various stages of undressing

"The night horses and the black mares ready themselves for the outcome, for the strange times upon us."

2009-12-23T13:19:00.003+07:00

I wish the nightmares would stop.

Last night I was Girl Jesus, or some sort of messiah, winning a war against demons and fantastic creatures in the Battle of Florence. The victory was the only good this about it. Already a corpse covered in blood and dirt, but alive, my flesh frayed and grazed, limbs torn off. I had an iron rod as a leg and chains around my neck.

Then: I had a husband who wanted to make babies with me. I couldn't do it. I wouldn't have a child from a man I did not love, I said to my friends inside a bathroom. In the bathtub were two sharks biting each other. "Do you know who I love? Tell me who I love."

Turned out his name was Marco. I chased after him in the parking lot when he was about to leave and kissed him. Then I spun on my heel, walk away, and sent a text message to Michelle, his model girlfriend, said that her boyfriend was cheating on her.

I woke up crying. And this was not the first time it happened.

Quoting Dead

2009-12-22T18:36:00.004+07:00

An excerpt of Laksmi Pamuntjak's For Dead:

But sex is a powerful thing and at the end of each come, after his third left finger had stoked her rims and met steady wetness and she launched her vulva into his mouth like an anemone’s foam-fizz body, they always remembered the first time and were embarrassed at their own fickleness.

She thought she was the only one held in awe of this wetness eternal, moments born of the ceaseless movement of water whatever its source, him, love or fate she knew not the difference. But he knew that it was special, whatever it was, and he knew he had to do the only thing to do: keep the barge afloat.

So they agreed to throw harsh words and petty society onto the burner, leaving a skeleton of carbon-like memo of tears and the first gaze, of higher love and truth, strong enough to hold them together and conduct a current.

*****

And yet he did think that life would reward him with something more lasting, more dignified, than sexual love. Even she had felt it too, she who had been so terrified the first time he entered her, but who had wetted and popped like morning dew the minute he was inside her. This was what she said:

I hate that our lovemaking often feels like the highest form of expression of integrity and honesty in our feelings for each other. I hate that I cannot handle not only the brutality of the spoken words, but also the slow corrosiveness of the unspoken.

Even if he had imagined that one day love between them too could sicken, like flu that turned into sinusitis and later into a nuclear bomb, and the only antidote he could get was outside the city walls, and time, space, life would repeat itself. All over again. Just like old times.

Just another very short(-lived) story

2009-12-21T23:06:00.004+07:00

A continuation story of In a Room of Not Walls but Mirrors, if you must.

---

Liquid diamond, I call
I go inside a shell
I see it so
And you're doing oh so well these days
You do it again I must say
It's coming back again
Something like that Saturday
Such was it
Can he bring me those jeans
Keep it back, daddy's done
Preaching back into himself
Keep it
Just between us

-Tori Amos, Liquid Diamonds

It was not planned, really. She saw B once more, after almost half a year, after dodging his phone calls that usually ring between midnight and daybreak. This was the time to play with fire again.

Of course it had been in a bar. Just like any other, this one was dimly lit in cheap magenta and fogged with cigarette smoke that hurt your sight, traces of burning grass joints' vapor sneaking around like clandestine love affairs, like they were; a place where she could easily get lost among dark faces but easily found, too, by him, he'd recognize that willowy arms and blue-veined curve of the breasts anywhere.

Their eyes met. There was an immediate whim to rest the skin on skin, out of habit more than sexual urges, truthfully. And they did. The loud singing band was quickly used as an excuse to come near each other, whispering with the occasional lips sweeping on ears, noses trying to pick up the scent of the hair.

In front of the measured glances of their friends, he sighed down her neck, that thin, swanlike slant, said she looked amazingly beautiful tonight; the first man who ever said that about her. Afterwards there were a lot of arm-brushing and knee-stroking, and while slightly drowning in the hazy pill effect and stale beer, she wouldn't have it any other way.

When sitting away from each other he sent her a text message, asserting again about her comely appearance. She tried to shake the thought away about another person who used to do this to her. Forgetting, forgetting, tonight desire was in B's pair of moon eyes, whoever claimed it as decadent did not make the matter to be anything less than true.

