Category Archives: whatnots

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.

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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.


AWOL

My truant tendency always hits me at the wrong time. It appears like the insidious Eve brandishing the delectable apple before the unsuspecting Adam in the blissful garden of Eden. Too strong a come-on to rebuff with guilt. Guilt conversely cancels out being present in both sides of the equation. Guilt and erroneous conscience. Where right can be made wrong and wrong, right. There’s not much time left for rational thinking. I’ll deal with guilt and my conscience later. After playing truant, that is.


Self-voyeurism

Have you ever had that disconcerting feeling of being totally detached from your very own life and you’re reduced into powerless self-voyeurism? Like you’re observing your very own proceeding in confusion while your conciousness frantically waves from a distant trying to catch up with your empty shell?

In the past few weeks, that kind of blah-ness is quite a pervasive condition on me and no matter how I struggle for clarity or directional shift, I can’t help but get this perpetual twilight zone smog. Names, faces, events and emotions are reduced into one incoherent blur and many times over I get the absurd disposition that my life is one protracted stretch of horrific and surreal scenes strung together.

Despite the abundance of daily stories to write about, that creative spark seems to have taken a holiday. Missing. Out of reach. Elsuive. I should console myself of the thought that life, although not that spectacular in excessive ways, have been quite permitting. There’s nothing much to whine about and for that I’m thankful.

Omnipresent as ever is that pang of sadness. It didn’t help me that I have a few striking episodes of total astonishment over complete strangers who remind me of that one absolute deficit that’s somewhat within grasp but remains perversely unreachable, dodging me, rolling with teasing laughter. Being swaggering and self-absorbed.

I woke up in the middle of the night and lethargy descended like a malicious cloud threatening a predictable downpour. I remain very still, lying in bed, wide-eyed, bated-breathed, naked, waiting for something to hit me.


Cataclysm

Maybe the cosmos is sending cryptic signals. And I, being appallingly irresponsible, ignore the encrypted messages and choose to take the statements as they are: basically amusing pseudophilosophies slash individualistic mantras that spark amusement, and on certain neurotic cases, deep thought. I’m not talking about earth-shaking utopian suppositions. I’m talking about T-shirt inscriptions that I see being worn by people while wandering aimlessly in the mall. “Real Men Don’t Need Viagra”, “Porn Star On Training”, “I Wish These Were Brains!” worn by a big-bosomed woman, “You Say I’m A Bitch Like It’s A Bad Thing”, “The Only Bush I Trust Is My Own”, I saw this shirt worn by a Vegas stripper in protest of President Bush’s policies. And the cringe-a-holic, perverse in a mad hilarious way shirt I saw: “I (Heart) Mahal!”


I am a sensitive doer.

According to iPersonic.com, I am a sensitive doer.

Sensitive Doers are gentle, modest and reserved persons. They cope well with everyday life and like their privacy. With their quiet, optimistic nature, they are also good, sought-after listeners and other people feel well in their company. All in all, this type is the most likeable and friendliest of all personality types. Tolerance and their regard for others distinguish their personality. They are very caring, generous and always willing to help. They are open to and interested in everything that is new or unknown to them. However, if their inner value system or their sense of justice is hurt, Sensitive Doers can suddenly and surprisingly become forceful and assertive.

Career

Sensitive Doers enjoy the comforts life offers to the full. They are very happy in everyday life. Sensitive Doers are often gifted artists or very good craftsmen. Creativity, imagination and an especially keen perception are just a few of their strong points. Sensitive Doers are very presence-oriented; long-term planning and preparations do not appeal to them. They take life as it comes and react flexibly to daily demands. They do not like too much routine and predictability. Their talents come more to the fore when work processes are variable and there are not so many rules. Sensitive Doers like to work alone; if they are part of a team, they do not get involved in competitive or power games and prefer living and working together harmoniously and openly.

Your type, although belonging to the introverted doers, is also the most amiable and friendly in his dealings with others of all types. This special combination is the reason for your great flexibility. It enables you to work excellently and contently on your own to suit any situation, but also achieve extraordinary popularity and professional satisfaction as a member of a team. Here the precondition is a friendly, collegiate environment characterized by harmony and mutual respect.

