kim.southisms.com

Unti-unting nawawala
Sa itim ng lalim ng dagat
lumubog ito at di na muling
umahon
Hinila ng sariling bigat
taimtim at kumikimkim
ng sigaw
Umangkin ng lawak
at tumakas sa dilim
Doon sa ilalim
sa karagatan ng kawalan

Sa limot ay may ligaya pagka’t
Ang siyang hindi naabot ng alaala
Siya’y hindi mahahawakan ng kalungkutan
Tila ito’y pagsubok ng buhay
ang pag-awat ng paghihiganti
at ang pagsuyo ng awa
para sa iyong sarili

Sa gabi mas mainam
at mas nakakalimutan
ang lahat ng damdaming
pinagyaman na pakawalan

I secretly wished
I could make you warm inside
So I cooked for you

Writing is an outlet for me but, there are rare occasions when I decide to write with an active voice. Moments when it is me talking sans the abstraction of a poem, an essay or some other literary execution. Isn’t it ironic that I expose myself to an anonymous audience while I try to write a secretive piece? Well, it is no secret to the one who understood, if they realized that it was OUR secret after all. If it speaks to them, knowing me personally, what my story is at that very moment then they’ve been hit without me having to admit it. The trick is not to address them directly. I pretend that it is for everyone when more often than not, the message is just for one person.

The classic teaching no matter the form of expression is to always mind your audience. I think the rule stuck with me and realizing that now annoys me. For I always have a penchant for contradicting the obvious and would like to exercise my right to not give a fuck who my audience is.

Ah, the beauty of these things.

Anyway, today is April 19th 2012. Nothing special about today. I could describe it in detail but that would be too self-absorbed. Plus I think it lacks imagination. So let’s all pretend that what I’m about to tell you is exactly what happened to me today. Just remind yourself later that it is entirely fictional. Here goes.

I woke up groggy. It was six in the morning. I got up and took a shower. In the shower I noticed that I ran out of shampoo. So I have this neat trick of using my shower gel as a shampoo and tried to make my hair bubble, which worked but not to my satisfaction. I love bubbles. After I showered, I looked at myself in the mirror for about half an hour, practiced my smile and checked my cabinet to decide what gunk I have to put on my face to maintain its youth. I stretched in front of the mirror and did jumping jacks. Did I mention I’m naked the whole time? I remember cupping my breasts and squeezing my tummy, which had been gaining some lately. It made me think of this drunken promise I made to a friend that by the age of 28, if I have no one and he has no one, we will have to marry each other and have kids like a typical heterosexual couple. It would be a marriage of convenience and besides we liked each other enough to actually have high hopes that we will end up happily married. I think my mom just can’t wait for me to turn 28 if she knew about this arrangement. You see, I am 23 now and I am a lesbian. I have about five years left. Five years. That’s high school for some. I panicked. I need to have someone in five years.

This motivated me to go to the gym. Any minute from here on forward, I have to be prepared to meet the love of my life.

Back in the Philippines I met a girl who gave me this advice. She confessed that she was in love with me. I told her I was in love with someone else and besides I avoid getting involved with bisexual women. We were in a pub, sitting in front of the bar when we had this conversation.

“But does she love you?” N asked.

“No,” I said in reply. “She made it perfectly clear that she doesn’t.”

“Is that why you keep asking me if you look okay? You’re going to meet her later, aren’t you? That’s why you can’t stay with me past nine.”

“Hey…”

“It’s okay, I understand,” She stood up from her bar stool and I caught her with a rueful smile. That flash of sadness moved me. At that very moment I felt attracted to her. I noticed how her face turned as red as her dress. Her hair falling gracefully in front of her face. She continued, “I mean, you have to be ready in case she finally took a second look and started feeling the same way.”

I looked at her and I saw her for the beautiful woman that she was. She was vulnerable and I suddenly had the urge to put my arms around her. Instead, she stood in front of me and kissed my cheek, left some cash on the counter and walked away. At the door, she paused for a moment. I watched her back waiting for her to turn her head, but she never did.

