, you emailed me saying you just arrived home, that you would want to have a hot Udon and you asked me if I like Udons as well. I replied `yes` and that I would love to see you once again. Three days later, I was in Osaka to meet you. When we met, our smiles were extra special. You were so beautiful. We had coffee. We talked. We walked around. We talked. We took some pictures-Perikura. We talked again. We had Udons. Talked again. We talked but really did not mind the words. We just looked at each other`s smiles and thought how they make us feel joy. We did not think that that day would end soon. We did not think of the tomorrow that could not be ours. I can not remember how it ended. I do not want to remember. I want to remember everything this way. I want to remember and forget nothing. I am holding unto your promise. Until we meet again here in Kyoto.
NIHON IN RANDOM THOUGHTS
The things I will miss when I leave Japan
1. The temples here in Kyoto that give you a certain spirituality amidst crowd.
2. The beauty and madness of Tokyo.
3. The Gyudons- The Nami of Yoshinoya that is affordable and delicious.
4. The addictive 100yen Shop where you buy things that you actually don`t need.
5. The Baitos where you earn a lot doing what you are here for: Talk to people, go to places.
6. The bike- biking around with no particular destination.
7. The kindness of people, who will drive you to where you are going when you are lost.
8. The Movies that even commercial, there is art in it.
9. The snow; the coldness that makes you want to write while having a tea and cake.
10. The convinience of everything.
11. The Karaoke Night Out- where we sing our heart out.
12. The Club Night Out- where we dance until we drop.
13. The constant meeting of new people. Sometimes strangers you meet in a bar, in a bus.
14. The Sento- where you see beautiful young men bare in all their splendor.
15. The Banana Crepes that I eat almost everyday in the Shokudo of Ritsumeikan.
16. The computer rooms in Ritsumeikan where you can use the Internet and print unlimitedly
17. The Ice creams and Food in the Konbeni (Convenient Stores)
18. The stipend I am receiving every 20th of each month.
19. The Chocolate Creams. The Chocolate Breads. The Chocolates.
20. The hot shower. The hot water anytime.
21. The train rides that make you contemplate.
The things I will miss when I leave I-house, the people that I have met here in Japan.
1. The witty remarks of Roberta--- when words are given a whole new meaning, her one liners with her thick Italian accent like ` It is necessary to enjoy ourselves tonight,` `Chocolate is very dangerous,` ` Where do you put his stuff? It`s impossible!`
2. The food that each cooks, being invited to eat a dish from somewhere, eat something really exotic; food that is so new to my taste bud.
3. The unlimited use of Internet in the lounge. Always available. 24-7.
4. The easy washing of clothes-- Wash and dry. No hassles. Just throw your dirty clothes into the machine, they will come out clean and dry.
5. The Ofuro where you can soak yourself and just relax for hours.
6. The Crepes of Sabine and her French dishes. Her facial expressions when she does not understand someone.
7. The sweetness of Maren behind her rebellious attitude. Always reminding me of how my sister is. The saturating sheep dish with a mashed potato of Norway that she cooked for us.
8. The sense of the world being shrunk---being in a room with different people coming from different countries and feeling the same though different. (Meeting people coming from as far as New Caledonia, Tunisia, Colombia, Ethiopia, Denmark...)
The things I will not miss when I leave Japan
1. The communal bath in the I-house. Seeing a guy in the bath naked then seeing him again in the kitchen.
2. The strange gay culture. They are very very discreet. Some very very old.
3. The Loui Vitton Girls. Carrying their bags in the same way.
4. The ultra masochist and ultra feminine Japanese.
5. The silence; not seeing people in the streets.
6. The alienating apartments and mansions.
7. The dogs luckier than common workers, getting all the luxuries.
MONDAY NIGHT
Once again I found myself in this place not really knowing what I am looking for. I am not sure why I am in this place where burning desires are extinguish without caution; where desire is separated from passion, from love, where desire is just desire. I am not here because I am in need. I do not know why. Probably, I just want to look at my people. How sad our fates are. How we always measure plain desire and the desire that wants to know. How sad that it is plain desire that we always find. How most of us only know this. Tonight, this Monday night, I saw no desire that wants to know. May be on Friday. I can only hope.
