The Diary of the World's Sadness

Yesterday, I spent a good part of the day going through the net, the endless breathing labyrinth.  Blogs about worlds trying to not fall apart.  I read some introductions, some poetry, a lot of ramblings.  Some blogs were like doors inviting to another blog or another site or another kind of another something.  One blog too many was about coping with unhappiness one day at a time; another about instructions on how to be happy.  I closed the laptop wondering if it was at all a time well spent; otherwise, there's something to be had working with one's hands.  Where there'd be less conversation, less words, but there: a piece.

Not much was said when the floor to ceiling bookshelves were made; all the wood put together.  But it was there: love.

My dogs don't have words to say.  But they're always close; and their company, unconditional.

And while all my life I think I have always loved words, I think too much too many of them makes them hollow, and empty.  

No surprise there that my best thoughts of you are our times together wordless, soundless in memory.

something real

             

I cannot love you with a love                                                 
That outcompares the boundless sea,
For that were false, as no such love
And no such ocean can ever be.
But I can love you with a love                                                                                                       As finite as the wave that dies
And dying holds from crest to crest
The blue of the everlasting skies.

 
                                      

                                                                                                --Angela Manalang-Gloria  

 

 

on being brave

someone once told me i was "pussy-whipped and fearful".  and even though i wanted to be the bigger person, the line stayed taunting.  mostly because whoever said it was mocking, having the certainty of one who knew nothing.  i bit my tongue from retorting.    

there is a time of course for being brazen.
when brazenness has nothing to do with getting the better of you.

the shore

i dreamt again, last night, of coming back to the bay.
the same bay reconstructed several times; each time different
and the same.
i was flying and saw it again from above.
the waters were tumultuous and gray
and there was a big boulder, uneven, jutting out towards sea.

i tried to come as close as i could to the shore.
there was a small patch of sand, a small valley
between the weather-beaten house and the large dark boulders
on the small patch of sand there will always be people
beach happy and unaware 

a few meters before them, a few meters past the line
where their children play on the shore
a cliff begins, where the bay gnaws wide
and there will always be, recurring in every dream,
the unexpected rising tide
the whipping of larger and larger waves.

the children would scramble to the shore.  
parents would collect them in towels and
young friends would laugh.  everyone would 
hide their fears, everyone would hurry
to leave the shore and the bay and head home.

i knew these.  having dreamt the same shore again and again.
changing the scapes of its face: one time it was a pier
so very long and stretching towards another bridge
that crumbled too soon and fell apart 
people fell into the cold 
turbulent seas.  i knew these.  having dreamt the same shore

again and again.  the deeply gray, downcast skies.
last night, i dreamt i could fly. 
and came to the shore as fast as i could
urged the people to leave.  the gray was fast getting dark.
i recognized the people: they were my family.

and they were about to leave when i came
climbing on shared motorcycles to leave 
the remote shore that had suddenly gone narrow.
i was to leave with them, to drive my sister's motorbike
taking the handles and revving the engine.  
my sister climbed behind me on the scooter.  we were leaving

the road had suddenly gone potholed and steep
ninety degrees up of slowly loosening dried mud
again, i revved the engine.  and again.  trying
to keep steady.  the tires trying hard not to swerve.
i became afraid of the inevitable fall from the vertical incline.
all the other motorcycles had sheerly, barely made it.

loose dirt and gravel danced beneath the tires.
the scooter didn't have enough power.  i turned to look
at my sister but she was gone.
her motorbike couldn't make it.  i carried it on my shoulder
instead, the land and the shore was falling apart
there was a balcony of the weather-beaten house again 

i clung on it with my other arm.  and across, into the house
i could see, between
the scooter i was holding on on one shoulder and 
hanging on for dear life on the other, i could see
someone recognizable from the house noticed me.





 

beginning of a conversation

It is sunny mid afternoon now.  Just enough slant of the sunshine, just enough 
shade in the garden.  Just enough brightness with the door open, 
just enough breeze through windows, filtering through gossamer curtains.  
The dogs at my feet, napping.  The weekend laundry on the clothesline, dry.  
In a minute, we can have some tea.  The kind that are flowers 
that float  on the water and bloom on the cup telling all is good.  
There may be some biscocho to have along with it.  Or in a minute, 
we can go.  Leave every thing now while time is still good; and go.