Finally alone, B held her hand often--not a usual behavior, but you wouldn't hear her protest: in the car, kissing it (again she tried not to think about how someone else used to treated her like this, a long time ago); when walking up the stairs leading toward his bedroom; while making mad love to her.

She struggled with the fact that B was different than her former lover. His weight that wasn't as heavy, no rotund belly that she could knead, his sweet smell she could easily mistaken as her own, different way of kissing, different touch. Why couldn't it all feel the same? But like tidal waves she came tumbling forward, and she tumbled, and tumbled, a fleeting moment that lingered and broke a lost love.

When they were done she cried in the bathroom, briefly, for reasons she refused to acknowledge.

She slept at dawn, smelling like him, like secrets and troubles. By the next day he was gone again, not that she minded, they would always meet eventually.

And I'm telling you the truth this time.

"It's a wee bit too late."

2009-12-15T18:31:00.002+07:00

I met Rose in my dream. We were with a large number of friends in a restaurant with yellow lights, custard walls and stained glass windows. I suppose they served Greek food, because I saw large round plates of salad with feta cheese. He pulled me aside, asked me how I was doing and kissed me on the cheek. Before I could answer he kissed me again, this time on the mouth and said, there, wasn't that what I'd been wanting all this time. Startled, I frowned then chuckled, no!—maybe I did but that was ten years ago! And he went, oh, is that so; I could see that he was really embarrassed, but by god, I woke up wanting him to kiss me for real.

---

To read more about Rose: She is in History.

Losing

2009-12-14T18:42:00.010+07:00

Peter Blume, Flower and Torso, 1927

Another year almost ends, another battle’s lost. And as promised, she admitted defeat by articulating an unflustered tone and feigning self-possession to avoid pity from the adversary.

She had been battling on this war that went on for years. There were too many casualties piling up from both sides, no doubt the number of the dead and the wounded would continue to increase over this cold war.

It is unfortunate, that it all comes down to this, but each could never really forgive the other. Not even when by some kind of divine intervention once a year they are suddenly capable to resolve the differences, as they inevitably do, it will always end up in vicious ripostes. What, then, was the use of exuberant ardor? Maybe that was the answer. Too much too many.

But the length that she had gone through must have impressed you. I do not know why she always gave in on the idea of fighting for this, this thing of defective romance, of blushing skin over a dexterous yet arrogant character, a nebula-drawn night on the always cloudy, always polluted sky; other than because of the abundant infatuation, which, I must say, is in itself unfathomable.

So when she did not win yet again, I was not surprised (neither did she), though I still offer her compassion, the thing she yearned for the most; wiping her wet face all night. But how could you be torn over something you knew was coming? No, that was an unfair question, the complete antithesis of empathy.

When it was over and done with I let her go. She went someplace to be with another person who had been pushed away also, somewhere, perhaps not very far from here. But I will tell you one thing: she is not coming back.

---

Do not ask me or anyone else how or where she is.
Do not touch her with hands that already touch another.
Do not speak, or trick her with a kiss that already did another.
Do not forget.
Do not hurt.
Do pray.
Do.

Amor and Psyche

2009-11-30T12:36:00.007+07:00

Antonio Canova, Psyché ranimée par le baiser de l'Amour, 1793

do you know how boys put their hands on the sides of your body, just below the underarms near your breasts, with their thumbs gently stroking the tender skin, pulling you up and in towards their lips? I used to know it so well, the male force that slightly lifted me off my heels.

of the sky and the disintegration of sentiments

2009-11-28T22:28:00.004+07:00

Julie Heffernan, Self-Portrait in the Bedroom, 2003

there is a kind of rancor on her bed this morning, driven by the tortoiseshell sky that divides the dull phrases from the imploding laments, so that her mourning would seem articulate rather than vomit-like, splattering on the floor. she cogitates, hesitates--there are seasons in her library of chronicles, mostly bleak. ruminating the ugly is inevitable. the dream of derision already weighed her down.