OF GOOD DREAMING
'But now I know that our world is no more permanent than a wave rising on the ocean. Whatever our struggles and triumphs, however we may suffer them, all too soon they bleed into wash, just like watery ink on paper.'
It has been months of triumph; of good dreams. Sometimes, I find myself overwhelmed that while walking, I just suddenly stop for a moment and smile not minding a peculiar look from a passerby. I stop and smile thinking how lucky I am that I am living the life that I want, that I am happy. I stop and feel the great power that I cannot comprehend. The great power that propels each of us to go on day by day making us feel that always "soon a light will break-in." It has been months of good dreams and I know, I will wake up soon. That soon I have to live the day but I know that living the day would not be so difficult having dreamt something beautiful. The dream would fuel me to get by until the night falls once again, ready to sweep me away and leave me breathless once again. I know it will end soon. As a friend told me, " It's like holding a fist of sand, that no matter how hard; how desperate you grip, you can't hold them back. You can only let go.' I know this, worry not. I will let go. I will let go knowing that in letting go, I will be ready again to hold something new. I will become bold and brave again to struggle and triumph, to have a new dream.
ON MY WAY TO OSAKA
From Inner Space to Reality
In that train ride today, if my eyes were cameras, they would have taken thousand of photos, desperately wanting to capture everything. Always this is man's frustration: seeing beauty and knowing that he does not have the means to make it last in one`s memory. I wanted to record all the details. The face of the beautiful twenty three years old young man in a suit that I passed in a station who was waiting for the local train. How I wanted to passionately kiss him. Get something from him and give a part of myself in return. How I wanted badly to rescue him from the life he is about to have. I wanted to record all the details. The image of the bamboo trees swaying to where the wind blows reminding you that you must yield to your heart`s desires if you do not wish to break. I wanted to record all the details. The roof of houses roaring up and down. Up and down. Leaving an impression of waves, of oceans you have to struggle with to see the world. If only my eyes were cameras.
-------
We took the same train from Kusatsu. You were holding a DNA model made out of sticks. I thought you must be majoring in a science related course in a university. I was not actually interested in you at all but my sight landed on you precisely because of what you were holding. I was compounded at how complex it was. One stick connected to the other forming a web. I have seen such a model in a book before. I suddenly realized how we, humans, want to determine everything; how we want to become gods. On my way back home, I incidentally saw you again. I was surprised because out of the hundreds of stranger, I recognized one face. We took the same train again going back to where we met earlier in the morning. This made me think that no matter how things can be so determined, there is always what we call chance.
KYUSHU
I could not sleep. The boat swayed too much and so I decided to go to the observation deck. The blackness of the night engulfed the islands with tears of light scared to be entirely taken. I could hear the waves, the seawater being disturbed as we passed by. I embraced myself and smiled, "I have nothing but myself.
"INTO THE HERMIT'S KINGDOM
I was alive again in Seoul. It reminded me of Manila: the noises of the streets, of the howling vendors trying to lure you to eat in their make shift restaurants, the craziness of the people: chattering while walking in the streets, fooling around without thinking what other people have to say, the unpredictability of things; without knowing when the bus will arrive because of the insane traffics. I had half of what I miss of Manila in Korea.
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For Sabine,
It was negative ten. The snow was falling really hard. After riding the cable car, we were welcomed by the receptionist that we cannot climb up to the Seoul tower because we would not be able to see anything. We wanted to end our Seoul trip before going to the south with this but to no avail. We were frustrated. It would have been lovely to see the entire city in white but this did not spoil the day. As we were about to leave and seek the warmth of a good coffee, with the music coming from the tower, we started to dance in the thick snow. You were so funny. We were so funny. We danced stupidly. The snow started to fall much harder but we did not mind. We danced some more. People started to stop and looked at us then, they started to do the same. We all started to throw snowballs at each other. It was a childhood moment: throwing snowballs, laughing at each other, slipping, falling down...We were like children lost in the joy of a play. It was a nice way to end the trip.