At the gym, I thought of N. Would she count on my second look? What would it be like to see her again? Would she be so beautiful I couldn’t possibly resist her? And if I started to feel something for her, would we be on the same page? People are so unreliable. We may fall in and out of love. The next person could or could not be the love of your life. Who is this love of your life anyway? That one person. As Julie Delpy so famously exclaimed in a neurotic fashion, the concept is absolutely evil!

I spent lunch in a coffee shop carrying a book written by the Dalai Lama. It was a nice book to carry around because it had the word “Happiness” on it. The truth is, I haven’t read a single line. The whole time I was on my smart phone playing an app called “Draw Something”. The object of the game is simple. You draw something and your friend tries to guess it, then you take turns. It was my first time guessing today. I didn’t realize that it showed you the entire drawing process. I suddenly felt awkward because in one drawing, I remember cleaning the slate so many times and using the eraser liberally. It made me think of how embarrassing that must be if real life operated in such a way. Come to think of it, it somewhat does. Everybody could see all of your mistakes and how desperately you want to correct them. Wouldn’t it be great to just show the final output? The one which was socially-acceptable. Yet, people have to see you fumble through life and make all these awkward strokes. If it took you so much time to draw, say, Shamu, they’d keep guessing what it is until the picture becomes comprehensible. Some get it in the end, some don’t and demand an explanation for your laughable version of an Orca.

So what about the Dalai Lama? I got tired of drawing and nobody seemed to want to play with me, so I stared at the book of Happiness. It was basically an unopened book. Something about it daunted me. I bought it in a whim because I thought I could use a few tips on how to become happy. Which doesn’t mean I’m unhappy, just that I could use some more happiness. I thought about reincarnation and how it would be nice to have a conversation with someone at that very moment about the possibility of having had that conversation already in a past life. But then I didn’t have someone to talk to. So I bolted Starbucks and headed home.

It was a warm afternoon. I thought of her and what she must be doing or thinking or doing. How Spanish is so difficult to learn all by myself. I thought of how I should eliminate all these thoughts. I thanked myself for promising never to use the internet when these thoughts occur and how I’ve miraculously managed. Ah, what it does to your brain when you gratify your curiosities. Your brain likes to recycle material and is therefore likely to reward you for some bad habits.

I guess the trick is to occupy yourself with good habits. Fill your mind with ideas that there’s possibly no room for the rest. And so I sat in front of the computer and read up on psychological findings on unrequited love.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not the same bad habit shit. I thought it was very therapeutic as well as very rebellious. You know how people go through an emotionally challenging period that makes them say, “I don’t understand what I’m feeling” and they go ahead and wallow on these emotions like a crack addict on…crack. That actually is the root of the problem. If you have a math drill you don’t understand, the tendency is to resign yourself to being a math dolt. Instead, why not go ahead and solve it until you suddenly feel such a profound understanding of why Descartes came up with the Cartesian plane. So obvious but genius, right? Well, you must be. So I taught myself what I could dig up about MY greatest weakness. I was stunned by my findings.

Findings that I don’t feel like discussing through here. If you ask me, I will tell you.

Over dinner, my brother asked me if I’ve ever been on a roller coaster ride. I said non-ironically that I’ve been on many. He said, well good, because a couple of weeks from now we’re going to try out six flags. Six what?

“You know, six flags.” He then proceeded to show me a two minute Youtube video of a roller-coaster ride which made me puke. Go ahead, call me a sissy. I have a deathly fear of amusement parks, roller-coasters, tunnels of horror and the like. I also have fear of the deep and dying of some freak accident I have no control over. It’s funny because, time and again, nothing’s ever happened to me. I guess wakeboarding was the exception because despite the initial fear, after having done it, I kept going back. Plus it spoke to my vanity because they say it works out a lot of muscles you never thought you could work out. Anyway the point is, riding a roller-coaster is not like wakeboarding.

“Promise me!” Daniel was getting on my nerves.

“Look, you go ahead and do it. That’s your high.”

“It’s totally safe! After the first ride, you’ll be ready for the rest. You’ll keep coming back.”

That made me think. You know, maybe I don’t want to have a try even if I know I might like it.

“What are you so afraid of?” Daniel asks the most obvious questions, which strikes me in such an off-handed way that the answer is never obvious.

As the night grows closer to midnight, I stared at my phone waiting for it to light up.

I picked it up and started to draw something. Let’s see if they can figure this out.

