Below are the 18 most recent journal entries recorded in Punch-Drunk Lover Gurl's Blurty:

Friday, February 11th, 2005
2:49 am	Cary to the rescue! [what's new?] Cary is MY guru. hail to he who speaks the truth... and how! Three little words I know guys aren't supposed to be the first one to say , "I love you." Will I ruin a great thing if I tell her after only seven weeks? - - - - - - - - - - - - By Cary Tennis Dear Cary, I have a wonderful problem, indeed I've never been so happy. I'm 29 and I've recently met a wonderful woman who is 28. Her core values resonate with mine, and she is smart, beautiful and athletic. I fell in love with her on our second date. We've been seeing each other for seven weeks now, and things are fabulous. Indeed, they are so good that it is a daily struggle to pace myself, but so far I've managed. I know from experience there is a natural progression to relationships, having been on both sides of going too fast and dragging my feet. I'm doing everything I can to allow this one to breathe, blossom and grow. There is an unwritten rule that the guy should not be the very first one to say "I love you" in a relationship, and I think for good reason. Is it worth the risk to break this piece of cultural wisdom? It seems silly to love someone and not say it, but I don't want to douse the flame with too much fuel. I think the words may even escape of their own accord if I'm not watchful, but if you were to say something like "Wait six months and see how things are then" I could do it. Lovestruck in Portland Dear Lovestruck, I think you need a language that lets you speak of your feelings of love, and your feelings about your feelings of love, without committing to a church wedding and joint checking. You could say, for instance, "I really like the way things are going between us, don't you?" You could say, "Sometimes I wish things could go on like this forever." You could say, "I'm not superstitious, but sometimes I'm afraid of jinxing things by even talking about how happy I am with you right now." This can be done in a way that is lighthearted but not insincere, straightforward but not unnervingly so. And then you can ask permission to eat her nigiri. It sounds dirty but after all it's just a piece of fish. Frankly, although I know you don't want to scare her, I think it is a shame that you can't say "I love you" without fearing that she will think it means "I want to own you" or "I want to be your slave" or "I totally misunderstand the terms of our relationship." If you don't understand the terms of the relationship, then please endeavor to understand them. Ask her questions. Talk about relationships. Discuss the rules. If you want to own her or you want her to be your slave or vice versa, make that known. Maybe I live too much in a world of old movies where heroes and heroines understood each other implicitly, but I think it's lamentable that we must guess how others will interpret the words "I love you." What could that possibly mean except what it means? Besides, it is only one utterance among many in the phrase book of romance; there are other phrases, such as "May I eat your nigiri?" to lubricate other delicate romantic transactions. That one phrase ought not be so freighted with contractual implications. I just think it's sad you can't say it. Why can't you? Why not be romantic and speak of this love freely as long as it lasts? Why not unburden yourself like a true lover would? After all, if you don't love her, what's that ridiculous look on your face? What's romance for if not for being romantic? If you're crazy about her, I say tell her so. What's she going to do, have you arrested? Current Mood: confused Current Music: Eric Clapton's Change the World (Comment on this)
Thursday, February 3rd, 2005
4:02 pm	literature, part one from Correlli’s Mandolin by Louis de Berniéres - - - - - - - - - - - - Chapter 47: Dr. Iannis Counsels his Daughter “…Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether you roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal paradise, it is not the desire to mate every second minute of the day, it is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every cranny of your body. No, don’t blush, I am telling you some truths. That is just being “in love,” which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew toward each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two. But sometimes the petals fall away and the roots have not entwined. Imagine giving up your home and your people, only to discover after six months later, a year, three years, that the trees have had no roots and have fallen over. Imagine the desolation. Imagine the imprisonment. …Pelagia, you know as well as I do that love delayed is lust augmented. No, don’t look at me like that. I am not ignorant or stupid, and I was not born yesterday. Also I am a doctor and I deal not in impossible moral commands but in demonstrable facts. No one can tell me that just because someone is young, good-looking, well-educated and sensible, they are not also inflamed. Do you think I don’t know that young girls can be eaten by desire? I am even resigned to the possibility that my dear little daughter may be in such a state. Don’t hang your head, you should not be ashamed. I am a not a priest, I am a doctor, my attitude is anthropological, and besides, when I was young… well, that’s enough of that. Suffice it to say that I am not prepared to be a hypocrite or affect a sudden and amenable amnesia. But this gives us even more problems, does it not? When we are mad, we lose control of ourselves. We become driven. This is why our forefathers chose to control the natural madness of the young by tarrying it with shame. This is why in some places they still hang out the blotted sheet on the bridal morning. I saw on in Assos last week when I was called to that broken arm, remember? If we were not made ashamed of this beautiful thing then we would do nothing else. We would not work, we would be inundated with babies, and because of this there would be no civilization. In short we would still be in the caves, mating relentlessly and without discrimination. If we had not reserved a time and place, we would be living like dogs, and life would possess little beauty or peace...” Current Mood: bleh.bleh.bleh. Current Music: Ultimate Kylie CD (Comment on this)
Friday, January 7th, 2005