but there is no use of being indignant, much like her austere eyes: neither right nor wrong. passion, too, is futile, it will take her where he persists in an indifferent vein. so excuse her, however she be, nothing beautiful will come out of it. the disintegration of sentiments causes only perennial desolation, wasteland after wasteland of fragmentary sighs not even the stillness is able to hear. though if she dares to admit, she hopes nobody is listening. noises breathe too heavily; remarks get in the way, even in between your lashes, agitating whatever point of view you might be birthing. the anatomy of her sentences paces ungainly in plain sight. altogether inane!--honest, but inane nonetheless.

so she stops segregating what dives into her inertial head. she is aware that everything will ultimately saturate the floor, or that sofa; all that grief as wet, pungent sickness. not the kind of liquid he would expect from her orifice, as it was usually just tears and moistening aperture, ready to be fingered stupid.

the sky now turns into a drab color of sand with unadorned clouds sweeping thin beneath an even more distant mauve. what becomes of her now? oh, you know, nothing imposing. a repetitive number at a certain hour. a ghosts when he showers. an intimate hum he would be familiar with, only to realize it sounds nothing like her, since it is a mere creaking of a chair. a silly cat.

if only he knows, come what may, she will always be his answer. neither right nor wrong.

---

this blog entry is submitted in my deviantART gallery as a prose under the same title. (direct link)

if only I could touch

2009-11-23T23:16:00.004+07:00

Man Ray, Anatomies, 1929

My cigarettes taste like kissing. The city has cooled over, I suspect it does that to add insult to injury of spending my nights alone, dry and hungry for anything remotely close to tasting like someone else's pulsating flesh, something warm and thriving to lay my hands on. Thus I chain-smoke. Do note that it does not make a compatible substitute.

All of this sounds too sentimental for my own good. Not surprisingly, Ginger throws one hell of a fit over this unfortunate circumstance.

"Why couldn't you just shut your trap for once," she asked rhetorically, even thoroughly upset because I did not stop crying. "Look at what you got me into."

But thankfully she has not ask for anything more since that night, a sign of tiresome agitation or compassion, I wouldn't know, though I did wish for the latter into random hours.

I was made into believing that I deserved this, but let's not get into that. The more I speak the more I would be scrutinized that I should not be allowed to talk at all. What's worse is that I've gone inarticulate, saying poorly constructed sentences which cause misinterpretations and further arguments, stumbling upon words I cannot pronunce, I write much less too. But things have unfolded the way things should. Some good, others make my ears steam and my eyes wet; but overall, I feel blessed.

from there to here

2009-11-06T19:15:00.006+07:00

How do I get from there to here?
My father.
If it weren't for my father I would not sleep and wake up crying, impossible to breathe without dread, without drowning in imploding poems and anxious beds that damage the skin.

How do I get from there to here?
My father.
If it weren't for my father hate would not be the walls of my house, small and claustrophobic, leaking in storms, further holding my thoughts as neurotic flashes of bad polaroid. We would all have dinner and not cancer, with conversations that does not involve a broken car and not having enough of anything, and swallowing cold and little food would not be a struggle. I could have had a room to swear without locking everybody else out.

How do I get from there to here?
My father.
If it weren't for my father who inherited these pleading eyes to me I would have been beautiful. I would not have lost my face in the sea of strangers that think I am destroying myself from inside out, each scar more deserving than the last. My organs would not ache for normalcy because I should've had it without having to be hungry for something even remotely close to being a whole person.

How do I get from there to here?
My father.
If it weren't for my father you could have fallen in love with me with dignity and not against your better judgment, and we could melt into each other until everything turns soft and blurry like a watercolor painting. Though it wouldn't be us if it weren't bloodstains and wild burning eyes. But don't we long for a dreamscape of laughter sheathed in pastel morphine, like limbs journeying bedward? I could have traveled to you, you could have had sated exhales and kinder words.

How do I get from there to here?
My father.
If it weren't for my father I would not write mutely but live, beaming in sudden fits of crystalline expression with no alternative story, lovely and not salt-crusted. I would not keep losing my hair in depression. I wouldn't have been wrong all the time, saying too much or too little, standing in a bridge where the only options are yes or no and nothing else. Not even jumping off because god forbid I have the courage to do so.

How do I get from there to here?
My father, who told me disasters happen more at night.
My father.
My father.
My father.
My father.