You need a working environment without intrigue or political manipulation, and with the least possible deployment of elbows. Cooperation rather than confrontation, should be the order of the day. Colleagues as well as superiors equally appreciate your unassuming, congenial nature and your unbelievable sensitivity plus your attentive and generous ways toward others. In your presence, people simply have to be comfortable; you are not competition oriented, whatsoever.

You are almost limitlessly tolerant and always prepared to accept others as they are. As a consequence, you very rarely have problems getting along with different people. The only exception: when your private value system is hurt or you notice injustice somewhere. In that case, you can react quite forcefully but even in the most heated dispute you always try to argue respectfully and fairly.

Relationships with other people

Sensitive Doers are completely satisfied with a small, close circle of friends as their need for social contacts is not very marked. Here, too, they avoid conflicts – quarrels and disputes put considerable strain on them. Sensitive Doers are often very fond of animals and are very good with small children. As partner, this type is loyal and reliable and is willing to invest a lot in a relationship. Mutual respect and tolerance are very important to Sensitive Doers. Their love of pleasure makes them a pleasant companion with whom one can experience intensive moments. They like to look after their partner with attentiveness and small gifts and are very sensitive to the partner’s needs – often more than to their own. However, should they meet the wrong person, they run the risk of being taken advantage of. They are then deeply disappointed.

Due to your quiet nature, you don’t fall in love head over heels – but once you do, it happens intensively and fiercely. You have a pronounced romantic disposition and once you truly catch the bug, you insist on putting your beloved in the center of your universe. Like the Idealists, you are an all or nothing type, in this respect. Despite your love of freedom, you are the most faithful and devoted of all the Doers.

You are capable of deep feelings, and you throw yourself into a relationship with all you’ve got. You care for, spoil, and support your partner wherever you can – sometimes even at the cost of your own needs. You are devoted to doing everything for your beloved to the point that you may not realize for a long time that you are getting the short end of the stick. If you feel that you can do him/her a favor, you gladly deep-six everything that is important to you: friends, place of residence, or job. As long as you choose a partner who appreciates this trait, and most importantly, who does not take advantage of it, it is just great. It gets extremely dangerous, however, if you end up with an egoist. In dealing with your contemporaries, you are sometimes a little too trusting because you always assume the same high morals and character trends that are yours. In certain ways, that makes you very vulnerable and that applies to love, as well.

Your pronounced sensitivity (also a part of your personality type description) makes you a very attentive, empathetic, and loving partner. You won‘t miss a mood change in your heart of hearts, and have a damned sensitive ear for hidden appeals. You like it that way because excessive love pledges are not your style, and you don’t continuously carry your heart on your sleeve. You prefer to demonstrate how much your partner means to you with deeds, and by reading his/her wish in his/her eyes.

What can you say Dax? *evil grin*


What would I give my mom?

It’s again the time of the year when my siblings and I bicker amongst ourselves over what to give our mom for this rather special occasion. Mother’s Day is quite stressful for me because I am not really good in coming up with special gifts. But we always make it to a point that what we give is something really useful for our mom. We veer away from the usual flowers, figurines, photo frames or chocolates because she can buy these stuff whenever she wants. So I came up with this bizarre list of what to give to my mom.

1. Dirt Devil Kone

My mom is a bit of a neat freak, so she always cleans her room. She has this dustbuster but it kind of looks ugly and quite bulky. So I think she would appreciate this cute handheld vacuum.

2. Lili Lite – Bookshelf Lamp

Like myself, my mom reads a lot. She has a very wide array of books in her shelf and pretty soon, it will already burst. So I thought of giving her a bookshelf that is all-in-one. Lo and behold, the uber functional shelf for above my mom’s bed. It’s a shelf, bookmark and lamp altogether. A built in sensor automatically turns the lamp off when an open book is placed on the shelf, and turns back on once its removed. Pretty cool, huh?

3. Wine Bottle Holder – Whimsical Bear

For one, the bear is so cute. I think my mom would really like this since she’s a chronic drinker. I kid. But I am pretty sure that my mom would use this to hold the bottle of soy sauce, ketchup or something else.

4. You Rock, You Rule Pillowcases

My mom always goes for the solid-colored pillowcases, so I thought of giving her something unique and touching at the same time. Of course for me, my mom is the best!

5. A Guilt-Free Nap

Come on mom, take a rest today! Who knows, we might even fool around with you later tonight!