10:17 am	i love, love, love Cary! how can i not love you, you wonderful, wonderful man? Cary rocks! hail to you, o Wise One. No bullshit, please! Guys: If you're breaking up with me, don't say, "Let's keep in touch." - - - - - - - - - - - - By Cary Tennis Dear Cary, I am a woman who will turn 41 in a few weeks and what I would like for my birthday is for you to use your column as a forum for one day to tell guys not to exacerbate the pain of a breakup by saying that they will see the woman or call her if they know they won't. I have had 14 intimate relationships in my adult life and the majority of them have ended with my getting dumped. (Let's not get sidetracked over why the numbers are lopsided. At my mature age, I have finally learned not to wallow in useless self-flagellation. That's what my 20s were for). Anyway, many of these dumps have included the dumper passionately claiming how much he cares about me "as a person" and how he intends to keep in touch with me in some fashion. Never happened. Not once. Once someone who had said he wanted to marry and have children with me said as part of his breakup spiel that he would like to see me from time to time because he "couldn't turn off his feelings just like that." Apparently he could. Never heard a single word from him. The lies run the gamut from the specific -- "I'll call you this weekend" -- to the more general -- "I'll talk to you soon" (which apparently means "only if we meet on the street and I absolutely cannot escape" in guy talk). The point is: Just don't say it if you know you will not follow through. We are adults here and we should all know ourselves well enough to know our capabilities and intentions (especially before mucking up someone else's life). And I don't care if this is the type of person that a man wants to be but is not. I only say, know who you are already and come clean about it. Don't project or represent -- just be. It's not fair to use another person for emotional target practice just because it makes you feel better to pretend you're the kind of guy who will take the high road rather than the guys Liz Phair sings about in "F*** and Run." And not to belabor the metaphor: You might think I have been exiled in Guyville long enough to see through it, but the bottom line is, I don't. When someone who has been inside my body looks me in the eyes (though, granted, I've had my share of ultra-weenie phone and e-mail dumpings) and says he will call me or wants to get together with me soon, I believe him. So then there is the double whammy when days, weeks or months go by and the realization sinks in. I just feel dumb, like the joke was on me. Like we were never going to have any intentional contact ever again and someone smarter or cooler would have known it all along. To the rightful inhabitants of Guyville: You cannot avoid inflicting the sting of rejection that the one being dumped will feel. But you don't have to compound the pain by making the person you just dumped feel foolish to boot. So Cary, would you please help me out? Please tell guys when they get ready to break up, if they are leaning toward gilding the lily to make themselves come off as a nicer guy, just don't. Please, just don't. Tired of Guyville Dear Tired, You said it all right there. The only thing I could add would be some suggestions for guys about actual wording. Be definite and final. Don't bullshit. As this woman's eloquent letter indicates, the bullshit isn't soothing, it's insulting. Just let the facts be: I'm sorry, but this is over. It's sad, but this has to end. Goodbye, I won't be seeing you anymore, please don't tell your girlfriends about my small dick. May I also add a note to you, dear? I know you don't want to dwell on the past, and you don't care that those weasel words are just there to make the guys feel better, but if the same thing is happening to you over and over, that's got to be painful and troubling. I think I may know the reason this is happening. I have a feeling that you may be, like me, a person who focuses on verbal content rather than on nonverbal cues. I am a literalist. To my frequent dismay, I listen to and believe the actual words that come out of people's mouths. I often have to ask my wife what they were actually saying. I have had to learn the hard way that many, perhaps most, people do not use words for their dictionary meaning at all. They use them more like gestures in an elaborate dance, to convey an ineffable and pleasing message that may be internally contradictory but is emotionally true to them. If they were to actually put it into words it would sound like this: "I'm breaking up with you because I really like you a lot and I won't be thinking of you ever but, really, I will always love you." Or, "I really think you're ugly and boring but, baby, I really think you're super hot!" Or "I really do love you but for some reason at the same time I don't care about you at all." Obviously, you can't say that out loud because it sounds like your brain isn't working right. There's too much cognitive dissonance. Language is like fingerprint powder: It shows what's hidden. I'm not telling you anything you don't know. But here's the thing: You need to stop letting this happen. Not all men do this. You are probably a thinking type who has been going out with feeling types. They are addressing your feelings but you're hearing with your brain. If you are attracted to men who are "warm and kind," try instead dating men who are "cold and uncaring." I don't mean really cold and uncaring. I just mean in outward presentation. Look for a man who isn't smooth, who isn't easygoing, who isn't all over the map emotionally. Stay away from musicians and salesmen. Look for men in analytical occupations, either abstract or concrete: lawyers, engineers, carpenters, mechanics. Trade a little excitement for a little transparency and consistency. Find a stubborn, unstylish man who knows what he thinks and doesn't give two shits about how he's perceived: Green Party members, Cubs fans, racers of recumbent bicycles. Birkenstocks may look dumb, but men who wear them have a strong inner sense of who they are and what is right, and they'll try to tell you the truth. It might be refreshing. Also look for men who care about people but must also make tough decisions and deal with the unvarnished truth: social workers, drug counselors, probation officers. And, as I said, stay away from salesmen and musicians. Current Mood: misanthropic Current Music: the ominous chanting of my inner Greek chorus (Comment on this)
Thursday, January 6th, 2005