I imagine my muses in the same room. We are discussing “what happened” as well as “what is my problem” to help me understand the events of the past. Naturally, they surround me on a hot seat. The atmosphere is intense as we enter the scene with everyone now past the point of pleasantries.

Disclaimer: The following is completely fictitious or are at least representations of certain characters in my life. They are numbered for the purpose of avoiding confusion, not necessarily according to the order of our affair.

Me: I know I should have just been content with what you ALL had to offer, but you see, I’m just human. I want more. It’s just so annoying why it had to be each of you, at a particular time. What is wrong with acting on my feelings?

Muse 1: Well, don’t say you weren’t warned. I was very explicit in the beginning.

Muse 3: Me too.

(Muse 2 and 4 nod)

Muse 3: Look, Kim. You don’t listen. I thought you were a good listener. And you’re smart. You knew what you were getting in to. I just wanted a friend.

Me: Who you did adult stuff with…

Muse 3: But that’s really not what I wanted. I wanted a constant companion. Yeah, we had sex but you know…I can’t keep up with you. (I cover my face at this point.) Weren’t you listening? Listen to yourself!

Muse 2: She listens but selectively. I respect you, Kim, you know that but you are so stubborn. We’ve talked about this. There’s no need to bring up the same conversation.

(Everyone murmurs in agreement)

Muse 2: Plus you didn’t try to understand my situation. I imagined being with you too, at some point, but we could never be together unless the circumstances were any different.

Me: Of course! But ladies, you know I can make things happen. Circumstances are just like any other obstacle. That can be changed too.

Muse 4: You can’t force it. It just has to happen naturally.

Me: What then is unnatural?

Muse 4: Hmm, good question.

Muse 3: I have an answer. What’s unnatural is if we’re not on the same page.

Muse 2: I wouldn’t call it unnatural but…you even talked about those memories you have when we became in unison. You could consider those instances as moments when we were on the same page.

Muse 3: Maybe what happened is that the page has been turned while you linger.

Me: Yes, I can be like that. I tend to read a line on a book over and over because I like it so much.

Muse 1: You think too much, you know. Okay, mine was a different story. I was fine sharing benefits with you (looks over at Muse 3 sympathetically and Muse 3 looks away). I mean, yeah, whatever – we could definitely have fun. But you were so eager! What happened? I just wanted my friend back.

Me: (exasperated) You want a lot of things. I felt so misled – all those mixed signals. You like me today, tomorrow I don’t hear from you. Your pushing and pulling drove me crazy!

Muse 1: Well, how was I supposed to talk to you when you were so hostile! You kept sniping on things I can’t do anything about. We make for great conversations and we had fun – but you should have kept it light. You know, I hated tension. I don’t think anyone else here can handle it.

Me: No, I’m beginning to see no one IS ever ready to handle it. Okay, fine. Maybe there was some error in that. I tend to jump in, but I can’t help myself.

Muse 1: The point is not to jump in.

Me:STILL, can’t you tell how I was like a yo-yo with you? Even our friends noticed.

(Muse 3 gets up and everyone looks)

Me: What’s up? Are you alright?

Muse 3: I’ve had it. This discussion is pointless. I’m going home to watch some show on food network. I also need to water my plants.

Muse 1: (to Muse 3) That’s way too cold. We’re not done. If you care about Kim, you would stick around. I see, it all makes sense now. Kim told me all about you.

Muse 3: (Looks at me with a betrayed look) WHAT? You told her about us? What has she got to do with us? She has no business knowing anything about us.

Me: Okay, sorry. She was my confidante during that time. And by the way, I don’t care if you want to watch TV or water your plants. Go.

Muse 2: There’s no need to be hostile here. Let’s just focus on the task at hand, what we need to talk about. Anyway, Kim, what was your purpose for bringing us all here?

Me: I wanted to imagine what you would tell me. I wanted to hear from all of you where I went wrong. What I’m supposed to do when I meet another muse.

Muse 1: First of all get this in your head: YOUR MUSE IDEA IS BULLSHIT. Life is not all dandy and romantic. Just because you want to perpetuate your own drama doesn’t mean people want to be part of it.

Muse 3: Aha, so you do talk sense.

(I start to bow my head at this point. Muse 4 watches me feeling queasy.)

