A clumsy assortment

A frustrated literary blog; a place where I like to pretend that I'm a poet. All words are written by me (c. 2005 – 2021) while the charming photos that fill the spaces in between are reblogged from someone. for what I believe(d) in for my daughters for p | for mom for others P.S. Don't go looking for rhyme & structure here. This is one clumsy assortment after all.

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From https://www.judithjules.com/

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Parents don’t always hold the answers

Sometimes, parenting is about singing old songs to lull your children to sleep. Of course, you don’t know the lyrics of all songs, but for what you know by heart, the ones you can recite by instinct because they formed your childhood, there are times you’ll need to hold back your emotions as if they are vices meant to be restrained.

You separate the tears from your voice as you crack your mouth open like eggshells, and whisk hard your emotions to thin them out.

When you let feelings seep  in, they spread within to eat on you, and your heart becomes a soft drenched pulp. Because you are a sponge.

You are hard to touch by default, but you are porous. You are vulnerable.

These quiet moments make you an intimate witness to how life happens fast — for your children who grow so quick, for your parents who you might not have the chance yet to fully understand, and for yourself who just wants to take things slow.

One day, your children will also have sharp memories about how you used to sing to them. And I’m not even sure why I have tears on my cheeks.

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Dear Marie Kondo, the same goes for work tables

Folding my work table is a sovereign act of self-love

that I do after clocking out from my work-from-home job.

Once I fold my work table, it's the only time that I would have enough space to slip           \ down the bed mattress on the floor and let my daughters sleep. You see,

folding the table is a physical expression of an irreversible choice to wrap so I can create space

for my life.

At this point, my office dismantles into a bedroom and I revert to being simply an individal.

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Warmth chaser

There is an idiom to describe a self-destructive attraction.

We were taught in school of the expression "like a moth to a flame" since moths drew themselves too much to light that eventually consumes it to dust.

I used to dislike that depth of desire. I thought it was a warranted doom because the moth was too greedy for its own good.

But after a while, I took in that perhaps logic is subservient to the heart when it comes to passion.

Perhaps it was meant for us not to stand a chance to this call. And maybe

moths are lucky — they die doing what they love the most.

[endcant]

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Sugarcoating

When you hug me, the scent of your chest clings to the threads of my clothing. You cross your arms over my shoulders and bury my head into the depths of your collar, which I like even if I miss catching my next breath and my hair scatters into a mess. I would feel the warm waves of your torso hovering over my chest as your palms read my moles, and occasionally, my insecurities.

We would kiss every so often. You would soothe the chaos by running your fingers through clumps of my artificially dyed brunette strands. And long after we parted, I would still sense the faint whiff of your presence that I'd rather not wash away.

So... Can I be excused from bathing?

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Clapperboard.Somewhere.

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Take two

You told me I am the one. But I am not one. I come in several pieces that I compressed together like a mound of clay with different colours.

I am myself, yet I am subject to anyone else’s interpretation: I can be made-up.

To you, I might be a phantom who dumped you years back that you haven’t gotten over. But it's not that you haven't moved on from me.

Most of the time, people just want to have a second shot to conquer the defeat of being previously rejected. And dear,

I am not a means to fix anyone else’s ego.

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Yearbook

At age five, I was a scientist. I would mix Aceite de Manzanilla with boiled leaves and coat the jade potion with melted crayons.

At age six, I was an arson. I would pluck leaves and petals to make plant skewers, and find satisfaction as I roast them. Oh, I was also a plant killer.

At age seven, I wanted to be a doctor. I would observe how the physician masterfully places the stethoscope on my chest so he can listen to the sound of my lungs. Sometimes, he would let me try hearing my organs through the device, which captivated me.

At age eight, I daydreamt of being an astronaut. I would fantasize about going to Jupiter on a space rocket, ignorant that no protection would’ve been enough to save me from its perils. I imagined how I would bathe under the moonlight that would be called iolight, europalight, callistolight, and so on because Jupiter has several satellites and none of them is called Moon.

At age fifteen, I was the girlfriend of the campus crush, which was the first romance tutorial I had.

At age sixteen, I gave up on being a doctor. I was told that we can't afford med school after I excitedly asked my mom if I should take Biology or Pharmacy first.

At age seventeen, I took up liberal arts. I would suck in Math and won't feel sorry for it because it was one of the reasons I was in that college department.

At age eighteen, I was thrown a debut party, which was the second biggest financial mistake that I know of.

At age nineteen, I listened to my mom cry because my dad will be jailed and deported as an undocumented worker. Also, my sister had to stop studying so I can finish college first.

At age twenty, I kept on hearing that I need to find a job as soon as I graduate that I had sworn to do nonetheless.

At age twenty-one, I was a fresh graduate, a breadwinner, and broke as fuck. Eventually, I ventured into real estate sales after two underpaying stints in a broadsheet and a tv station.

At age twenty-three, I got pregnant, and a year later, an interviewer asked if it was out of wedlock, to which I pointed out that I was using my married name in the resume. ~I did not get the job.

At age twenty-five, I am a mom, a wife, and an employee that is pretty much the equation for the one who leaves the party at 7pm. At that age, I added happy in the definition of missing out, and nothing could have been more accurate.

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Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange

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Afterlife

Death comes in a three-stage process:

death by body dysfunction,

death by the grave,

and death by being forgotten.

She thought everything would end when she had died. But here she is in some rundown theatre where stuck souls wait for the final stage; a theatre where no same show could be seen by two souls because the scenes are all about how they had lived.

A few times, it had been fun to watch her youthful adventures. But how long has she been watching herself?

Well. There is no means to know.

She closes her eyes but it voluntarily opens and her desired sleep becomes a quick blink.

Oh god, she wants to rest, but the more her life is told, the longer she gets stuck in this in-between. Her heart wails for the stories to stop but that is the dead man’s curse — to indiscriminately live in the heads of those who remember, even for the wrong reasons.

Because when you lose your life, you also lose your identity and just become who people believe you to be.

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Black

Tomorrow, I will remind you of charcoal and the writings at the back of my grade school uniform.

You will be reminded of ashes, and tars, and onyx, and dried blood, and bats because I guess you would not know what color the Mercurial night sky emits

– and I will smack your face if you smugly answer “blue.”

Tomorrow, I’ll be dyeing my hair with the color of crows that would put your school shoe into hiding inside its maternal box out of shame

because tomorrow, I’ll be compressing all the colors of the world inside my hair and nothing can ever be livelier

than black.

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