5:32 pm	whatever you want to make out of this according to the I-Ching definition, a "superior man" is a paradigm of what a philosopher should be: someone who's devoted his life to both the study and the practice of his chosen field. i wonder what the I-Ching's definition of a "superior woman" is... if such a tradition is expansive enough to include such a concept, that is. why does the world seem to demand so little yet so much of women? let me ask the weatherman. maybe he might know. wait, shouldn't i ask a weatherwoman instead? whatever. rain is rain, isn't it, no matter where it falls? Current Mood: fierce.very. Current Music: the vicious churning of the sea inside me (Comment on this)
Saturday, December 4th, 2004
1:52 pm	poetry, part three People Hide Their Love Emperor Wu-Ti (translated from the Chinese by Arthur Waley) Who says that it’s by my desire, This separation, this living so far from you? My dress still smells of perfume that you wore; My hand still holds the letter that you sent. Round my waist I wear a double sash; I dream that it binds us with the same-heart knot. Did you know that people hide their love, Like a flower that seems too precious to be picked? Current Mood: full (Comment on this)
Thursday, December 2nd, 2004
11:34 am	songs, part one Fields of Gold performed by Sting You'll remember me when the west wind moves Upon the fields of barley You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky As we walk in fields of gold So she took her love, for to gaze awhile Upon the fields of barley In his arms she fell as her hair came down Among the fields of gold Will you stay with me, will you be my love Among the fields of barley We'll forget the sun in his jealous sky As we lie in fields of gold See the west wind move like a lover so Upon the fields of barley Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth Among the fields of gold I never made promises lightly And there have been some that I've broken But I swear in the days still left We'll walk in fields of gold We'll walk in fields of gold Many years have passed since those summer days Among the fields of barley See the children run as the sun goes down Among the fields of gold You'll remember me when the west wind moves Upon the fields of barley You can tell the sun in his jealous sky When we walked in fields of gold Current Mood: happy Current Music: Sade's "This Is No Ordinary Love" (Comment on this)
Wednesday, December 1st, 2004
1:16 pm	poetry, part deux i carry your heart with me(i carry it in e.e. cummings i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) Current Mood: blah Current Music: Tracy Chapman's Fast Car (Comment on this)
Thursday, October 28th, 2004
12:00 pm	poetry Prayer Franz Arcellana (1939) Close all open things, Lord. Open all closed things. All those who have long received, let them give. All those who have long given, let them receive. All those too long apart, let them come together. All those too long together, sunder them. Let the wise be fools for once, Lord. And let the fools speak their minds. Affirm the long-denied, Lord. Fulfill the unfulfilled. Current Mood: incandescent Current Music: the thump-thump of my delirious heart (Comment on this)
Thursday, September 30th, 2004
5:13 pm	i love Cary i adore Cary Tennis. he's one of the reasons why i'm eternally, unrepetantly, orgasmically addicted to Salon.com. he's my life guru, my love meister, logic trickster... he's the man! whenever i feel like crap, i always go through the folder i've created containing my favorite columns of his. they always manage to help me regain my balance, laugh out loud and come to my senses, especially when i'm in one of my bitchy/nasty/whiny moods. he can be so tender, passionate and sagacious, especially when he's dealing with the follies of the lovelorn and the travails of lost. but he can also be caustic and brutal, especially at the petulant shallowness of the self-absorbed and the ignorant self-righteousness of the misinformed. my day is never complete without him. you have no idea how lost and bereft i feel every time he goes on a break from writing his Since You Asked column. here's a sampling of his wonderful wisdom so you know that i'm not exaggerating: Body heat Can men become attracted to women who aren't their physical ideal? - - - - - - - - - - - - By Cary Tennis Dear Cary, I'm a female graduate student in my early 20s. A couple of months ago I met someone amazing -- let's call him Peter. He's smart, sweet, artistic, funny. We have amazing emotional chemistry. But in the first days of our acquaintance, Peter made a comment to the effect that he's most attracted to slender women. And while I'm not overweight, I know my body isn't the type he prefers. I know that attraction is mutable, but I can't get the remark out of my head. I've always been irrationally self-conscious about my body, but I've never questioned my ability to attract men. Now I'm confused: How serious are Peter's ideals? Does my curvier body eliminate me from consideration as a romantic prospect? Or is this just a preference that could be overridden by the right woman -- maybe me? Peter and I see each other every day; we work at adjacent desks and spend hours talking. Sometimes I feel an overwhelming affection for him; other times I am angry and disappointed that he doesn't -- or can't -- see me the way I see him. Sometimes I think he must, and I know that if it weren't for this one remark there'd be little doubt in my mind. But I'm afraid to give any concrete indication of my feelings. I'm worried he'll reject me in some way I can't bear, and that I'll have to continue to see him constantly. Or that he won't reject me, that things will progress and it will make our working situation difficult. Or that I won't be able to get past my body issues. I've considered turning my schedule upside down to avoid him, but that seems defeatist. I've thought of writing him a letter, or asking him on a date, or waiting for the right moment and then just kissing him. But I'm not used to being that aggressive, and I'm afraid to disturb our friendship. Can men become attracted to women who are not their physical ideal? Can a relationship between close colleagues work? How soon is too soon to make my feelings known, and how late is too late? Stymied Dear Stymied, That's a lot of questions for one advice guy. Lemme see what I can do for you. First off, if men knew how deeply rooted women's insecurities about their bodies are, and if they understood the political complications of it -- how our dominion is served by your insecurity, the whole deep historic psychological domination of women, our sick splitness, our divided mothering, our gun thing, our brittle coldness, how we