---

this blog entry is submitted in my deviantART gallery as a prose under the same title. (direct link)

in questions

2009-11-04T17:24:00.002+07:00

I have deleted half a dozen of my old poems from my deviantART gallery, all due to unsatisfactory qualities. I usually do some editing and put them back up, but these are the ones that cannot be saved, their only redemption is to be broken down into pieces and selected sentences will go into a whole new other poem, entirely unrelated to what they were. one of them, made on October 2005 about a close friend, allowed me to raise a few questions about his state of being nowadays:

“how does that blank almond eyes
finally untangle the brain-colored
cords? threatening with thick
razors, thick veins? by driving
a metal into your temple
where I built your shrine of
smoldering cigarette papers and
brunette throats? what about the
ghosts on walls and inside drawers?
do I see you now?”

at first I wanted to compose it into a “follow-up” piece, but he is now peaceful and happy, so I left it alone. these questions will remain to hover though.

it's true

2009-10-30T22:21:00.003+07:00

I blame everything on my father.

back to the bedroom orchestra

2009-10-29T15:24:00.005+07:00

for the past week my friend Pije and I have been obsessing over the short stories we wrote back in high school, around 2002-2003. she was mildly humiliated by hers but I was utterly mortified by mine, titled Orkes Dalam Kamar (The Bedroom Orchestra). but in 2006 I made a poem Zero Hour with a stanza that paid a tribute for that story. the first and last line structure is inspired by Neil Gaiman's short story Heart of Gold.

Zero Hour

-after once upon a time
a pulse came into
a halt when the prison door was opened
so wide
stretched from thumb to toe
to where I went running past the

stellar grounds.

and nails and bones were to be legends
in the sub-zero coal pit,
burning like the chapel under my narrow curves
like you on that mute zero hour in
the subway,
you in the barricading yellow seats.

like the violin of my back
'love is a bribe to make a spine thinks it's a pillar'

and when thunder broke
my floor, lips were whispering
on lips,

the diamond the clitoris were anchors
my knees and thunder shattered
with the floor.

I read again:
"the bedroom orchestra;
drizzles in three seconds
rainstorm in one
I asked him to stay until seven."

from where
pear-shaped sounds fumbled and
heels of animals stumbled,
this is where it ends.
boys knew daughters kill with prescription pills.

the pearls the clitoris were anchors
down on all four
like fireworks swallowing mothballs
like the baptism of spaces, watching bodies on suitcases
put me through a sieve like
inching out
of your charades.

hush now,
hush now,
we rise after genocide-

list of good things about you

2009-10-26T19:54:00.001+07:00

In your pictures you smile that haughty grin like holding back a chuckle, just by pulling the lines of your lips into an upward curve and with mischievous eyes that announce that you know everything there is to know.

You ask me to read my poems out loud to you, even when you can’t comprehend what it means or completely oblivious that it’s about you or how many times we made love that night, but you want me to, still, because you love how shy I am about it.

You tickle my armpit just to hear me laugh even though I hate it hate it hate it because all I want to do is cry.

You text me to tell me that I look nice and you like what I’m wearing even though you’re sitting across from me and could have said it directly. You have naughty hands that slide secretly under my dress under the table when we are out for coffee with friends. You tell me to keep my attention to the TV while your fingers play with my skin and bite my flesh.

You’re not ashamed of admitting that you check my websites every few hours or so, that you stalk my profile page. You often wipe my wet face with your hand while I’m crying, and still call me back even when I hang up the phone.

We have the same displays of temperament which make me feel like I am not the only one who is crazy and full of explosion. You still call me everyday even just to finish our fight so we would make up, and you could tease me of how not funny I am and brag about how funny you are; or just to ask what I do all day when you know all I do is write.

You keep coming back to me because (even though you don’t say it anymore) I am the love of your life, even when you can’t stand me. Even though I hate it when you get jealous if I go out with guy friends you don’t know the names of, I can understand a little bit because you are genuinely afraid to lose me. You still tell me that I am right for you even when you know I’m too messy for my own good. You know that I always mean everything I say to you: every “I hate you”, “I miss you”, “I love you“, “I'm sorry“.

the other recurring dream

2009-10-26T19:40:00.007+07:00

I dream of a boy with large hands and dark eyes that do not blink when I come into the room, and stares at the whole back of my body from the neck to my heels when I walk away. A boy whose foolish smile makes my face grow hot and my heart leap into my throat until I lose my composure, who likes it more when I’m jumpy and nervous because of him. A boy who sometimes kisses my cheekbone or shoulder before he leaves the table in a restaurant, like imprinting his mark on my skin so I would not be taken away or get lost. One who thinks I’m pretty even if nobody does because of course he loves a beautiful person.

