--------------------------------
later in the day, when the initial spurts of enerygy wane
my thoughts drift to you
a tide pushing me closer to a familiar shore
but i long for the sea.
the promise of adventure strong in my mind
the lure of the waves and other tides steeped by years of longing
as if in waiting for that year-end holiday to come
when i did nothing but prepare all year
rum-thickened fruitcake
to pass around
but this tide is a welcome, warmly given, if not received.
i am grounded, finally
no longer lost among the waves
which is a hazard for creatures who run the tide's course
and live for the swirling moment.
the ground, this sand,
it's not as dry as it seems, this flesh-colored roughness
it clings, asking to join me in wandering
irritating though, like a pack of beggars
yet time is counted by it,
and the more i linger, the more stick to my body.
i try to swim away,
but you are alluring, enticing
seductive.
the salty taste in my mouth is no longer.
only a longing to taste you.
your sweetness,
the sound of your laughter.
the dry smoothness of your skin is beguiling
not so slippery as to become memory
not wet or dank as to run through my fingers.
i am wont to linger
yet the tide calls
Monday, October 04, 2004
--------------------------------
Creek.
It has a trickle-down effect really... No. More like a downpour. A crack in the wall, chip by chip till the there is not enough concrete or reason to hold back the downpour of tears. As Martin would say, “take away one, much more three, and we are like ants that scatter without the scent trail to follow...” When I left the creek, the only person I REALLY shared my loneliness and ‘mingaw’ for the creek is my baby, Joyce. Reading Martin’s blog and Freya’s painfully and perceptively clear enunciation of why things have to go on despite what has happened strikes a very sensitive nerve (http://www.nicewalrus.blogspot.com/). It’s like the last night of the show, or your last night with your fellow seminarians.
It’s not the leaving that’s the most painful, I guess. We leave our homes every morning to take a ride that will ferry us from house to office. We leave, we come and go, we journey, we travel, we transcend. We never stay. We are constantly in motion that it we can’t help notice of the silence till everyone’s gone.
It’s accepting that change has happened is the most bitter, most painful to accept. I don’t particularly care if some writer says that “... memories are present circumstances now said in past tense.” I still see Martin’s face when I said goodbye. We were outside having a Thursday afternoon break. By then, the word was out. Yet, Martin pursed his lips and ended his break early, his face clearly stating he wasn’t happy about any of it. No one wants to see the memory of friends sitting on empty chairs. No one wants to pass rooms where there used to be faces grim at work, or smiles ready. No one wants to see anyone leave. No one wants to leave.
I was involved in a play called Bus Terminal not too long ago. The saddest, most painful scene was the anti-climax, when all the characters were leaving the stage. It was at Ayala Cinema One. I’ll never forget how dark it looked, even with the lights on. I’ll never forget how it felt to be a part of that bus ride. Lives ebb in and out of the bus terminal, as one press release said, no one lingers too long.
The play ended and I moved on.
The creek will probably be one of the most enduring parts of my history as a young (okay, not-so-young) hopeful, an employee, an aspiring writer, and a friend who strives to be a friend. I’ve seen, pain, suffering, and yes, hopelessness at the creek. Yet, I saw vigor, I saw joy, I saw dream. I saw passion move like a whisper enticing, soliciting, encouraging. I saw everyone passionate. I saw how the working conditions were and yet, beyond it was the bonds of friendships held fast. I still hold dear these ties that I bind to my heart, hoping they will not break against the downpour and wearing of time and circumstance.
The only painful thing that would surpass this metamorphosis is my leaving the seminary, and leaving old friends I lived with for five years. But then again, boys will always be boys, and creeks... they will always have some river, lake, or sea, to flow into.
Creek.
It has a trickle-down effect really... No. More like a downpour. A crack in the wall, chip by chip till the there is not enough concrete or reason to hold back the downpour of tears. As Martin would say, “take away one, much more three, and we are like ants that scatter without the scent trail to follow...” When I left the creek, the only person I REALLY shared my loneliness and ‘mingaw’ for the creek is my baby, Joyce. Reading Martin’s blog and Freya’s painfully and perceptively clear enunciation of why things have to go on despite what has happened strikes a very sensitive nerve (http://www.nicewalrus.blogspot.com/). It’s like the last night of the show, or your last night with your fellow seminarians.
It’s not the leaving that’s the most painful, I guess. We leave our homes every morning to take a ride that will ferry us from house to office. We leave, we come and go, we journey, we travel, we transcend. We never stay. We are constantly in motion that it we can’t help notice of the silence till everyone’s gone.
It’s accepting that change has happened is the most bitter, most painful to accept. I don’t particularly care if some writer says that “... memories are present circumstances now said in past tense.” I still see Martin’s face when I said goodbye. We were outside having a Thursday afternoon break. By then, the word was out. Yet, Martin pursed his lips and ended his break early, his face clearly stating he wasn’t happy about any of it. No one wants to see the memory of friends sitting on empty chairs. No one wants to pass rooms where there used to be faces grim at work, or smiles ready. No one wants to see anyone leave. No one wants to leave.
I was involved in a play called Bus Terminal not too long ago. The saddest, most painful scene was the anti-climax, when all the characters were leaving the stage. It was at Ayala Cinema One. I’ll never forget how dark it looked, even with the lights on. I’ll never forget how it felt to be a part of that bus ride. Lives ebb in and out of the bus terminal, as one press release said, no one lingers too long.
The play ended and I moved on.
The creek will probably be one of the most enduring parts of my history as a young (okay, not-so-young) hopeful, an employee, an aspiring writer, and a friend who strives to be a friend. I’ve seen, pain, suffering, and yes, hopelessness at the creek. Yet, I saw vigor, I saw joy, I saw dream. I saw passion move like a whisper enticing, soliciting, encouraging. I saw everyone passionate. I saw how the working conditions were and yet, beyond it was the bonds of friendships held fast. I still hold dear these ties that I bind to my heart, hoping they will not break against the downpour and wearing of time and circumstance.
The only painful thing that would surpass this metamorphosis is my leaving the seminary, and leaving old friends I lived with for five years. But then again, boys will always be boys, and creeks... they will always have some river, lake, or sea, to flow into.
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