dream of Andrea Dworkin in a Miss America swimsuit darkening our picture tubes, how feminism saved many men from eating their own flesh, if men understood how bloody their wishes really are and how much they frighten the children and horses not to mention the women, if men knew the kind of gulag they've created ... but I'm babbling like a fool. What I'm saying in plain language is that yes, body image is a big deal, and it helps to have some political and psychological grounding for understanding why you're so afraid of revealing yourself and of being judged. The whole male gaze thing. Screw it. Take up arms against it. It's your gulag. But feminism will get you nowhwere if you pretend you're living in a world of ideas. You're living in a world of men's bodies. It's our bodies and their responses to your body that fill you with doubt. So how do you get from a man's mental picture of a 17-year-old cheerleader with thin hips and pointy tits kicking her leg high in the air after a touchdown to your screaming night as a bucking bronco under this cowboy at the next desk? I don't think it's about waiting for him to superimpose his mental picture of the cheerleader over your face. You have to break through his billboard and wake him up. There is a place where men and women meet that is so deep there are no billboards anymore, there is just the desert sky and a scary howling that you're not even sure is coming from you or him, it's so animal. Yes, many men get hard over skinny hips and big tits. Big deal. What you're after is the ideal, where physical love becomes this transcendent thing, where a man is really loving the woman. Yes, her body, but not just her body, in her body but not just in her body, the woman but not just the woman -- the hair, the eyes, the sweat, the fold of flesh, the memories, the voice, the idea of her, the person she is, the things they've done, the wounds they've given, the food they've eaten, the walks they've taken, like falling to their deaths the whole thing flashes before them, and that's the ultimate thing, that's where in that moment it would be so silly for him to think, gee, I wish she weighed 3 pounds less, I wish I could see her hipbones, I wish her ribs were showing, that would really turn me on. How absurd for a man in love, so enraptured with this woman that loving her is the same as loving his own life. Think how odd that would be. But then the rush always wears off and he thinks I have to pay the parking meter or whatever did happen to that one blue sock I used to like so much ... but that's after the rush wears off. Your body didn't prevent you from getting to that precious few moments near the sun. How you get there, where you are lost to the world with your soul mate, where you aren't even one person anymore exactly, but just this exploded citizen of the sun, this bell set ringing by her blow, her tap, her fist, her knock, when you're just this ancient eternal force of life with no need even for an ego, who needs an ego when you're already eternal, you've kicked off the shoes, you're a barefoot corpse laughing at the autopsy, you're there, you've arrived in your sweetie's arms and that's where you're staying even when they wheel you back into your dark little chamber. Where am I going with this? What am I saying? I'm saying that the mystery of attraction lies not in a visit to the Size 5-7-9 Shop. There's something overwhelming out there and it's not about your measurements. It's waiting for you. He might have it in his house, who knows? It might be lying in his heart just waiting for you. It might be hidden in an ironic laugh and a plate of spaghetti. There might be a ring involved. There might be a ceremony with lots of white. Or there might be a drunken misunderstanding, a walk through a storm, tears washing down your face with the rain. But it's not about the length of your femur and your percentage of body fat. It's about this thing that happens between people when they lose themselves. Life is short. Maybe he's the one. Get some courage. Shake him up. If he likes you and he's not doing anything about it, maybe he's sleepwalking. Take his book away and see if he wakes up. Put a plate of food in front of him and see if he eats. Roll him over and scratch his belly. Find out what gives. Current Mood: bitchy Current Music: the morose imps dancing a gloomy dance around me (Comment on this)
1:32 pm	when you're feeling nasty and mean... Tread Softly W.B. Yeats Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet, Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. Current Mood: cranky Current Music: the squawking of the vultures circling over my head (Comment on this)
Tuesday, June 15th, 2004
3:03 am	following the paper trail i spent the past few hours helping my sister cut pieces of paper money for a class project. it was a very soothing exercise: first, i folded the short bond papers in half, lengthwise. next, i folded the excess on the sides to make perfect rectangular bills. then, armed with a hefty orange cutter, i sliced and slashed through the papers till i had a neat pile of home-made currency. i love paper. i love the scratchy rustling sound it makes as it brushes against anything. i love the pulpy-inky smell it emits. i love the sharp tearing hiss that ensues when i cut it up. most of all, i love running my palm down its surface, be it grainy or waxy. my favorite back-to-school activity, aside from devouring all the literature books even before classes begun, was to shop for paper. i would not let my mother rest until i found the notebooks and pad papers that would best facilitate writing. it drove her crazy. i drove -- and still drive -- her crazy. my grandfather has an aluminum and glass shop, and he always has an abundance of paper for wrapping his materials. when i was a kid, he would always give me all the extras, and i would happily fetch my pencils, pens and crayons and i would contentedly draw houses with chimneys, attics, mailboxes, trees, flowers and of course, a sun peeking out of a fat, curly cloud. other times, i would write nonsense, stringing together all the new words i learned. but when i was feeling more challenged than usual, i would fetch my grandmother's rusty but trusty steel scissors so i can make my paper cut-outs. i never learned to make those hand-in-hand doll figures, but i had my own creation. i would fold and cut a huge piece of paper into a square. then i would fold the square two more times to create a triangle. taking the scissors and i would carve out various shapes -- zig-zags, circles, squares, hearts, cones, trapezoids, squiggles, thunderbolts. i wielded those scissors till there was no more space left to work on, till the fleshy wing between my pointer finger and thumb became red and indented with a half-O mark. when i was through with my efforts, i would unfold my triangle back its original square. but it was not really a square anymore, instead, it was like a web. or rather, my kooky idea of a web. but instead of just boring lines, i would have all these cheerful, jagged shapes arranged in such harmonious chaos constituting my "web." i bet not even spiderman could have done this. i started with blank newsprint as my main material. then i had a notion to color the paper first in a spectrum of hues before cutting it. however, not only did the wax from the crayon make the paper too stiff for easy cutting, but it also got smeared on my fingers, making it harder for me to maneuver the scissors. but then i discovered art paper. oh, paper that was smooth and already colored by itself! bliss. the last time i made one of my webs was in high school. i used a sheet i tore off from my lined notebook. i noticed that i tacked on the inside of my closet door. it's been stuck there for around 12 years. and i can't even remember why i kept that. but i can't ever forget how many quietly joyful hours i spent with just some paper, a pair of scissors and my imagination. simple pleasures are often the loveliest kind of delight. Current Mood: chipper Current Music: Dido's White Flag (Comment on this)
Tuesday, June 1st, 2004
3:59 am	love of words, words of love i can't get enough of David Thomson. i really can't! he's a british film critic and, along with the incomparable Pauline Kael, he is my inspiration, my idol, my immortal. such mesmerizing command of words, such sensuous layers of meaning, such hypnotic textures of possibilities... the man is a marvel, a gift, and most importantly, a lover, because only a lover can write with such impassioned conviction, such fervent awe-fear, such tender breadth of knowledge. all right, i'm babbling again. but here's proof of why i'm incoherent with admiration. read on and you'll know why. and you'll probably join me in my stupefied state of euphoria. why on earth is there a shortage of people who know how to talk... with curiosity, humor, wit and kindness? it seems that most of us have forgotten how much words can nourish our souls and feed our emotions. dang! i know i'm done for if i meet someone who talks to me as if he has loved me all his life. there's nothing like a heartfelt and elegant turn of phrase (no empty and clumsy compliments, please) to make my senses sing, to heighten every nuance of my existence. truth combined with wit always works -- the right words uttered at the right time can spell the difference between a moment and a regret. a part of me can't wait to meet this present that Fate will surely send my way, most probably when i'm not paying much attention (which happens not too often -- not if i can help it!). but a part of me is also a-flutter with dread because i know when this happens, i will be pulverized with joyful hope, all a-quiver because a dream will come true before my very eyes. i will be a goner. i just know it. Verbal embraces Marriage, or partnership, depends on how urgently and wittily people continue to talk to each other. - - - - - - - - - - - - By David Thomson Jan. 26, 2001 | What was the last movie you saw in which people fell in love because of the way they talked? I don't mean simply to each other, but the way they used words, and how that usage reflected on such things as spirit and soul, as well as knowledge and experience. I mean the saving interplay of sadness and humor; the poetic grace or fancy that can deliver a compliment better than a caress. I mean an essential tenderness toward the cadence and sound of language -- let syntax look after itself sometimes. Much as, early on in a relationship, we might only want to make love to and with the other person, surely words will have their hour and their lifetime. Marriage, I suggest, or partnership, depends on how urgently and wittily people continue to talk to each other. It is, if you like, the difference between saying (in the middle of a night or the middle of a relationship), "The field marshal sometimes forgets what he wanted to say when standing at attention," and facing the blunt bathroom wall advertisement "9 inches of hot metal. Fucks forever." And I think I'm correct in saying that what gets most of us around the bases isn't mere attraction or sexual urge. It's the talk that makes a path, the feeble jokes, the better one; all couples need to learn humor. I am hesitant in raising education, but even "9 inches" will never face a greater need for schooling than finding ways to woo, or finding arguments to open some intransigent entrance. (Just call him or her "an intransigent entrance" -- it's so unexpected -- and you may be halfway home.) I don't guarantee it, but the thing most people are most denied in life is not actually sex or orgasm -- we help ourselves. It's being well talked to, in a way that persuades you the other person wants to know you. Never forget the second word in "carnal knowledge." I mean, it's like "Come on, Flopsy," which I saw and heard last night on television, and which seemed to me a beautiful, amorous, erotic line. No, as it happens, it didn't come from one of the great screwball comedies of the '30s and '40s, those films where men and women fenced in sentences, gently, pointedly, never actually saying "fuck," but pursuing the innate playfulness of talk. Sometimes the first "embrace" is talking on top of what someone else says -- by that measure, His Girl Friday is all wrestling. No, this is a more recent film, and film buffs may even scold me when I admit what it was. But watching it again last night, I saw how thoroughly it believed in the odd things people actually say -- the care, the politeness, the sympathy with which they choose words for other nervous creatures to hear and understand. She says, "Come on, Flopsy" to him one night in a deserted London. They are an odd couple, yet talk has cleared away awkwardness. He is a failure, she's not, so to speak, and she has learned that he was called "Flopsy" at school. Not very masculine. And as they find a lovely, enclosed park, he is too shy or timid to climb over. Until she goes first and then tosses the line back over her shoulder, "Come on, Flopsy," and he is there beside her. They will make love later. The line has allowed it: its intimacy, its laughing away of crass labels, its promise of ease to come. And, yes, of course, "Come on" is not exactly deflating. It's Notting Hill, with Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant. If you give the whole film a chance, and forgive the flagrantly idyllic ending, it's about grown-ups trying to be more grown-up. I watched it with my son, an American, and he noticed, "English people tease each other a lot." "Yes," I said, "it's a sign of affection." Come on, Flopsy. A man might sail around the world with that encouragement. Current Mood: amused Current Music: George Michael's "I Can't Make You Love Me" (Comment on this)
