idiosynCRAZY

Hear me spill and loiter in http://mygypsyfeet.wordpress.com/

See you on the other side, hehe.

The story of the style

One night,

It woke me

A little girl again

Senselessly minding

My hair

If it covered enough of my

Cheek

My neck

Or if it flowed down

To biceps, and

Curved through my armpit,

Cadence

For it played

As it stroke me again

To form me a mantra

One which I have never

Sang of…

Nor heard of

For, true,

It had clanged for me

One beat and another

To shoot me a query

To spill me an answer,

A rhyme

And one night,

It woke me

A little girl again

Senselessly minding

Everything,

Just everything I saw

And wrote it down

On paper

Just when everything flows pretty well for me, I get
obstructed. Is it traffic or just
me? How many times have I been told that
things can never be consistent, and still I need a lesson or two to bang my
light head? Take soft comfy tissue which comes in a really good box for
example. You get it fresh from the
counter, inclusive of smell and what not. You use it. It is still tissue.
Only, it is not as soft, sweet and comfy as it used to be. Imagine what becomes of it. Gross? Yes, exactly.

If only I could freeze things. But when I actually try doing so, like every
time I try taking a lot of sugar to induce my good self a really good sleep, I
wake up and wander like I am some certain creature from Mars or Venus. Waking from a sleep alienates me. Sleep is a perfect pose for freezing. When I freeze things, I would eventually feel
stunted and rubbish. I just easily lose
myself. When you have spent a really
hard time training your analytical brain to drift away, then you would find
your self brainless great percent of your time.

Before I choke into my words, I would like to qualify this
feeling as reasonable. In the first
place, I felt this for some mechanical reasons. Power shortage could be mechanical. Too bad I just swore not to write about anything concrete today. I feel better disguising things in
words. Some things are really crispier
for my own consumption.

Since, my fingers are still itching to pound on the
keyboards, now let me just do something else. Let me describe the night.

12:15 am. This is my
witching hour. I sit myself in a
cushioned triangular elevation, or is it a bed? Above it is my laptop, some strewn up pieces of paper which are actually
hand-outs for my Tests and Measurements class, a piece of technology which is supposed
to receive calls and text messages, and my lazy ass in shorts.

The curtain does not totally obstruct my view. On my left
side is a window overlooking Casa Rosario. Is it a hotel or what? I can
actually see the balcony view. Some lights
on, others not.

“Welcome back”, I tell myself. I am somewhere safe again. I do not fear falling off from the gravity although
I do dread getting stuck in between cosmic cavities. I heard they eat you when you are not
ready. When you are too lax and
disheveled. This time, I am simply
intoxicated but loving the intoxication, the way I have never delighted on
anything in my entire 20 years of living. 

If I wake again my smothered self then I do succeed on
proving loss and silliness. I am not
stupid this time. I am just a little
jumpy. My heart is. My life is. 

Here goes crazy writing again. I miss this very much. The last time I did this, I had a
dumpster-overload of soiled clothes and mice under my bed. It was nightmare and I didn’t want to move
out from my covers. It was like waiting to grow mandrake roots, not cultured
but wild on my back to the mattress. Fatal slobness
 was always the best way to get away
from everything pretentious around me. To get away from laundry and to get away from unexplained paranoia. I almost was a hermit. But more like a lazy prick.

And now, I am happy. In love and happy. “Welcome back
self!”

    It is barely a week before I officially become an early adult, but It is starting to tingle.  I am starting to get birthday greetings as early as now - Enough reason to celebrate really ahead of time.  It was like only yesterday when I turned 18  and had a grill party at the lawn. (sniff sniff*) It was like yesterday when I turned 19 and had siomai party with alexes and thesis mates. Come on, please don’t tell me I grew too fast.! What about the "teen" in the number?  I mean, I’m too anxious to grow out of it…  It sure is pressure that comes with the age.  And they say wisdom too.  I mean I hope wisdom too. 

    I know this sounds conceited but in case you’ll have second thoughts on what to get me for my teenage farewell, i am actually not too materially demanding =p (just gift ideas!)

•         beatles anthology
•        80’s song collection
•        bosa music (should include "Girl from Ipanema" bosa version)
•        beegees poster (alexes promised me "the beatles")
•        hanson stuff… (hahaha, i know!)
•        water/coffee tumbler =)
•        Walk the Line/The Perfumer/Kurosawa DVD’s (pirated will do, sorry Edu Manzano)
•        USB flash drive (mine just malfunctioned)
•        Cool Books
•        trinklets/burloloys
•        laptop cushioned case
•        box organizer
•        notebook organizers or any notebooks=)
•        wall clock!