I dream of a boy who teases me about how my nostrils flare when I’m confused but actually find it endearing, though impatiently explains what he means over and over again until that part of my brain clicks. A boy who does not mind an accident prone like me, who chuckles and shakes his head when I knock my toes into door frames and furniture, who messes with my hair like I’m still 5 because he likes to make me blush.

I dream of a boy who takes me to see the fishes even though it brings out bad memories for me but he takes me there still, to make good memories. A boy who do simple things that make my knees melt like holding my hand and saying goodnight, who lets me cling onto him and be affectionate without caring that there are other people in the room. One who sometimes calls me “princess” to cheer me up if feeding me ice cream does not help. I dream of a boy who takes me slow dancing because he knows I’ve never slow-danced before.

I dream of a boy with strong jaws who tells me when I’m wrong and fights me but stops before it turns into an exchange of hurtful remarks. One who knows that for me yelling and crying are two mutually exclusive things: I yell so I wouldn’t cry or I cry so I wouldn’t yell—who does not tolerate but loves me no less for cursing and cussing because he knows I always regret it when the tantrum ends, and knows that I am not a bad person, I just swear a lot. A boy who understands that I don’t use crying as a weapon but it just happens that I’m too emotional, and feel too many sentiments, it’s overwhelming. A boy who kisses my mouth to stop me from screaming, grabs my wrist before my palm reaches his face or weaves his fingers with mine before my nails dig into his arms, who holds me so my arms do nothing but hold him back; until the outbursts turn into quiet sobs, and I'm light-headed and make that falling, sighing sound.

I dream of a boy who drives me crazy but is crazy about me all the same, who desires my presence even when he is pissed over his head at me. I dream that I am his number one and not only on speed dial, who secretly feels like the luckiest man because I love him.

seeing things as I were

2009-10-15T23:54:00.001+07:00

I spent all day editing my earliest poetries then I found myself yet again contemplating to burn all of my old journals. or maybe soak them under running water before throwing it away. I remember enough and I have no desire for them to be read by anyone else. those naïve beliefs and the inflamed sentiments would only further invade your already polluted thoughts of me.

the image of water turning all the black ink blue calms me down. I think of what it would be like, washing away the angst of an 18-year old, the bad grammar, the dumb loves and their unwritten names. like a baptism through melting words. a clean slate. starting over. no more sellotaped pages to prevent myself from reading the utterance of the always infuriated teenager. but most of all, I need to not have my past sitting inside my drawer (and easily read by my mother if she pleases).

but now that I think of it, I am still the same person I was before all this, I only say things differently.

tarot lady screwed me over

2009-10-12T16:50:00.001+07:00

I have never denied that I am not beautiful, but I never knew that he does not think that I'm pretty. not ugly either, but just a straight-thought not pretty. is it ridiculous to grieve over this? I stifled a cry when he wasn't looking.

***

I talk to God but the sky is empty.
[Sylvia Plath, Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams, 1977]

days like these, with thick heat that leaves me dispirited alone in the house, and the occasional intimidating thunderstorms, I curse repeatedly for not having to be heard enough, as if suddenly the ever-changing weather has turned everyone deaf and apathetic. I seek for answers until the questions are a mere dumb resonance to my own ears. nobody is listening. maybe they would if I am at least sweet-looking.

tarot lady from last year was wrong about everything--except the bad ones.

something you didn't know

2009-09-25T21:46:00.005+07:00

I have always put myself in front of your eyes, because I know it is the only place that you will look for me.
[July 6, 2008]

...and quite frankly, I really like your eyes.

scratching story

2009-09-16T19:55:00.007+07:00

there was a time when I had too many stories I could barely contain even the first sentence. it made my eyes burn until I lost the sense to recognize the mere distance from my shoulder to the tip of my middle finger, like it didn't belong to me anymore, nothing was, not even my own name.

