And while most of my favorite bloggers would rather keep to themselves these annoying and now-repetitive admissions of failure, here I am nurturing the frustration and feeding it fat for everyone to read.
Some nights I wish that I took poetry lessons to heart. To learn Language. To make it dance then break its legs. To make it crawl out of the page, make it punch people in the gut, or maybe in the face. To know its dirtiest kinks and please it like a lover until it writhes and shivers and screams.
But tonight let’s just file these thoughts in a folder called “dreams.”
To Myself Franz Wright
You are riding the bus again burrowing into the blackness of Interstate 80, the sole passenger
with an overhead light on. And I am with you. I’m the interminable fields you can’t see,
the little lights off in the distance (in one of those rooms we are living) and I am the rain
and the others all around you, and the loneliness you love, and the universe that loves you specifically, maybe,
and the catastrophic dawn, the nicotine crawling on your skin— and when you begin
to cough I won’t cover my face, and if you vomit this time I will hold you: everything’s going to be fine
I will whisper. It won’t always be like this. I am going to buy you a sandwich.
The poem is from Franz Wright’s Ill Lit: Selected and New Poems. The featured image is 20,000 Leagues Beyond My Mind by Dawani de Leon.
A part of me regrets posting the Plath poem last night. Work has been a shitshow this week and yesterday was just — hay, ‘tang ina. The gist, I suppose, is I fucked up.
Or other people fucked up. But because my brain is wired a certain way, I have this crippling tendency to just take in all the blame.
This morning, for example, the contractor told my boss that our project had not been running smoothly in their site. Parts never arrive on time, he said, and it’s my job to tell the vendor to provide all the parts on time. But I always speak with the vendor and he always assures me that he’s got it, that he knows the drill. Welp. Apparently not.
The other day I had a different problem with another project. The site discovered existing issues with my design, all of which I assumed were already handled in the past. Again, apparently not.
So I made all these assumptions and they ended up biting me in the butt. I’ve been trying to justify my decisions but, to be honest, they were really just shitty decisions. I fucked up.
I have no plans tonight. R invited me to “his thing” but I already made up my mind: I hate social interactions on Friday nights. Sorry, R. Happy birthday.
Weather Network predicts a high of 13’ today (Celsius, not Freedom). I will be visiting another open yard site for work; I hope I don’t freeze. The last few days have been unusually warm for October, but I don’t want to jinx it. Oh god let’s not jinx it.
Maybe I should go to the gym tonight. Yes, that could be the plan. Go to the gym after work, go home, and eat cake. There should still be some beer in the fridge. Perfect.
Yes, totally. And I don’t really care so long as the pages remain intact and the words remain legible. I’ve long abandoned this banal sentimentality towards physical books; nobody is any less of a reader just because their books look “used.”
Have you ever damaged a borrowed book?
Essie lent me (or gave me, haha) her copy of Junot Diaz’s The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao about 10 years ago. I’ve read it so many times and now the back cover is almost torn off. Sorry, Essie, for never giving it back.
How long does it take you to read a book?
It depends on how busy I am and how “heavy” the book is, literally and figuratively.
Today’s a Monday, I know, but this is my blog, so let’s follow my rules. (And I’m sure the creator of this tag wouldn’t mind? Or at least I hope they don’t).
Anyhoo, I am currently
readingAmerica Is Not The Heart by Elaine Castillo, and it’s hitting way too close to home;
writing this post and a thinkpiece (charot) on OPM and migration. The second one doesn’t seem to be taking shape though — I just don’t have the discipline to do research, prfft;
listening to Eraserheads’ “Sino Sa Atin” off the under-appreciated “diket-diket” album Natin99;
thinking that I really do like Natin99. Legit, beh. Enjoying this album comes with age, I think; I just never cared for it when I was younger. But now? Dude. “Kahit Ano” is the barkada anthem. “Tama Ka,” “Maselang Bahaghari,” “Pop Machine,” “May Sumasayaw” — damn solid bangers, I’m telling ya;