Saturday, May 29th, 2004
7:40 pm	you said it, GBS! from that erudite Irish charmer and 1925 Nobel Prize winner for Literature, George Bernard Shaw (who hated the name "George," by the way): "People are always blaming their circumstances for what they are. I don't believe in circumstances. The people who get on in this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they want, and if they can't find them, they make them." and that, my friends, is truly the triumph of character over circumstance. Current Mood: hungry Current Music: funfunfun dialogue from "7th Heaven" (Comment on this)
Thursday, May 20th, 2004
6:35 pm	*sigh* from the Korean movie, My Sassy Girl: fate is building a bridge of chance for someone you love. *sigh* Current Mood: chipper Current Music: Boy Meets Girl's "Waiting for a Star to Fall" (Comment on this)
Tuesday, May 18th, 2004
4:27 am	you make me feel like a natural... since saturday, i've been delirious with a natural high. don't ask me where i got it from. for someone who will be jobless in the foreseeable future, you'd think i'd be in the blackest pit of despair. oh no. instead, i'm disgustingly jolly. friends who have been feeling blah and bleak don't know if they're going to hit me or kiss me because of the unadulterated good vibes i've been sending them. sometimes, i really wonder about my supposed sanity. just today, i was dancing in my office. alone. what can i say? i'm a sucker for danceable beats. play a song that's meant to be danced and i'm there with you, darlin’. doesn't matter if i usually commit murder on the dance floor (thank you, Ms. Sophie Ellis-Bextor) instead of gracing it with fluid movements. doesn't matter if the only dance steps i know will probably condemn any dance teacher worth her shoes to the lowest level of hell. doesn't matter if i probably look like a headless chicken awkwardly sashaying all over the place. i'm gonna dance, dammit, and the finicky be damned. sit on the sidelines if you wish. i ain't sitting this set – or any set – out. i find Wild Cherry's Play That Funky Music irresistible. and that was what the player was playin' when i stood up from my chair, locked the door, sealed all the blinds. then, i just closed my eyes and worked it, baby. i swear, every time that song is played, anywhere, you can bet that i will be moving in rhythm to it. there is no force on this universe that can stop me from following its beat, whether with my whole body, my fingers, my feet... i'm hopeless. when i'm possessed by the music, i just have to move. i can't NOT move. it seems like an insult to the song if you don't give it proper homage via dance, regardless of skill (or lack thereof). i may not have the moves, but i got rhythm, honey. when the song was over, i collapsed on my blue chair (dang, i love how comfy and welcoming that chair is!) to catch my breath. that felt oh-so-wonderful. after a while, i stood up. unlocked the door and adjusted the blinds. afterwards, i couldn't stop grinning the rest of the day. i grinned at the door. i grinned at the computer screen. i grinned at the maintenance crew. i grinned at my own reflection in my pocket mirror. cuh-ray-zee. that's what i am. and i sang along with every song that blared out of the player. in particular, Gabrielle's Sunshine just brought out the closet chanteuse in me. sunshine through my window/that's what you are/my shining star/making me feel/i'm on top of the world/telling me i'll go far.... i don't know if i need help or if i need to find a new job, pronto. but dang, i feel deliciously, wickedly G-O-O-D. Current Mood: mischievous Current Music: Ric Segreto's "Loving You" (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, May 13th, 2004
5:25 pm	schweepyhead i'm tapping at the keys with my head pillowed on my right shoulder and my legs crossed. i feel sooooo sleepy. but i don't want to sleep. i'm so perverse. i just polished off a glass of tongue-bursting strawberry ice cream. it clung to the spoon with such gooey richness, i could not help but relish scraping it off with my tongue. damn. that was some good ice cream. i was reading something on the screen so i placed the glass of ice cream on my lap for a moment. then i had a vision of throwing it to the floor. the glass would shatter and amidst the blush-pink clumps of creamy pleasure, shards of spiky glass would lay hiding. i saw myself stomping my bare foot on the inviting mess, and i wondered how i would feel. pain? stickiness? bliss? see? perverse. sheesh. where do i get these ideas? this is what happens when i don't have sensible, practical details to hold my attention and require my efforts. my thoughts would always stray to some surreal alternate universe of my own making. it would be all too easy for me to become a permanent resident of this constructed realm, walking around in a mist of lurid and lush imaginings. a month ago, after going on a 30-hour writing marathon (i had to finish a final paper for my very last MA class), i had to dash off to Manila to go to work. i got into the train and sat down gratefully. i needed to anchor myself onto something solid because i felt so weak, i would not have been surprised if i fell into the rails accidentally. when the train started to move, i closed my eyes. bursts of light in iridescent hues of red, yellow, blue and green danced behind my eyelids in erratic, hypnotic motions. startled, i opened my eyes. instead of seeing normal human faces before me, distorted, monstrous countenances threatened to devour me alive. i blinked and shook my head. neon-green balls of light floated before me. jeez. i closed my eyes again and forced myself to nap. conjuring up malevolent faces while i was awake could not be good. pushing myself to the limits is the norm for me; i wouldn't be me if i did not persistently resist being boxed in. never let the definer define you, even if the definer is yourself, i always say. but dang, this was ridiculous. i'm really nuts. maybe i should try to get some sleep. and maybe when i wake up, i won't be preoccupied or caught up in the fragments of recollection from the adventures of my subconscious. yeah, fat chance. i rarely DON'T dream; and i usually remember snatches of whatever haze i was in as soon as i wake up. dagnabit, i'm seriously demented. oi. Current Mood: sleepy Current Music: dialogue from some show on the Discovery Channel (Comment on this)
