Monthly Archives: September 2009

Give me an attic.

Give me an attic and I will fill it into bursting with dreams. All assortment, permutation, swatches and textures of dreams. Childish dreams of cotton candy, marbled balloons and rubbery gums punctuated with maternal agonies of domestic scatter — broken limbs of a tearful sister’s dolls, building blocks, bricks, toy guns, wooden ponies, dog eared storybooks and torn kites — yes, remember those incredibly cheery kites, which can now only drift in pleasant daze in recollection of tangled flights.

Somewhere by the far corner I’ll stack habitual dreams — reveries of sand and water, unbounded trek and exploit, a horseback ride down a slope pillared with pines and peppered by crisp morning air, a teasing hammock under a fertile mango tree on a blistering summer afternoon — while vulnerably drowned in crude trappings of demanding paperclips, insolent keyboards, rebellious shredders, invasive phone shrieks and oppressive fluorescents.

Its walls will be papered with ambitious dreams: delusions and aspirations — grandeur, magnitude and infinity inhabited and claimed only by the most restless of imagination-precious crops only the most determined of passions can defy to harvest. Vision will be varnished on swathed canvasses — brave testament of the lushness of creative impulses that shall transcend the triviality of the bearer.

There will be unlocked chests on the left to store unpleasant dreams: aches, frustrations, disillusionments and the constant ally and shaper of wisdom and understanding — the state of brokenness. The key will not be thrown into rivers, lakes or ponds but best kept at hand, for that throbbing moment of bittersweet nostalgia when you lift the lid and peek inside as if to greet a vaguely-familiar wounded friend.

Neatly piled on the sharp angle where two walls wed, allow me to assemble thirsty dreams and longings — anchored arms orbiting a torso, legs twined around hips, a gentle pull or warm nestle in the unholy hours between sunsets and the first of rooster crows-gentle geometries of tenderness buried for a moment in sheets and pillows, stirred by rhythms of breathing and discreet half-whispers in celebration of a genial sleep.

The windowsills will be book-ended with unwelcome dreams — nightmares and melancholy — goodbyes lumped in throats, pickled emotions as stale as grandmother’s yellowed prescriptions, polite conversations and insufferable silences, a white coffin being lowered in verdant greens, watching misery flicker in the eye of someone who laughs the loudest.

There will be no rugs in the attic, for they hide the quivering hopefulness of the wooden floorboards. Hopefulness is a dream, too, and it would be such rude prejudice to shroud its modest dignity with discounted shoddy linoleum. In this hopefulness I would rather lay motionless, eyes shut, draining the coldness of the wood who kiss the delicate strands at the back of my neck. Or, sometimes, in this intentionally frozen stillness my eyes would flutter open and carry on it’s enduring romance with the ceiling, draining the circus in my head into a delicious infinity of empty bliss and innocence.

Wistfulness, wishful thinking, they will sit languidly in an absent couch like twins forever ensnared in umbilical inheritance, bound by reciprocation and hereditary accidents; for they are compulsory dreams too — for it is in their honor created abundant beauty to be desired, beauty gifted with wings to pursue their special soul mates and muses.

This will be my private attic, a concealed room.

As an imperative I want it hidden for selfish reasons. Once in a while, out of confidence or fondness I’d invite another spirit to lie down in it’s naked floors, to soak up the shivering radiance of its apologetic flaws (and concealed spells, if I may speak in escalating conceit). Yet the probable sweet embrace or impromptu departure of an invited guest is a dreadful ambivalence that inhibits even the most fervent concierge to fling the doors open and welcome the flood of intrusions to leave an awkward trail drenched with loam, mud and woe.

The choice remains as they always were and always will: suspend your dreams in a visible pulpit and hazard an ache; unsympathetically revel in the exquisite margins of a garret smeared of beauty and anonymous tales and forever injure yourself with deficiency and want.

Or in the attic of sadness quietly spread your wings.

Give me an attic and I will fill it into bursting with dreams. All assortment, permutation, swatches and textures of dreams. Childish dreams of cotton candy, marbled balloons and rubbery gums punctuated with maternal agonies of domestic scatter — broken limbs of a tearful sister’s dolls, building blocks, bricks, toy guns, wooden ponies, dog eared storybooks and torn kites — yes, remember those incredibly cheery kites, which can now only drift in pleasant daze in recollection of tangled flights.

Somewhere by the far corner I’ll stack habitual dreams — reveries of sand and water, unbounded trek and exploit, a horseback ride down a slope pillared with pines and peppered by crisp morning air, a teasing hammock under a fertile mango tree on a blistering summer afternoon — while vulnerably drowned in crude trappings of demanding paperclips, insolent keyboards, rebellious shredders, invasive phone shrieks and oppressive fluorescents.

Its walls will be papered with ambitious dreams: delusions and aspirations — grandeur, magnitude and infinity inhabited and claimed only by the most restless of imagination-precious crops only the most determined of passions can defy to harvest. Vision will be varnished on swathed canvasses — brave testament of the lushness of creative impulses that shall transcend the triviality of the bearer.

