I would have never done this if my friends hadn’t egged me on, so here I am getting my hands on watercolor painting again. Six months ago, when I was either worked up about work or having my lethargy episodes, I worried that my not having time would affect my painting. It did. The brushes feel strange in my hand, they feel lighter…but whatever ‘cause I’m back! Char.
June 27, 2012 I read the journal I used to keep before, it’s the black one that has your picture scotch taped on the back cover if you remember. It was on the shelf, sandwiched between Zadie Smith and Etgar Keret, authors you probably know now after hanging out in my room everyday after school last year. When I pulled it out of the shelf, an index card came flying out. You must have slipped it inside while I was away for Davao; I remember you sending me a message that you’d drop by the house to return the books you borrowed and I said sure I’ll tell Ma (she still thinks we’re together, by the way). It was folded in the middle, with my name written in bold letters on the other side. I never bothered opening it though, like most of the letters you gave me last summer, after we broke up. The thing is, M, I knew what you’d say. You are that predictable; the way I knew you’d be a goner, and this you had proven to be true after our fourteenth month together. I just wish I weren’t that stupid not to pull away; wish that I weren’t so scared of being left alone because I had become so attached to you.
But you see, M, as I was leafing through the journal, and reading more of my life when I was with you, I pause after reading a page and think that hey, it wasn’t all that bad. I’m glad you and I happened. Even if half of it were lies.
I put the index card back inside the journal where it belongs. Maybe someday I’d pull the journal out of the shelf again, the card slipping out, and I’d finally read it.
I have grown accustomed to the caked makeup of Ronald McDonald, greeting me at every door of the fast-food joint on practically every corner of every street in Davao, where I would have most of my dinners for the twenty months I have spent working. I greet him with equal fondness although I never grasp his outstretched hand, but I do send him a telepathic nod every now and then and thank him for giving me easily accessible food most nights. I did not grow up with clowns back where I grew up; Marbel was more of a bee place. Back home, coming home from school was an easy feat, food came in bowls and casseroles waiting for me on the dinner table. The catsup didn’t come in in packs and no plastic spoons and forks. Nothing is ever made special just for you in this fastfood chain where I spend most nights; so there’s the feeling of missing home and mother’s cooking.
I cannot help but become overwhelmed by this feeling of blah my life has becoming. It’s running around in the same circle, the way it was back in Marbel. Sometimes I think this big city moves in the same way, always the same circle, the same route, the same scenery. Over and over again. Ack, shit’s depressing. I need a burger.
Anonymous said: at what you do you are very good. my journal is crap compared to yours. whoever owns your special attention is very very very lucky. i hope that person knows how amazingly lucky she is.
I hope that person knows how amazingly lucky he is.
“I started making plans, thinking we would get that far.” —Daniel Handler
It only took my brain a two-hour dinner date to release ten million endorphins. Two hours because you were slumped at work and get slumped, again, the next day. We went home and I was still very happy I didn’t mind that I almost got hit by a tricycle along Gensan drive. I could have died. A tricycle could have killed me. What a sad way to end a life. But I didn’t care. I had too much happy hormones to bother.
We drove past the empty streets on the outskirts of Marbel. It was 10 at night, and fireworks from the party downtown lit up the sky. I wish I could bring you with me back in Davao so I’d have more nights like this.
"You can rely too much, my love, on the unspoken things. And the wry smile. I have that smile myself, and I’ve learned the silence, too, over the years. Along with your expressions, like No notion and Of necessity. What happens, though, when it is all unsaid, is that you wake up one morning, no, it’s more like late one afternoon, and it’s not just unsaid, it’s gone. That’s all. Just gone. I remember this word, that look, that small inflection, after all this time. I used to hold them, trust them, read them like a rune. Like a sign that there was a house, a billet, a civilization where we were. I look back and I think I was just there all alone. Collecting wisps and signs.” —Pitch Dark by Renata Adler
Replacing my heart with another liver so i can drink more and care less.
You were nothing more than another face when I first met you. Three months later and yours is the only face I could ever find in a crowded place.
Perhaps craziest of all, I still feel a flicker of hope. I walked home that night thinking about the reason you stood up on me. There’s probably nothing I can do now to change your mind. We’re probably not our best selves yet anyway, but the bottom line is that I still like you and want to be with you. You’d probably think I hate you for doing what you did, but no, I was only angry at you and confused by you and depressed by you. But never did hate come into it. What I feel about you can’t be distinguished with a spur-of-the-moment decision. For what it’s worth, I still want you and have all these conversations with you and be random with you and be ridiculous with you—