Tuesday, May 11th, 2004
3:23 am	gone exploring after years of telling myself that i didn't have the time to spare for something a tad too frivolous, though immensely pleasurable, i finally did it again. i'm talking about walking in the rain. last saturday morning, i woke up at around 8 a.m. wonder of wonders, i had nothing to do that day. no paper to finish writing. no work deadline to beat. no masters' class to rush to. no lunch/coffee date to show up for. no distraught "son" or "daughter" of mine who needed counseling or wanted company. nada. zip. zilch... that was what i had scheduled for that day. it was weird, believe me. as soon as i got up from my bed, i was itching to find something to DO. i texted two of my closest friends, Moonbeam and Lucrezia, to ask them if they'd be interested in hanging out with me. unbelievably, they were both sick. recently, we've been all stressed out because of work and our personal lives. no wonder we all came down with some sort of bug. of course, they're both still trying to get well while i was more restless than ever. as Moonbeam would say, "forever gala!" ugh. story of my life. because i could not bear the idea of spending the entire day in the house thinking of something to do, i decided to go downtown. walk around the city. look at stuff in the ukay-ukay stores. eat somewhere i haven't eaten in before. i was going exploring on my own... something i haven't done in a while. whoopee-do! i took a long, cold shower that did not really help beat the scorching heat of this summer. got dressed in a baby blue tee and white-and-teal blue striped pants... they were comfy and easy on the body. moussed my hair, put on some make-up and checked on my sick friends via text messaging… then the idea of making this blog possessed me. oh yeah! oh boy! oh wow! finally! something that got my creative juices bubbling! planted my butt in front of the computer screen and got myself a new blog. tinkered with the tools available to come up with this design... of course my paramount concern was the color combination. before i knew it, two hours had passed. it was getting late in the afternoon. i decided that i'd done enough tweaking, i was going out. my feet were begging to walk. so i took the tricycle, rode the train and got off at Libertad. made the rounds of the ukay-ukays... not much stuff that made me go, "oooohhh..." but in the last store on that street, i found a silk dress with a lace bodice that made go, "ooohhh lalala!" its color was copper that had a peachy-pinkish hue and it felt oh-so-lovely. and it was very, very affordable (did not even cost me 200 pesos). so of course, being the irrepressible and hopeless consumer that i am, i took it home. so much for living frugally for the coming months. i already did the budgeting in my head so i'd have an idea on how to live on the money i've saved up for the remainder of the year, since i won't have much (if any) income at all. still, i went ahead and got that frock. oi, sometimes, i marvel at myself at how i’m able to indulge my whims and still have money in the bank. maybe i am crazy. no, i KNOW i'm insane. as i was walking out of the store, i received a text message from my mother, asking me to pass by the church where they were hearing mass. mentally, i calculated the time it would take for me to get there after having a really, really late lunch. i figured i would have enough time. as i glanced at my watch, lo and behold, a fat droplet of rain splashed onto my face... it started raining. whee! i ran to the train station and got into one of the cars. when i got off at Carriedo, it was POURING! brilliant genius that i am, i did not have an umbrella with me because i wanted to travel light. so i ended up running and skipping in the rain, my head protected by the plastic bag with the dress in it. i was carrying a paperback novel – John lé Carre's The Little Drummer Girl and yes, it got hit by droplets of rain. i sprinted towards a building where other people took shelter from the downpour. after a few minutes though, my hunger got the better of me. i made a dash for the nearest restaurant – Pizza Hut in Escolta. and man, memories came rushing back. the last time i reveled under a rain shower was in college. we were on a field trip in UP Los Baños for our anthropology class. we were hiking and out of nowhere, we were pelted with sheets of relentless rain! that was fantastic! oh god, it was astoundingly refreshing! i had to stop myself from dancing around, lest my classmates thought i belonged in the loony bin. walking in the rain always reminds me of the taxicab-yellow raincoats we used to wear in high school. i was a CAT officer and in our school, part of my duties was to take charge of the traffic situation in our area. every time my task force and i would be out there, regulating buses and cars and pedestrians in the street under the rain, i always made sure that everyone was supplied with a raincoat. but i, of course, went without one. my fellow officers and guy friends would always insist that i wear a raincoat but i stubbornly refused. i liked having my hair soaked in rainwater. i liked having droplets trickle down my cheek and neck. i like having beads of water quivering in my eyelashes. having squishy shoes and smelly socks was another story, though. eew. i slipped inside Pizza Hut and sequestered the nearest booth. before i even sat down, i already knew what i wanted to eat. mushroom soup pie... nothing like having steaming hot soup to warm you up. spaghetti with meat balls... nothing like pasta to appease your ravenous appetite. i looked down at myself and shook my head ruefully: my pants were splattered with dots and splats and streaks of mud. hoo-wee. why is it that whenever i choose to wear light-colored pants, something always happens to ruin its pristine crispness? i set my book on the table and i was strangely fascinated by its state. most paperbacks are printed on paper that's quite thin. and because my book got wet, its shape was slightly distorted. i turned over the book in my hands and i wondered at what i was thinking. i have