May iniisip ka?
Ayaw kong sabihin. Baka magkatotoo.
Dahil makulit ka
Kilala kita. Oo, ikaw 'yun: Nagkasalubong na tayo minsan, sa LRT, sa Gotohan, sa kanto ng Aurora at Katipunan. Nagkatinginan tayo. Hindi mo ako kinausap, pero alam ko, nakilala mo rin ako. Kaya ka narito, di ba? Para sabihing, Oo, oo, ikaw nga 'yun. Naaalala kita.
na, mula noong 24 Enero, 2006, ang nakitambay dito
Monday, June 06, 2005
Dahil ang sabi sa akin ng mga matatanda, "Kung hindi mo matukoy ang sasabihin mo, pero may gusto ka talagang sabihin, hayaan mong iba ang magsalita para sa iyo:"
Anna Begins Counting Crows
My friend assures me: "it’s all or nothing," I am not worried- I am not overly concerned. My friend implores me: "For one time only, make an exception." I am not worried.
Wrap her up in a package of lies, send her off to a coconut island. I am not worried - I am not overly concerned with the status of my emotions, "Oh," she says, "we're changing." But we're always changing. It does not bother me to say
this isn’t love; because if you don’t want to talk about it then it isn’t love, and I guess I’m going to have to live that but I’m sure there’s something in a shade of gray, something in between, and I can always change my name if that’s what you mean
My friend assures me, "It’s all or nothing," but I am not really worried, I am not overly concerned. You try to tell yourself the things you try tell yourself to make yourself forget-- to make your self forget. I am not worried.
"If it’s love," she said, Then we're gonna have to think about the consequences. She can’t stop shaking and I can't stop touching her and this time...
When kindness falls like rain, it washes her away and Anna begins to change her mind "These seconds when I’m shaking leave me shuddering For days," she says. And I’m not ready for this sort of thing.
But I’m not gonna break, and I’m not going to worry about it anymore. I’m not gonna bend and I’m not gonna break and I’m not gonna worry about it anymore.
It seems like I should say as long as this is love... But it’s not all that easy so maybe I should just snap her up in a butterfly net- pin her down on a photograph album; I am not worried I’ve done this sort of thing before.
But then I start to think about the consequences because I don’t get no sleep in a quiet room and this time...
When kindness falls like rain It washes me away and Anna begins to change my mind. And every time she sneezes I believe it’s love And oh, Lord... I’m not ready for this sort of thing
She's talking in her sleep-- it's keeping me awake, and anna begins to toss and turn. And every word is nonsense but I understand it and Oh, Lord. I'm not ready for this sort of thing.
Her kindness bangs a gong It’s moving me along and Anna begins to fade away. It s chasing me away. She dissappears, and Oh, Lord I’m not ready for this sort of thing.
Dahil ganu'n talaga ang buhay:
The Vanishings Stephen Dunn
One day it will vanish, how you felt when you were overwhelmed by her, soaping each other in the shower, or when you heard the news of his death, there in the T-Bone diner on Queens Boulevard amid the shouts of short-order cooks, Armenian, oblivious. One day one thing and then a dear other will blur and though they won't be lost they won't mean as much, that motorcycle ride on the dirt road to the deserted beach near Cadiz, the Guardia mistaking you for a drug-runner, his machine gun in your belly— already history now, merely your history, which means everything to you. You strain to bring back your mother's face and full body before her illness, the arc and tenor of family dinners, the mysteries of radio, and Charlie Collins, eight years old, inviting you to his house to see the largest turd that had ever come from him, unflushed. One day there'll be almost nothing except what you've written down, then only what you've written down well, then little of that. The march on Washington in '68 where you hoped to change the world and meet beautiful, sensitive women is choreography now, cops on horses, everyone backing off, stepping forward. The exam you stole and put back unseen has become one of your stories, overtold, tainted with charm. All of it, anyway, will go the way of icebergs come summer, the small chunks floating in the Adriatic until they're only water, pure, and someone taking sad pride that he can swim in it, numbly. For you, though, loss, almost painless, that Senior Prom at the Latin Quarter— Count Basie and Sarah Vaughan, and you just interested in your date's cleavage and staying out all night at Jones Beach, the small dune fires fueled by driftwood. You can't remember a riff or a song, and your date's a woman now, married, has had sex as you have some few thousand times, good sex and forgettable sex, even boring sex, oh you never could have imagined back then with the waves crashing what the body could erase. It's vanishing as you speak, the soul-grit, the story-fodder, everything you retrieve is your past, everything you let go goes to memory's out-box, open on all sides, in cahoots with thin air. The jobs you didn't get vanish like scabs. Her good-bye, causing the phone to slip from your hand, doesn't hurt anymore, too much doesn't hurt anymore, not even that hint of your father, ghost-thumping on your roof in Spain, hurts anymore. You understand and therefore hate because you hate the passivity of understanding that your worst rage and finest private gesture will flatten and collapse into history, become invisible like defeats inside houses. Then something happens (it is happening) which won't vanish fast enough, your voice fails, chokes to silence; hurt (how could you have forgotten?) hurts. Every other truth in the world, out of respect, slides over, makes room for its superior.