    I’m not demanding as one would think.  Some do not really know what to get and ask about it and I am doing them a favor…haha!

please be warned that this may be junk material.  NO grammar check or copy editing made.  I wrote this without touching anything for corrections.  It is as is.  The more nonsense it gets, the better. It is unfinished, though.

July 4

In this planet, I am random. I am scorned when I do not
think in this manner, and I am scorned when I say I do not understand why and
complain about not understanding. And yet
no one is ever in the position to punish me. I am rendered no fruit but some
brackish analogy as to what fits whatever, and to who jives with whomever. And
when I call this normal, I am scorned. And again, no one is a doer. Just
me, as creamed as the mud cake. I spill
off when I think it is a feeling. In
this planet, I write nothing but feelings.

I try imagining myself broken and I couldn’t see it. I see, instead, lamp light, plugs, and a lump
of my mess. I feel unresolved but I see so much than this confusion. I ponder myself as an action. If I try seeing it as an action, I ask “do I
denote or do I kill?” Some kill as they
wake up. Some kill as they sleep. But I
kill when I am awake. All this is
nothing but I fiery loneliness, unanswered. All this is loneliness unresolved. Upon trying to understand myself, I
cry and speak of words I carefully choose. And for awhile, it is comfort and for awhile it seems forever.

Today, I write like I have just learned words. Whether I’d be illogical, ill, unthinkable or
erroneous for some reasons, I will not feel broken if you tell me. I do not want sentence constructions today. I am writing like I have never written
words. I am writing like it will keep me
waiting if I ever pray it’d stop.

Peepholes and some broken tag lines in my memory divulge
more than how much I wish to spill. Some feelings are just never constant. Right for the other moment and simply
unimaginable in the other, either way, I loose. It splices me like cinnamon bread. And it pounds me down like I am some betel nut. The harder I cover
myself, the more I breed malice. If
ghosts are real, them I am haunted. If
not, then I am haunted still… My ghosts
are never easy, I am never wrong. 

If I think this is a craft, then I have in fact turned some
screw. If I think this is art, then I
have in fact returned home. But I wish
not to be at home. I wish to be in my
planet. Nothing but me in my own. Some people, when writing in each of their
own planets are sane. I am not. Why
so? Maybe because, this is how my planet
is. Curtains I have never washed, could
speak on my behalf. There is no real
story in the world where I eat, drink coffee and laugh like crazy. I am writing one. 

***in the washroom

I am drowsy now. But
since sleepy is not a word equivalent to any meaning in this inner world, I
will only declare myself not conveyed. I
am sinking down this river of glass and not single fixture can hold me up if I
deem it relevant to do so. And as I
write more than character after character, I am only writing space after space.

***talking in the phone

There is a feeling of redemption from the sinking for a
while. And whether I’m stoned or
conveyed successfully, anything was just there for a few breathings. My real purpose is to spell things well. Yes, I know pillow spells P-I-L-L-O-W, but
things don’t seem well covered. I can
think with lights off. I can think under
my covers. As I sit in this uncomfortable bed, I trouble myself with good night
questions. Questions magazines would
advice never to be raised during this hour. 2:10 AM and I am wallowing. My shadow seems awkward. Light is on my face as I face this
screen. I know this is exactly why I
love this. This is my moment of being no
one else, and nowhere else in this axis.

***in the phone again

(fell asleep)

11:14 AM

I couldn’t recall a single dream this time. But, damn, it is
late. And as I attempt to enclose myself
in a sleep, I miss school work. I want
to just stay here undisrupted but could it be not, that I want disruption the
most this very hour? There are things
that I couldn’t deconstruct in the weather. Because I couldn’t see it or feel clearly, I feel lost in this lunacy. My mind is playing tricks on me again. I wish it would just stop and tell me to take
my ass out this perfect pose. 

There could be reasons for this attachment. I am thankful for getting over the madcaps
computer game. Although, not
totally. Clinking of caps against time
is a demented idea, but good.

I am halfway sad and halfway happy. Am I half blessed or
have screwed? But here now, my planet is
going to squeeze as punishment. I just
checked for grammar and it is prohibited. I feel like a prick, really. If I
do not get anything good from this writing, I burst bubble or what, I consider
myself doomed as a miser. 

I got up out of free will and it feels well. There is not
other reason for me to sink in intoa crazy idea because at last, I feel
normal. I have this slight idea that I
am fading from the scene. Because I do fade under to fade up, like audio back
ground in a radio program, I am normal.

I am normal because I can think of comparisons. I jive with the world when there is the need
to do so. I disclose and enclose. I
persuade and dissuade. But I have
persuaded more than dissuaded. For some
reasons, I do not work full time dissuading. I let people think how worse things could get. But I am not an expert. Anyone could be too
silly to believe me now.

I sometimes feel uneasy about this. Some persons consider it a crazy idea to
delight over such pleasure. I am a lost
quarter under the sun. Disguised as
convinced, I distract my self again. 