been reading this book for days now and good grief, one would never get the idea that it was brand-new when i got it. not only was its cover dog-eared and faded in corners, it had scratch marks and folded pages. egads! the obsessive-compulsive in me was appalled. seriously. i'm a bibliophile. i adore books. i love their scent, texture, shape, volume. whenever i get a new book, especially the hardbound ones, i always give its pages a quick shuffle, so i could inhale its unique aroma of paper and glue and ink. i couldn't believe how careless i've been with the lé Carre book. ugh, i'm turning into a degenerate. the waiter said i'd have to wait 15 minutes for the food. i got a tissue paper to wipe my feet and legs clean. then i washed my hands, dried them and flipped open the book to read. i got caught up in the spy vs. spy drama of the plot, got sucked into the vortex of the setting that was 1980s London. somewhere in the paragraph, lé Carre mentions Hertz Rent-a-Car. and just like that, another childhood memory flashed before me. when i was in grade school, i would always pass by a Hertz Rent-a-Car outlet on my way home. i remember asking my father to go there to rent one of those cars so we can go for a drive. i wanted to know what it would be like to ride on a car that wasn't yours; i wanted to experience returning it to the owners. i was always worried about how the renters would go home, since they don't have a car anymore. my father laughed at this and shook his head. he couldn't figure out if i was being outrageous or silly. yeah, yeah, so i was a precocious kid. sue me. finally, my meal arrived. i set aside lé Carre and attacked the soup. oh what bliss it was to have something warm and savory after hours of walking! hmmmmm... yumyumyum. i glanced around the place and as the two women who were seated in the booth next to mine left, i realized that i was the lone diner. wow. that was odd... and fun, in a certain nerdy way. (by the way, when all this was running through my head, i was already thinking what a great blog entry this would be. wahoo. talk about being a n-e-r-d.) people always ask me how i can eat alone. or shop alone. or watch the movies or plays alone. i find this question slightly weird... don't people do these things? a guy friend told me that he found my habits unusual for a girl because he doesn't know any female of his acquaintance who would be caught dead dining in a restaurant alone. i didn't know if i was going to be flattered or annoyed by his quip. (i did secretly wonder, though, at the kinds of girls or women he knows.) it certainly made me think how strong my hermit streak can be. after years of introspection, i realized that though i thoroughly enjoy being with people, i need time to be alone. to just be by myself –- just me and my shadow. lately, i find that i need to do this more often because i have to listen to my inner self, to get far away from the demands and agendas of others so i can truly address my emotions and wants and needs. can't do that if you're lost in the din of the maddening crowd around you, can you? another thing is that i get my best creative ideas when i'm wool-gathering or lost in thought. there are instances when i'm in the FX or jeep or in the family car and i'd bolt upright from my seat and start nodding my head. my lips would curl up in a self-satisfied smile and my entire body would take on a "i'm-so-excited-and-i-just-can't-hide-it" vibe. to me, those are moments of inspirational breakthrough. to other people, i must have looked like a kooky epileptic about to have a seizure. or a grinning fanatic gripped by an ecstatic religious vision. nuts, that's what i am. after i finished eating, i started walking again. it had gotten dark already; it was early evening. i love walking around after it rains. there's that distinct smell that pervades the air and it always reminds me of all those rainy afternoons in my grandparents’ house in Tondo. it's a very old two-storey apartment built in the 50s. it has peeling walls, a rickety staircase and filthy rats as big as malnourished kittens with ropy tails. but dang, that house holds some of the most wonderful and unforgettable memories of my life. for my Amah, rainy afternoons meant baked goodies, since everyone would be cooped up inside with nuthin’ to do. so while the storm raged on outside, we would be all gathered in the kitchen, watching her knead dough, whip eggs and work her magic. then when everything was done, we would bring out the plates and utensils and sit down in the dining room. she would place the cake or pie or pizza or whatever culinary delight she had prepared for us on the lazy susan in a rather theatrical gesture. i would always lean forward to inhale a whiff of the tantalizing smell of freshly-made food. then i would lean back in my seat, close my eyes and smile in anticipation. there's nothing on earth that's as satisfying as simple, home-cooked meals. oh man, even when i was little, i could not resist food. because of the rain, i was not able to meet my parents in church. instead, i proceeded to their office, which is next to my grandparents' apartment. i weaved my way through the crowd that was all around Divisoria and tiptoed through the mud that clung to my mules. oi, talk about wrong choice of shoes. when i finally got to Tondo, i was exhausted. i felt so sweaty and sticky and my clothes clung to me. forget about the passion flower perfume that i spritzed myself with -- from the way i smelled, it was obvious that i did not spend the day in an air-conditioned environment. but the weariness the crept inside my bones was a good kind of tired. i felt marvelous. i raced up the stairs, kissed my parents' cheeks and plopped down a chair. i took a deep breath, smiled, closed my eyes and leaned back. that was a very good afternoon to go exploring. Current Mood: rejuvenated Current Music: the ticking of my brother's blue alarm clock... tick-tock! (Comment on this)
Sunday, May 9th, 2004
1:05 pm	what to do, what to do... oh.my.god. i'm blogging. again. after almost a year of not writing anything in this blog (methinks "woeful" is an apt adjective for this, since i neglected it for almost a year), i'm back! yes, it is quite obvious that i have plenty of time and in my hands and i just need to do something to keep me occupied lest i jump off the nearest cliff. egads, save the world from hyperactive, uber-reactive and over-dramatic gypsies like me! Current Mood: crazy Current Music: the thumping of my heart as it slams against my ribs (1 Comment |Comment on this)