-----------
For Roberta and Can,
"I am an Italian and he is a Korean. I still want to do so many things in my life. He needs to fulfill his obligations to his family."
It was an affair bound to end. You both knew well that that is how its going to end but nevertheless, you fell in the same way. After five months of both being in a foreign country, after such a short period of time, you found each other. Both not speaking your languages, you found a way to express love and desire. He went back to his country and you visited him. You could not stay long. You only had days. Knowing this, both of you spent each day fully, without thinking that tomorrow might be the last. I witnessed how both of you wanted to hold each other`s hand and not let go. How you both tried to conceal the looming separation behind those smiles and laughter. How your eyes were always with tears. How you loved each other more in the streets of Seoul.
"Some say love is an endless weeping but I say love is like a river that is continuously flowing."
--Can
MOMO
You are so young. Seeing you in the lounge with the wanting to know, I asked you to come to my room for a cup of tea. A Japanese with an Irish English accent. You sounded so beautiful. You told me that you are about to leave for American University in Washington D.C. this coming August to continue the seven months of learning English then, get a degree. Talking to you, it made me feel how old I am, how I have matured over the years.(A week from now I am turning twenty-two. Maybe this is the reason why I am thinking this way. Scared to grow old.)I could trace the innocence in your speech. I could see in your eyes that you are still inexperienced. Young and about to break free. I started to think what was I doing when I was 19.You made me recall the easily forgotten yesterdays because of the strong wanting for tomorrow. I abandoned my university. I was studying too much. Theater exhausted me.I wanted to be free. Have my youth. I went to Malaysia, started to learn Indian dance; dance for myself and please no one. I traveled with the grace of my parents who know that we may not be rich in material things but when given the opportunity to give rich experience, they will not falter. They will not think twice. I am lucky for this. I am truly blessed. I traveled to places I would have not known,imagined before; that they exist. Mallaca. Sadam. Penang. Siem Reap. Patpong. Bukit Bintang. Woodland. Aranyapathet. Boat Quay......I saw the golden temples of Thailand and behind them, the rampant prostitution. I saw the glory that was of Angkor Wat while seeing at the same time, a squad of wounded soldiers--having no legs, no arms-- who fought for their country`s freedom; from communism; from Pol-pot`s atrocities, while seeing monks bald, in orange robes, having no slippers praying for solemnity and peace. I saw the hands of Lee Kuan Yew; what good leadership and good governance means and how it makes some people look up to their selves too much. Pride is good but too much is not. I saw the will to survive of the people in Indonesia. I realized the difference between how it is to be really poor and how it is to be rich being in Batam, a rural and struggling island just a ferry away from the dreamlike sea lion city. In traveling, in seeing, in contemplating, in having these, I found my soul. I realized what I want out of life: to be a bird and just fly. Now, I can imagine you in Washington D.C. at 19, with your suitcase and nothing more but yourself, ready to embark on knowing what it is to be alone and free. I can imagine you spending your growing years there, gain new experiences that would open your mind, break your heart, take away your innocence. In letting go of innocence/being taken away, You will start to/ Think more., to/ Act more., to/ Risk more., to/ Love more. I know I am not old, that I am still learning more each day but I know my innocence has already passed by/has already been taken away because now, I am thinking more, acting more, risking more, loving more...because now, I am flying.
FOR CAROLINE
(From New Caledonia, a French colony in the Pacific)
You were 18 when you left the small island of New Caledonia and went to France to study. Though you speak the language, though you are French, you felt different; you were treated differently. You told me how you struggled, how you survived away from home at such a young age, knowing no one, having only but your strength. You shared to me how to reform your broken heart and recompose your posture after a discrimination, how to grow old even young, how to be strong when weak, and how to be free when encaged. Tired of everything, you left and studied in Okinawa for a year. There once again you felt kindness and politeness, elusive from where you come from. Going back to Toulousse, you felt no longer at ease. You felt you no longer belong. After just weeks, you left everything and flew to London. There you forgot yourself and became yourself. After being being, you were once again home then back here again in Japan. Here, you have finally come to a decision to stay in our region. Next year, you will be entering a university in New Zealand. I am happy for you. I hope you`ll find what you are looking for as of the moment. I am lucky this year to meet so many interesting people who share the same zest for life, who "pursue their souls." As we always say to each other, it will not be surprising at all if we meet each other again after this some where, some time. I will see you again. I do not know when and where but for sure, I will.