so one night when we drove to the northern part of the city, where it loomed in semicircular monstrosity, exploding in discordant and gaudy lights, all I saw was how my unrecognizable limbs did not fit into the the slanting view. on the radio was a woman singing about a thousand oceans. my stories then rose across the water in incomprehensible voices and billowed elsewhere but to you, who sat next to me. ironically enough, you were the only thing that felt tangibly real, like my body parts had been when they belonged to me.

for once I am thankful for having not a single story to tell. aside from the mysterious bug bite on my thigh, there is nothing else to scratch.

unspoken word-vomit from today

2009-09-14T21:57:00.009+07:00

true, I still have plenty of energy to fight left. no matter how many times we do those long, aggravated, I-can't-do-this-anymore exhales, we fight until we win. we are two people with an array of tempestuous tantrums, passion is hardly what we lack of. I would smack your face and immediately would want to climb up your plump stomach for us to touch lips.

I wonder though, when we don't see eye-to-eye, the literal act of the phrase takes place almost always. while driving: eyes on the road; in bed: eyes at the ceilings otherwise closed; other times, on the phone, or at my angry text messages that go unreplied.

what are you afraid of? that you might see how I bat them when it was somebody else's weight on top of me? that perhaps you might understand that no, I don't understand why I deserve two and a half years of your jilted nature and arrogant tongue, so no, you don't get to not feel guilty. or maybe how they might enlighten you with why we really love each other? do you dread what my mouth does not speak?

maybe it is you and your eyes, exuding the muted remorse.

right now, when you are still slowly forgetting whose tight pinks your willing hardness entered last week, imagine how you would want to end your life if it starts to be someone else's right.

Birdlady dream

2009-08-30T11:01:00.012+07:00

Leonora Carrington, The Recital of Dreams

The men I swallow I cannot carry.
[words from Birdlady dream, July 2009]

parental cancer

2009-08-27T12:33:00.007+07:00

the thing about a small house and fighting parents is that claustrophobia nestles in so quickly until the hair on the back of your neck stands.

I found myself having that same look on my face as I did two years ago after someone spat on me. but what I saw in the mirror held not even an ounce of truth. silent throughout. unaffected. black over the pale.

it's raining tonight. my siblings and I pray for space.

a story previously untold

2009-08-25T23:55:00.015+07:00

In a Room with Not Walls But Mirrors

(at long last)
It had been three years since their last kiss, their first kiss, and now they had a bottle of cheap wine in front of them, seemed cheaper by drinking the dark red too-sweet with beer mugs that reminded her of pineapples. Neither of them minded though. Six years they waited for tonight. The awkward pairing of the drink and the glass would not make them desire each other any less. Or maybe she was the only one who yearned for him, romanticizing his finger strokes, the kneading of her flesh with lips and teeth, waves that pull knees apart. All was long overdue.

When she saw him in flesh she realized that his chin was slightly pointier than what she had always imagined. She had too many images of him in her head, propping her up against the wall.

But here there were no walls. This was a room of mirrors. It was alarming: emotions were reflected razor sharp—doubt looked at lust untiringly and asked whether they could touch, just a little bit, or maybe a lot, with such impatience until clothes were to be peeled off the skin. But the first thing she wanted to unbutton was his eyes, to see her better. With these mirrors, he could see her everywhere.

"You can never get through a lover’s past," he said. So when he told her about how he had lost his children, all two, maybe three of them, she knew that she would soon be unable to forgive him about it. He had too many lovers. Granted, she was one of them. And she had scandalous affairs with the love of her life. The problem with their relationship was they both had sentimental ghosts that would always come slithering back. But his words were honest words; hers, too. So when they kissed all was suddenly forgivable, forgettable, like fists that strike but when opened, was a warm palm that rested on your hip; at least tonight.

They then made love. He held her hand the whole time.

What he did not know was he healed her, though ever so slightly; just like he said he would two years ago.

She never did understand why there were always have to be proposals of drinks. As if conversations would amount next to nothing without a brash injection of alcohol. As if making love as they did would be an impractical feat when done soberly. Now she wondered if words had any right to be there that night.

---

related text: all that beckons