L'esprit d'escalier @thisstaircasewit - Tumblr Blog

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A sudden bout of melancholy hit me the moment I sat down on my old beat up office chair. Sluggish, existential, and feeling like everything is awry, that all the life is getting sucked out of me everytime I show up to work, dressed up so the world would think I'm to be trusted, dependable, decent, functioning, normal. But the truth is no one has figured it out and we're all just getting by in our clown make up fronting like we've got our shit together.

Writing Prompts

So I decided I should write again. I started by deleting Twitter on the main phone. Then I wrote a new entry in the counterpart Wordpress of this Tumblr. I have some ideas where to go next: 1. memorable snippets of my travels, particularly people and places 2. character sketches of some fuccbois I was / I’m still fond of 3. my worries, anxieties, fears, and also my adventures, things and people that excite me 4. life, the universe, and everything It has to be meaningful but tight - the aim is to be as sparse as Hemingway or Murakami. Hopefully I have the stomach and endurance to edit and distill the writing into the very essence of the memories and ideas, and not have it turn into some stream of consciousness rambling. But for now, I should sleep.

Self-esteem Boost of the Day

Been feeling a little zero self-esteem after I deduced and realized that:

1. I’m a Monday and not a Friday date

2. Almost always second best because some hoe is always prettier and sexier and younger

3. I’m a drunk dial / booty call

It’s being aggravated by these mean rashes / allergies I’ve been having for a few weeks now so I’m not really feeling myself at all.

It all came to a head when I passed by this tweet on my timeline:

https://twitter.com/AtomSiraullo/status/911649689048539136

For a hot second I was like, “OMG this is exactly the reason for all my self-esteem problems! I’m gonna retweet this, hashtag-samedt, hashtag-relate bes...” But then I thought a little harder and after 5 seconds realized dammit, I’d TOTALLY CHOOSE ME.

1. Above average book- and street-smarts (mej sablay lang sa EQ).

2. Above average skillz iykwim. Just ask the majority #TMI

3. I’m pretty cute and attainable and just a little chubby (working on it!) in spite of my age.

4. I’m financially independent, can afford to buy my own shit.

5. Cultured and worldly HAHAHAHAHA feeler but I’d like to think I have good taste.

FUCK YEAH you assholes are missing out!

I kinda love my thirties tbh, I’m getting these self-esteem pity parties less and less than when I was in my 20s always agonizing and self-flagellating about how I can never be enough. Probably because I now realize that actually I can never get enough. I’m never satisfied by all these mediocre, basic, predictable boys who seem to only want one thing. They’re too simple. Give them that and they’re happy. Change it up a little and they think you’re hot shit.

I’ve always known I’m Angelica Schuyler - I’m never satisfied. Now I know why.

Lingerie

I wore lingerie for the first time today and it feels glorious. The fit and the feel are perfect, and I never thought I’d look good in lace, tbh. Underneath banal and shapeless clothes, it feels a lot like a sexy surprise*, if I may say so myself.

Lingerie to me has always been too girly, too fancy, too…mature. I’ve always been the tomboy type who preferred no-fuss, utilitarian cotton over lace, silk, or satin which I fear I will ruin in one day of careless, uncoordinated movements. Those types of delicate fabrics are more suited to graceful girls who look like Audrey Hepburn.

So I’m not really sure why I picked the lacy satin bikini brief set at H&M last, last weekend. It felt very natural and instinctive though, and unlike in my previous excursions shopping for underwear, it wasn’t a very difficult choice. Normally I’d agonize about the lack of options that “speak” to me aesthetically or even practically. I’d be apprehensive over the fit since you can’t try them on before buying them and I would usually end up with too tight underwear uuuugggh. Most of them would be flowery tacky shit, especially the sets at So-en. Quality is also an issue because the cheap ones tatter after a few washes. Finally the good ones like Triumph and Uniqlo are way too expensive. Buying underwear is just too stressful for me because of all these crazy criteria that I have to consider, short of mapping them out in excel so I try to postpone it until I really really have to. Hyeah, I tend to overthink my underwear purchases too.

So I’m glad that this instinctive choice turned out well and maybe it was also my gut telling me that I’m ready and grown-up enough for lingerie.

(*I almost used “sexy secret” which unconsciously made a reference to Victoria’s Secret - the most godawful, tackiest, and misogynist brand of lingerie, imo. And Triumph, the brand for mamas, titas, and grannies the world over, is waaaay better than VS.)

Katipunan Station. Naaalala ko pa ang amoy ng LRT2. Parang pinaghalong kaba, ligalig, kilig, hapis, nagbabadyang katapusan. Mga alaala sa yo at sa kanya. Pareho din ang hangganan, sa di kalaunan.

If I had a cat, I’d name him Hemingway. I’d prefer a male cat than a female one. I fear a female cat and I would be too much alike and we’ll end up playing chicken all the time (”no you can’t touch me until I get my way”). He will be nicknamed “Hem” or “Ming-ming” depending on my mood. The former when it’s serious, the latter when playful.

But I wouldn’t know the first thing about cats. I don’t even know if I’m indeed allergic to them. I’ve never had a cat in my life. Never held one even. What if I’m not really a cat person? I’m not a dog person that’s for sure. Dogs are too extroverted and needy. They’re also people-pleasers but also they make a whole lotta mess when you ignore them for a few hours. And I can’t handle high maintenance.