I AM 22
It`s 4:09 a.m.. I just turned 22 today. I am reading Sun Tzu`s `The Art of War,` after some chapters, I hope I`ll get tired and finally sleep. In this book it says:"...the elements of the art of war are first, measurements of space; second, estimation of quantities; third, calculations; fourth, comparisons; and fifth, chances of victory." At 22, I do not know what I want next, where to go. Am I ready for new wanting, new desires which means new pains, new frustrations? Am I ready to sacrifice? Wage another war? I do not know. I am calculating...."The nature of water is that it avoids heights and hastens to the lowlands. When a dam is broken, the water cascades with irresistable force,....and like water, none can oppose you."...so I can be a water, gathering my strength until I am ready to crack the walls and break loose. I am 22.
FOR YOU
Its friday night. I found myself in this place once again. Without any expectation, without wanting, after I have given up the hope, after I have started to count the days before going home, I found you.
We stopped. You answered my wanting to know. We decided to just talk.
We both detest the wanting of these men to extinguish desires without the feelings, release moans without the meanings, express satisfactions without the truth, share the person without the self.
How can you make love without talking, without speaking?
How can you not want to know?
We talked while seeing all those men meandering, relentless, unhappy, truly unhappy.
Like all introductions, we divulged who we are and who will become of us tomorrow or at least who we wish to become of ourselves.
(Even though, I am already tired of doing this. With my left strength, I exhausted.)
You have been here for one year and one half. You still got two more years of graduate school. I on the other hand only have five months to go. You are twenty-five. I just turned twenty-two. We are both young.
You come from Inner Mongolia that takes twelve hours of train ride from the capital, Beijing. You said you hate train rides because it makes you think too much; thinking too much is painful. With all the thoughts, you become twice heavy. I believe you.
We had coffee from the vendo machine and you started to tell me how futile relationship between men can be. How you long to find someone who does not know how to be selfish. How you long for yourself not to be selfish. You told me how you are already thinking of giving up the search. How you are already thinking of getting married but you said in the end, you will only betray yourself and so you are giving up the idea.
Even though it was starting to get cold, we endured with the stories, with the thoughts, with the philosophies. You held my hands and rubbed them, made them warm as I relayed the same frustration, the same wanting, the same longing.
You are rare: a man with an open mind, a tender heart, a man with the will to be the self. You said I am also rare as well, whom you can learn so much from. We both want to learn from each other.
It was almost two a.m. We could only see two men meandering, two men who does not know how to occupy space, imprison time. It was almost time to go.
We took our bikes. You wanted to accompany me a few miles but your way was completely opposite mine.
Upon reaching home, we emailed each other both agreeing: its fate that brought us to each other.
I almost forgot to mention that we both found out that it was you whom I first met in this same place the first time I came here last winter November. It was too cold. It was unbearable that we failed to say any introductions. I regretted that night. I thought I completely lose you. When I reached home, I was frozen without your name.
Seeing you again this spring April, fate indeed!
THIS AFTENOON
For you,
You came even you were already tired from all the ceremonies of an academic year`s beginning. I was truly happy that you wanted to come and see me.
You looked at my room with such an interest. I said, "Here I am!"
You smiled.
You read the graffiti I have written in my windows:
"When the moon knocks with a silver fist I should be writing."
"ANGER"
"SANITY"
"FEAR"
"I am waiting for the thousand of butterflies to lift me up in air."
"APATHY"
"TRAJIC JOY"
"ENVY"
"I have a bad bad feeling of this bad bad feeling."
