I have never seen anything more depressing than my incomplete box of crayons. I lost violet today. It's shallow to cry over a missing crayon, but for someone who tries hard to draw rainbows, this such a big loss. There used to be 24 happiness-sticks waiting to streak rainbows for me, but now, there's only 23. Tell me, how do you draw a rainbow without violet? How can ROYGBIV be ever complete without V? What's a sunset without violet splitting the pinks and oranges? How will fairies fly without purple wings? How will unicorns prance about without purple souls? How can there be gloom in the clouds without purple shadows? How do you make cotton candy pictures without purple bringing out the pastels? Yellow cows won't have their spots if there's no purple. I'm not crazy about purple, but the world won't be complete without a purple mist surrounding it. So tell me, how do i draw rainbows now? How do i color in my world?|
I don't feel like coloring anymore. It's no fun coloring knowing that there's a gap that no other crayon can ever complete. I need a new box of crayons.
She has no name. Or at least, it was unknown to me. She’s one of those people whom you knew by face because she went to the places you went to and hung out with the people you knew, but never had a name to go with the familiar face.|
I’ve asked her for a light a couple of times already. In fact, I’ve even had more decent conversations with her than most of the people I knew. My friends know her. I never really had the guts to ask her what her name was. Sometimes I’m just too chicken. Or maybe it was because it felt like we knew each other so well that it was quite queer for me to ask.
It’s not like I’ve never tried to get hold of her name. I’ve tried remembering who introduced us, or how we met each other, and tried to dig up anything that would sound like her name. But it feels like I’ve known her forever that I don’t even remember the day we met—not because it was unimportant to remember, but because it’s as if we’ve known each other for so long. And it just simply fascinates me how I can know someone so well, but at the same time, not know the most basic detail about her.
I had coffee with her and my friends this afternoon. Of course, there were no introductions—we were almost together as a barkada. Barkadas don’t need introductions. She sat there and laughed at my jokes and listened to my stories. I looked into her eyes and realized that she knew me by face, and she knew my name. I felt every bit guilty for not knowing enough, for knowing too little.
She wasn’t beautiful. But she was fascinating. There was always something about her I could never understand. The way she laughed, the way she spoke and the way she looked at things differently—these are just some of the things that got me lost in awe when we were together.
Today, as she drank her coffee, she made fun of her haircut, which according to her looked so Bon Jovi. Eliza breaks into laughter as she pulled her ponytail and let her insanely layered do fall into an almost retro mess.
“I’ll never let a gay hairdresser touch my hair again,” she laughed.
“Don’t worry, it’ll grow back,” the other girls told her.
Her hair did look like Bon Jovi’s hair back in the 80’s. It was crazy.
While they tried to contain their laughter, I watched her gentle bangs fall over her left eye. I watched her pull her hair back again into her disguising ponytail to show off the pair of chandelier earrings she borrowed from Eliza. After she made Eliza take her picture, she smiled at me and giggled. I stopped staring.
Then she stopped clowning around and reached out to Eliza.
“I need human contact,” she said in a small voice. She kissed Angela on the cheek and tried to cuddle up with her.
“I need a hug!”
She was a child. She wasn’t needy or clingy, like some people thought she was. Or on the other hand, maybe she was, because children are clingy and needy—and she was still a child. Can anyone else see that child in her?
“Do you think I’m weird?” She asked me with a laugh. “I need warmth.”
I smiled back and shook my head. I wondered why she’d need warmth when we were in a cozy coffee shop and it was such a warm afternoon outside. Maybe I was too shallow to understand the warmth she was looking for.
She took Margaret’s hand and snuggled closer. Then she talked about death as casually as we would talk about gossip. She made it seem as if it was as normal as breathing, or rain, or love. She was one of those people who died little deaths everyday. She dies when she wants to and at her own pace because after all, she gets born when she feels like it, anyway. She was too melodramatic, but she was optimistic. Maybe she just remembers too much. I remember how she speaks of years of memories as if they all happened yesterday.
I must have been staring at her again, because she suddenly pointed at her coffee cup for me to look at.
“Look,” she said, “all my name’s worth is a measly paper cup with cold coffee.”
She pouted then she looked at me with really sad eyes. Her stare burned my heart. It scorned me for not knowing her name.
“It’s sad,” she told me. She closed her hands around her paper cup then she pushed it towards me.
And then I realized how silly I was for not looking at the name scrawled on her paper cup. I took her cup and looked at it. I held her name in my hands. M-I-K-A. The messy letters made out her name. It was ironically shocking and expected at the same time. I looked at the glass panel beside me and her faint reflection stared back at me. My nameless fascination, whose name is worth nothing but a paper cup, looked at me with my own eyes. She has always been me. And I’ve always been her.
*My first story that was called "beautiful." My radio debut. My beautiful attempt at creative-deconstructive-non-fiction. At least for me.
Mar. 12th, 2005 @ 07:21 pm
i can't write anymore. my ink bottle is empty. help.|
wake up, bird
you have seeds to eat
you have noise to make
wake up, bird
i want to hear you
don't sleep, bird
turn your eyes
away from that
it's too early for the sun to set.
wake up, baby.
i still need to hear
you in the morning
and in the night.
don't go, baby.
but you're already
and my tears won't bring you
good night, good boy.
see you when i get there.
* Funchum the parrot died today. He was "Good Boy." He especially loved hot days. I miss him. He didn't even scream goodbye.
world's too dry|
rain on me.
too much sunshine
can be bad
for little weeds
rain on me.
one gigantic drop
will be more than enough.
drowning in: Almost Happy--K's Choice
i am waiting for|
five drops of moonlight
four star songs
three handfuls of magic dust
one beautiful you
to reach this
shine on me.
|» Just a Dream|
i am a dream inside my Dreamer's head. waiting to come true.|
|» Makatang Dila|
masarap din pala tumula|
makata rin pala ang ligaya.
|» Grandpa's Stars|
for Sarene (who will provide the illustrations for this story)
I remember Grandpa.
Grandpa loved looking at the stars with me. We gave each one of them names. There was Jennifer, Margarita, Barbara and Kristine. They were all Grandpa's stars. But every night, the two brightest stars were always "Grandpa" and "Elle."
Before I went to bed, Grandpa would sing me a lullaby. He always sang with the night breeze as he tucked me in with butterfly kisses.
"Goodnight, little Elle. Dream of the sweetest things. Angels are watching us from the skies."
And whenever it rained, Grandpa always painted a rainbow for me. The rainbow always made the rain go away.
And I miss my Grandpa.
Grandpa still paints a rainbow for me. And the rainbow still makes the rain go away. But I don't see Grandpa now.
I can still hear Grandpa's lullaby in the night breeze.
"Goodnight little Elle. Dream of the sweetest things. Grandpa's watching you from the skies."
But Grandpa's not here to tuck me in anymore. And I miss Grandpa's kisses.
And Granpa looks down from the stars, now. I can still see Jennifer, Margarita, Barbara and Kristine at night. They are Grandpa's stars and he shines with them now. And every night, the brightest stars are still "Grandpa" and "Elle".
And I miss my Grandpa.
I remember my Grandpa, but I don't see him anymore.