There will be unlocked chests on the left to store unpleasant dreams: aches, frustrations, disillusionments and the constant ally and shaper of wisdom and understanding — the state of brokenness. The key will not be thrown into rivers, lakes or ponds but best kept at hand, for that throbbing moment of bittersweet nostalgia when you lift the lid and peek inside as if to greet a vaguely-familiar wounded friend.

Neatly piled on the sharp angle where two walls wed, allow me to assemble thirsty dreams and longings — anchored arms orbiting a torso, legs twined around hips, a gentle pull or warm nestle in the unholy hours between sunsets and the first of rooster crows-gentle geometries of tenderness buried for a moment in sheets and pillows, stirred by rhythms of breathing and discreet half-whispers in celebration of a genial sleep.

The windowsills will be book-ended with unwelcome dreams — nightmares and melancholy — goodbyes lumped in throats, pickled emotions as stale as grandmother’s yellowed prescriptions, polite conversations and insufferable silences, a white coffin being lowered in verdant greens, watching misery flicker in the eye of someone who laughs the loudest.

There will be no rugs in the attic, for they hide the quivering hopefulness of the wooden floorboards. Hopefulness is a dream, too, and it would be such rude prejudice to shroud its modest dignity with discounted shoddy linoleum. In this hopefulness I would rather lay motionless, eyes shut, draining the coldness of the wood who kiss the delicate strands at the back of my neck. Or, sometimes, in this intentionally frozen stillness my eyes would flutter open and carry on it’s enduring romance with the ceiling, draining the circus in my head into a delicious infinity of empty bliss and innocence.
Wistfulness, wishful thinking, they will sit languidly in an absent couch like twins forever ensnared in umbilical inheritance, bound by reciprocation and hereditary accidents; for they are compulsory dreams too — for it is in their honor created abundant beauty to be desired, beauty gifted with wings to pursue their special soul mates and muses.

This will be my private attic, a concealed room.

As an imperative I want it hidden for selfish reasons. Once in a while, out of confidence or fondness I’d invite another spirit to lie down in it’s naked floors, to soak up the shivering radiance of its apologetic flaws (and concealed spells, if I may speak in escalating conceit). Yet the probable sweet embrace or impromptu departure of an invited guest is a dreadful ambivalence that inhibits even the most fervent concierge to fling the doors open and welcome the flood of intrusions to leave an awkward trail drenched with loam, mud and woe.

The choice remains as they always were and always will: suspend your dreams in a visible pulpit and hazard an ache; unsympathetically revel in the exquisite margins of a garret smeared of beauty and anonymous tales and forever injure yourself with deficiency and want.

Or in the attic of sadness quietly spread your wings.


We all bark at the moon.

Insanity is the only logical explanation. And even that isn’t a justifiable reason why I act like a complete doofus-head in the past few weeks. Deadlines loom left and right, pressing things require undivided attention and at times, I feel like stepping out for lunch, board a one-way flight to the rainforests of Nepal and anonymously file a missing person registry on my behalf so people will be comfortably resolved of the fact that I am rapidly decomposing elsewhere and move on with the neat choreographies of their respective lives. I know it’s an immature, irresponsible way of putting things into perspective but I pledged madness upfront ergo I believe that it is the only validation I would ever need. Or maybe I’d simply argue my point with a fully loaded nuclear head. I don’t think so. Too much mess.

Weeks have passed and I haven’t had the clarity to write about things that are important, that genuinely matter. Procrastination has nothing to do with it. I have had difficulty finding the proper words to articulate the tremendously draining events and discoveries in the past few weeks. In moments like these, words would conveniently take a holiday, leaving me stumped, miserable, voiceless.

My mother didn’t get a cheap greeting card, not even a ten-second call from me on her birthday a couple of days ago. I feel awful. It’s like a culpable barnacle lodging my brains, multiplying rapidly, emitting paroxysms of guilt racking my nerves. I called her last night and a wisdom-laden, beatific voice assured me that it’s all right but I’d like to believe I’ll never inherit those pricey heirloom whatzits preserved by mothballs. Which is fine by me. Expect that I feel terrible. It’s like I just sat through Sister Mary Fatima’s catechism thesis on what will be in store for ill-behaved boys who murder millions of potential lives with a boner and a busy hand.

Two friends are equally miserable. One is anxious and ambivalent, facing a turnpike pegged with tough choices involving affections, finances, deceits, disloyalties. The other breathes a retrospective wistful ache of the same experience while braving an intangible affection that is stuck between stop lights of daily concerns and immediate burdens. Both are amazing people who, like everyone else, are fumbling through life, making use of whatever wisdom, knowledge or insight that will get them through the spaces between dawn and dusk.

Thinking about these things makes me feel the sublime intensity and truthfulness seamlessly captured in dog barking at the moon by Joan Miro. The painting struck me deeply when I first encountered it in Arts class and it still reverberates in my mind like a well erupting into a delirious song from the weight of a penny from a wisher’s hand.

A dog barking at the moon. Come to think of it. Generally, we all are.


Inadequate

Consider this entry a short-lived quasi-resurrection. Woefully nothing much follows.