Then, I pointed out what is the most important.
"Thirst"
"HUNGER"
"LOVE.INVOLVE.EVOLVE."
You noticed my room with the details I was unaware of.
You said I have symmetry.
Posters are posted on equal space.
What is on one side the other side for sure has one.
I thought this is the way I keep myself sane because the rest of me is in extreme.
I do not know how to stay in the middle.
We talked and I learned so much from you.
You said when someone speaks you listen because you can learn something.
You do not do an action just because you were told to do so.
That in the end you should not owe anyone, that you should bear no one,
That in the end you are only with you and yourself.
This was so harsh to listen to but that is the truth. The ugly truth.
I jokingly said, `You are egocentric!`
And you replied,
`But you are eccentric!`
And so I asked,
`What would become of an egocentric and an eccentric when together?`
`Nothing!`
In between this answer I can already see our future but I do not care because like you, I do not care of the future anymore. I do not care of the past. I only care of what is the present. To think of what will become of us is such a burden and to think of who we were is such a waste.
We laid down and with the strong desire that we could not control ourselves,
I pulled the bed sheets and covered us from the murky afternoon.
You had to go because of work as much as we want to be laggards and feed only ourselves with desire.
I accompanied you on your way out. You wanted to say something but you could not find the right word and so you only said I am warm. I understood what you meant, that I was so comfortable with smiling, laughing, that I was comfortable with you because I like you.
I went back home and in my room, I was burning with fever.
SKIN
For you,
You asked me how does your skin smell?
Like a paper,
When I am about to write poetry.
Before it gets swept away
By the earth images that I have molded.
Like a book,
When I devour it`s pages.
When I am not contented of just reading
That I want to smell the words.
Breath the letters.
Like an atlas,
Of unknown countries,
Of uncharted territories
That I want to explore,
That I want to conquer.
But to answer without being poetic,
How does your skin smell?
Like my mouth,
Like my tongue.
ON THEATER ARTS
After Lorca
"The theater is a school of weeping and of laughter, a rostrum where men are free to expose old and equivocal standards of conduct, and explain with living examples the eternal norms of the heart and feelings of man.
A nation which does not help and does not encourage its theater is, if not dead, dying; just as the theater which does not feel the social pulse, the historical pulse, the drama of its people, and catch the genuine color of its landscape and of its spirit, with laughter or with tears, has no right to call itself a theater, but an amusement hall, or a place for doing that dreadful thing known as 'killing time.'" ----Federico Garcia Lorca
I believe in the power of theater. I believe in the theater that makes it's people cry only to laugh in the end after a cathartic release, after being freed from hate; from indiffirence, after being cleansed from the impurities; the stains that men have placed upon humanity. I believe in the theater that makes it's people laugh only to cry in the end after realizing how they have succumbed to mediocrity, how they have become cold, without love, without the wanting for the ideals, how they have accepted being.
I believe in the theater that does not induce agreements but rather shakes foundations, breaks the norm, clash the beliefs, questions the authority.
I believe in the theater that asks the fundamentals, the essence of living. What is man composed of? Does he eats water, drinks fire? Is he a beast?
Will he last time or is he doom from the start?
I believe in the theater that gives it's people the voice when everyone becomes mute, when everyone is already tired of demmanding that they start to plead.
I believe in the theater that digs the earth to find the roots of it's people, when out of despair some washes toilet bowls in foreign countries while asking, 'Where does my people come from? Why is it that we don't have pride?'
I believe in the theater that gives hope, that tears will be transformed from a river into a stream--that it is possible!, that tomorrow may not be better but it offers another day; another chance to make it so; the theater that has a calm heart when everyone is in trouble, a vigorous one when everyone is lax.
I believe in the theater that is envigirated, the theater that considers itself as powerful, that it lives that power to move a mountain while at the same time touching a man!
------
For my fellow artist, Regina.
You are right in saying that theater can never be a mistress. Once you get married with it, there is no turning back. You are forever bound by commitment.