There are voices outside the room and they have been awake
for a long time already. They have been
wide open for a long time now. I want to
know if they feel the same way and if they do, should they feel this way. Sometimes, the world seems to help out but
now, it conspires.

Now, I think I should get going. I will come back.

(living in the axis again)

As if there was never

This sort

Of Sundays

As if there never was

I spilled milk and

Gulped it up

I spoke brackish grey

As I whispered

I stoked and blew

And coughed all along

When it was too smoky

Murk was its pudding

And so was mine

But damn ‘twas sweet

Down and below,

Saline from the leak

drunken by blood hounds

Trickling on me

So suddenly

Fear.

     I have exactly stumbled into some kind of a waking through MOther Teresa.  I am not joking!!!swear,  I love her! 
     i am talking about something which in itself could classify in the highest level of human satisfaction.  It was said that when you have already achieved this level ( a certain kind of contentment towards a specific thing/instance/experience…), then you have just completely made use of your human capacity.  Atleast,tonight I just figured why I am not an ape or a dog.
    LEvel 1 is aesthetic happiness.  It is the least since it is the kind which wouldnt require you a handbook or units in theology (joking).  There is nothing that separates the men and brutes when in comes to feeding interests.  Well, barbaric instincts could be in anyone (that is, if you try looking at a board mate or a politician–hmm…school council or the National government.)  This has been the main culprit for hedonistic tendencies,being sexually active,  or sometimes greedy and insensitive…  (wait, self-check!) Well, just merely survival and physical pleasure  could be its determinants. This is when you click off your "moral conduct" pop-up window or when you just do not care about how a friend is trying to tell you how displeased she is with your overdone borrowing habits even when she is not actually telling you this verbally.  IN some cases, you never learned about non-verbals while in other cases, you prefer disregarding them, again, for survival and self-imposed privelages. Ever heard of "ownership"?   
    Level 2:  Ethical happiness is an upgrade.  This is when you fulfill physical pleasure and survival with your "moral conduct" pop-up window on. You start thinking of propriety and ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE! Although Nizche was kinda right when he  said "morality" is only invented for a race to take advantage of the other, in some situations occuring in a so non-primitive era, one should also consider territory, property, and interests… As soon as we realize this, we would be oriented to correct timing and atlast as to who owns what and who doesn’t.  Borrowing things could be a really great issue.  (that is why I make it a point not to forget returning any pen lent to me, out of risk, hehe=)
    Level Three:  Religious happiness leads us back to MOther TEresa.  Sacrificing, based on how I understand it, is when one lets a day pass without getting a certain "something" which you want for the sake of getting another certain "something". The reason why some would really find it hard to do the same is because they havn’t or choose not to realize that it is not at all times that you only have  "yourself" to please.

The Heaven of Animals By James L. Dickey

Here they are. The soft eyes open.

If they have lived in a wood

It is a wood.

If they have lived on plains

It is grass rolling

Under their feet forever.

Having no souls, they have come,

Anyway, beyond their knowing.

Their instincts wholly bloom

And they rise.

The soft eyes open.

To match them, the landscape flowers,

Outdoing, desperately

Outdoing what is required:

The richest wood,

The deepest field.

For some of these,

It could not be the place

It is, without blood.

These hunt, as they have done,

But with claws and teeth grown perfect,

More deadly than they can believe.

They stalk more silently,

And crouch on the limbs of trees,

And their descent

Upon the bright backs of their prey

May take years

In a sovereign floating of joy.

And those that are hunted

Know this as their life,

Their reward: to walk

Under such trees in full knowledge

Of what is in glory above them,

And to feel no fear,

But acceptance, compliance.

Fulfilling themselves without pain

At the cycle’s center,

They tremble, they walk

Under the tree,

They fall, they are torn,

They rise, they walk again.

James Dickey, “The Heaven of Animals” from The Whole Motion: Collected Poems 1945-1992. Copyright �© 1992 by James Dickey. Reprinted with the permission of Wesleyan University Press, www.wesleyan.edu/wespress.

I lie here.
And you gasp to tell the morning to rain and not wake me
HOw, when nothing could be so sad than a sobbing morning

I could only wake up and hope…
that it stops and you be the one
to rain for me.
Would you wait for me,
and rain for me?

Just the way you tell
your candid little story

under…
burgers and skies

when you take off just a little
of your cover and spill,

under
moonlight and fries

Those crazy heavy eyes
were mine more than once
for that was how I knew that
my wind-blown driftings
have only been drifting towards you…

while we talk in a slow pace,
eat,
everything in a slow pace

Now I lie here and you gasp to tell the morning not to
wake me

No more burgers, no more skies
no more moonlight
no more fries.

Just a sobbing morning.

-bejay