How to feed it? What to do if it poops? Where should it poop? Should I give it a bath everyday? What will it do while I’m at work? Should I let it roam the neighborhood (and get dirty in the process ewwww). Man just thinking about it exhausts me. Too much responsibility.

Oh, here’s an idea: what about a goldfish named Hemingway?

malacanan

“Maria Clara made out with a hotdog…?”

“THAT WAS ONE TIME.”

thisstaircasewit

Malacañan burn book.

malacanan

“Is that an Modified AR-15, semi-automatic, with the tactical sight guide and rotating lock bolt!?”

Ma. Christine Lourdes, a devout servant of the Lord Jesus Christ Our Savior—a nun of fifteen years, chose the worst possible time to reveal her secret hobby.

theparisreview

I have never separated the writing of poetry from prayer.

Derek Walcott, The Art of Poetry No. 37 (via theparisreview)

A Tribute to "buried in clichés"

The past is now locked away safely in a quiet corner of the ether. Why bother keeping it when the key will be conveniently or intentionally misplaced somewhere in the depths of my subconscious, never to be found again, like those old, awful, HTML websites I used to have? Sentimentality? Perhaps. Something to remind me of my former self who was self-aware but not too self-conscious with the right people and somehow quite eloquent and could have been great at that hobby, writing, but never seemed to mature and find her voice or focus or gotten better at poetry. All these softer pieces of myself that I shared to a few people I trusted to care for soft things. And yet, because they are just that - people - sometimes they don't always fulfill your expectations. I've forgiven them because that is the human thing to do, but I'm still in the process of forgetting. I'm also still learning how to forgive of course, even at this age, and it's one of the most difficult things in the world. It's not very scary as swimming or riding a bike or freaking ravines, nor difficult like Math or a Rubik's cube. It's difficult like dealing with a contradiction, or understanding a Jackson Pollock, or Jacob wrestling with the angel. But it has to be done if only so I can learn to forgive myself also, properly healing without amputating. After all even scorched limbs can still lift heavy things.

You're not even someone who should inspire poetry or any words for that matter and yet you caught me in a moment of weakness - right on the verge of my period. Motherfucker.

Directed by Allister Ann Buy 'Taken' here: http://bit.ly/1nB35kZ Debut album SIREN out now! Get it here: http://bit.ly/ysSIREN Heart it on Hype Machine: http...

You: Am I weird?

Me: Yes. And weird is good.

#lespritdelescalier #whatishouldhavesaid

malacanan

Have you been naughty or nice? This middle-aged father of two just found out that he won’t be getting any gifts this year* from Santa (Papa). Not that Narding Castañeda was not a nice guy. He was; indeed he was. It’s just that Pope Pius XI wasn’t a gift-giving kind of guy, and also that Mr. Castañeda misunderstood Catholicism as a whole.

*The year was 1937, during International Eucharistic Congress in Manila.

How to forget things in the worst possible way

Bury bad memories under even worse memories that need burying also, ad nauseam, ad infinitum.

Sex and Cigarettes.

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

#the bell jar #sylvia plath

Found this poem in a draft note on my FB profile which I supposedly wrote in 2010.

It scares me sometimes how I’m acting out without knowing it. Like I just black out and do stupid shit.

The poem is nice though so I’m posting it here instead.

Kissing With The Lights On

By Daphne Gottlieb

You told me you like my mouth

you want to kiss me

my mouth is a wound and you

want to kiss me

But you're like

that: you want to go

leaping over cliffs

you want to go

drinking poison

and then write pretty poems about it

and all i want to do is

fuck you.

you want flowers and sonnets and us

to be together untill the end of the world and i'd

just like to give you a blow job

i'd just like to see your face when you come. i'd just like to be friends

that's what i'd really like.

something warm and snuggly like a friendship.

and to fuck you

the flowers are going to die and the cliffs are

going to erode and we might as well go fuck

since we're going to anyway

we'll fuck and fight and eat and drink and smoke and fuck and

smoke and

fuck and

get married

and six months from now

we'll stop making the world stop

to fuck eachother and

one year from now

i'll get fat and you'll go bald and

i'll take prozac and you'll take viagra

i'll get obsessed with my biological clock

and my career

and you'll get obsessed with your hairline

and your career

and two years from now

you'd rather watch reruns than fuck me

and i'd rather be drinking than fuck you

so we'll drink in seperate bars and one night

somone who likes my mouth will buy me and drink

that drink will be attached to my hand

there will be a human holding that drink

the kind with ears

and I will tell whoever it is

all about you

and how we use to forget to eat when we were in bed for three days

and your ears will be burning from across town

where you are telling whoever it is how i don't understand you

and two years from now, that girl with that drink

she will nod that yes that i am nodding at you tonight

that nod, that yes that means you're not coming home

because just for a second the world has gone away

because just for a second there's somone who understands you

and that night it will be her pretty mouth you want

and that night i will pass out at home, alone

with a bottle that reminds me of us

because it'll be empty

because it'll be gone

i will pass out wating for you

to come

home

listeing to country music- and i hate

country music-

but i'll be feeling tragic

it'll be the most romantic moment

i've ever had and

i'll be alone

and you'll be across town

with that girl who right now is in high school

and right now i just met you

and right now i think you should take me home and fuck me

because it only gets uglier from here

so take me to the end of that cliff you love and

pour me a shot of your silky poison

you can take this mouth

this wound you want

but you can't kiss it

and make it

better.

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