If indeed the stage is an altar then, we are the sacrifices, our blood cleanses the impurities of men. We offer ourselves to the gods: the ideals---that may love wash away all hate, that may understanding force itself upon ignorance--- We offer ourselves to the gods so they could send lights upon people that would blind them so they could see the truth!
You are right in saying that sometimes we question why are we doing this--- Why when only few listens? Why are we sometimes unappreciated? Why is our blood not valued? Cared?---that makes us sometimes think to divorce.
But what love is greater than the love that is unrequited? The love that gives the self without holding back. The love that flies and soars high even with broken wings just to touch the sun. In the end, when you know you have given the greatest love, you will always be a winner knowing you did what you feel what you are ought to do in life; You have lived what you felt that is your purpose instead of knowing and yet because of being scared to be hurt, you retire and die unhappy.
What love is greater than the love that loves without asking in return?
What happiness is greater than the happiness that truly knows how to be happy?
------
Sakura
An excerpt
VIDEO PROJECTION: A train moving in the Gobi desert.
Lights fade in with Man 1 in the center stage with suitcases.
MAN 1
I can no longer remember his face. It was not love.
In the middle of extinguishing our fires without caution,
He spoke in English when he could no longer express his self.
"I want to tell you something but how."
We were both foreigners in that country.
We both did not speak the language well
But we found refuge in another language that we do not own.
And it all began there.
During cold winter nights, I would knock at his door to seek warmth.
During hot summer days, he would come to my narrow room to seek fire.
We would make up for the noises that those people of that country cannot make.
I can no longer remember all the details.
He was so young. Wild. Free. Erotic. Filipino.
I can only now vaguely recall the shape of his body.
The turns, the curves.
Brown is beautiful like chocolate.
In murky afternoons in his room, he would pull the curtains while some shadows of the graffiti in his windows still getting through.
Thirst. When you cry, you bleed.
I would lie down on his bed and he would come beside me. He would cover us with the sheets and we become laggards feeding ourselves only with desires.
I can no longer remember his face because I want no picture of him.
I do not believe in love. You do everything out of only one reason.
You do things because you want it for yourself and not because you want it for another.
Though I am older than him, I learned so much.
We learned so much from each other.
I cannot remember how it ended.
I do not want to remember.
I want everything to be this way.
I taught him to owe nobody,
and not to bear anyone.
Silence.
One midnight, he was looking for the moon so he could say thank you for giving light that abled him to find me. I said don`t be overly romantic. Suddenly, he asked me if I could stop in the middle of the bridge when people are pushing me to cross it. He asked me if I could jump into the water if I can`t move away from finally crossing it. He asked me so many questions I still cannot answer.
Like if I believe I do things because I want them, how about tradition? Why do I have filial piety?
He taught me to contradict my already contradicting self.
Looks out as if inside a train.
I can see nothing.
I already have forgotten this terrain.
I wanted to forget this desert.
Dust.Heat.Sand.Nothing.
After almost four years, I am coming back home.
I know what my parents will ask me next.
Silence
He taught me to bear someone,
He taught me how to owe.
Silence
I hate time.
I hate train rides.
Violin.
Light fades out.
------
MOVING OUT/MOVING ON
I decided to leave the International House today. I will be living with a friend;share one room. Its a little late to do so when in a few months I`m about to go back home. Its a good thing to do it anyway,treating it like a preview to my departure date. A rehearsal of sentiments, of bravery, of acceptance.
As I wash to take off the graffiti in my window panes, the words were cleared without resistance. The painting that I did of a man and a woman looking towards the sky with mouths wide open, tongue sticking out waiting for the purple rain to fall while on their feets, the seeds too waiting as they sprout towards the sun`s direction without contention, disappeared.
I can see the paper lanterns folded the way they were when I assembled them. The pictures hanging on the wall that tries to make the memories of the last months turned mute as they entered the chinese teapot box. The art magazines lose it`s magnificience; it`s beauty after thrown in the trashbin.
What is left are only the deaf furnitures---the chair, table, bed---the telephone waiting for friends to say `Come and let`s have a small tea party before you leave,` a player playing a melancholic violin music, the afternoon sun, this computer and me with all this thoughts.
As I have said many times, I have somehow found a way to accept the impermanence of things, how not to attach the self too much to time, space, person, things. Still, sometimes, I cannot--I am weak.
I want to fold this room like a long letter-- with a closing remark: "If only the days that have come and gone can come again," ---insert it in a red envelope and never send it, just have it in a secret place that I can I read it again and again as I please; when I feel the need to; when I want to pause and look back a little.
If I can only embrace everything until they stick to my skin, I will. Better yet, if they can all become permanent thoughts, my inner self will converse with them unrelentlessly; I will never get tired.
I want to stay here. More specifically, I want to stay here with the memories that this room shared with me: the night a friend celebrated her birthday and how she found comfort with us; with us strangers then, the day `for you` came to see me and we had the murky afternoon, the solitude moments when I was contemplating how what I want; when I was talking to my heart, how I felt deep sadness for no apparent reason, how I felt deep happiness because of a small thing.
However, all things must come to an end. Knowing this, I know that life is not a matter of endings but of beginnings.
THE JOY OF SMALL THINGS;THANKING NOTHINGNESS
I always do this: take my bike and start peddling without thinking where to go. After months of being here, the roads have become finally familiar, I bumped into someone I know in the streets that I have to take sudden right turns: take unknown roads just to know where it would lead me, become a stranger-- that`s how things should be: when you have come to know your everyday life, you should just abandon it; take a sudden right turn; get lost, not know people`s names. For sure, you will end up at the known road but for a moment, you will be amaze at how things could be different. Some days ago while doing this, I was smiling all thru out as I look at beautiful young men exerting so much effort to look goodGappear exactly the way things are shown in the magazines; how their hairs are in proper place; not one strand in disarray, as I come across an old monk wearing a traditional slippers as he rode his car and drove away, as I come across a woman in Kimono as she gets off her bicycle and take her silk weaven bag from the front basket, as I passed by houses built with old architecture and design, as I race with old model cars in good conditions, as I stopped of a while and gaze at advance, savvy looking cars. In suddenly turning right, I found the joy of small of things. How minute details can turn an ordinary day into something special. All you need to do is become aware and the small things will become overwhelming. For hours, I was biking with the feeling of floating away--my feets were not tired. I was not sweating; having no effort. I was biking while listening to this song again and again. This song that is saying
"thank you, silence
thank you, frailty
thank you, consequence,
thank you, nothingness."
Today, its raining a little outside, gloomy, cold but nonetheless, I took my bike and just peddled. I ended up in a temple. I got off from my bike and walked around. The temple was empty. Suddenly, I saw a monk in full white for a minute then he disappeared as he entered the hallway. The temple was empty again. All the lanterns suddenly lit up. The orange and black colors of the `tori` burned. I stopped at the bamboo hut with a well where clean water in continously running. I washed my hands the way it should be done `to purify one`s self before getting inside.` The water was cold like ice.
I stopped at the altar, pulled the string to ring the bell then, clapped my hands three times and said my thanks, like the song I said, "thank you silence,
thank you nothingness."
BEING LOST IN TRANSLATION
(After Lost In Translation)
There are words better left unsaid.
There are choices better left untouched.
----
Being in Tokyo, you would feel how tiny you are. In Shibuya, the most populous crossroad in the world, you question your significance as you stand in the middle of hundreds of people waiting for the the `go`. In Shinjuku with all the glowing neon lights, you ask how bright can you grow.
Here in Kyoto, I walked the white sand of Heian Jinggu as the burning orange and black colors of the temple reflected myself. I crossed those stones in the middle of the pond thinking how solitude can make you so weak and yet at the same time strong. I visited the Ninenji and saw couples in traditional dress showing the slightest affection like touching each other`s hand that makes you envious how they have found each other.
I get lost in translation--talking to someone with my broken Japanese trying to translate things by sense. I get lost in translation--not knowing if words can show actions, if actions can express words.
Like her, I continue to walk among the crowd--- knowing my choices, asking myself.