Muse 1: Of course. And I still think you’re a bitch. You used Kim. You and your double standards with her.

Muse 3: What do you know about me?! Kim, who is she? What have you been telling her? You can’t talk to me like that – do you know who I am?

Muse 1: Just enough. And by the way, I don’t care who you are. I’m going to say what I want to say.

Muse 2: No need to be catty… We’re here to help Kim, somehow. Although we’ve all tried to make her understand in our own way.

Muse 1: Oh, shut up. You’re no different. You used Kim too. Let’s start with that and maybe that will help her UNDERSTAND. And from what I gather, you completely deserted her when she needed you. When she defended you.

Muse 2: She knew that I can’t be with her. Not that time. (Looks at me, pleadingly.)

Me: How about now?

Muse 2: Not yet. I don’t know. Maybe someday.

Muse 3: See, Kim? I was kinder to you. I didn’t give you false expectations. I told you that we would never be together.

Me: (sarcastically) Yes, that makes me feel a lot better.

Muse 1: (at Muse 3) But you lied to her about so many things! You left the country, leaving her to take care of your house and your dog. Then you ran off to Vegas to get MARRIED?! Even I think that’s a rather low blow.

Me: Ladies, wait a minute–

Muse 3: Excuse me, how is that ANYONE’S business? What I do with my life is entirely up to me! I kept it from Kim for a reason.

Muse 1: And that reason is to keep her on a leash while you had your little MARRIAGE.

Muse 3: Oh, don’t be such a saint yourself. You flirted with her incessantly!

Me: I wouldn’t say incessantly.

Muse 1: Yeah, sure we flirted and it was completely natural. But nothing tops MARRIAGE. And you number 2, I don’t know what the deal with you is but if you didn’t actually have the courage to be with her, why prattle about getting together in the future? Like that’s going to happen. (Regards both 2 and 3) You know, I thought I had issues but the both of you are just reeking with it.

Muse 2: I’m leaving. I can’t stand this.

Muse 3: Are you happy now, Kim?

Muse 1: A lot happier without you.

Muse 4: (whispers to me) So these are your so-called muses?

Me: Yep.

When I think about the women in my life, I think of the private moments when we moved in perfect unison. I think of us as though we were in a film, watching the two of us with a profound sense of timelessness. There is a scene, two women cocooned in a bedroom, naked as we were and feeling no shame whatsoever as we’re lying next to each other talking, while the air was thick with the smell of sex. Then with another woman, a stolen kiss but one which was so passionate that as she reminded me of the possibility of being caught, her lips remained drawn to mine as I mumbled reassuringly that nothing will happen. In one memory – yet another woman – I was washing the dishes as I wait for her to get off the phone with her girlfriend when suddenly I felt her hands wrap around my waist from behind me. And that look. Damn, I remember some lustful glances – not all as they are too many to count! Then there is that slow moment, when I take her cold hands and study them, every vein, every wrinkle, and every bony protrusion. I could get drunk in the memory of it all. Deep sighs. Those tender touches.

Breathtaking kisses.

I love to kiss women. It’s so humbling how I’ve kissed so many lips. Each has always a distinct character. A shape. A movement. A stiffness. A bashfulness. A hunger. My muses always leave me hungry for the curious features that they have. Even when I have reached a point when I think of all the pain they have caused me. Like sirens they beckon me incessantly but with a deathly tune, one which will lead to my demise unless I tied myself to the boat and summon all my willpower to resist it like Odysseus did.

My muses move me in so many ways. Such as this habit of mine to sublimate my passions especially in moments when they have inflicted me the most pain. And in effect, I try to move them as much as they have moved me by reminding them of my torment. My words can have such a tremendous effect on them internally. I can see it in the way they respond. Let alone the fact that they do, is a loud remark. Sadly, I have seen some moved to tears. Some angry. Some cornered. Funny, how I have always been pegged as the meek one. My violence comes in words as they cut as deeply as knives. They secretly resent me for it, for making them feel vulnerable to my words. How else was I to justify my irrationality of loving my muse without expressing the pains of my passion? How else was I to let them know that they have completely disarmed me, leaving me defenseless? When I tell them how I feel, am I not holding up a mirror of their own desires, albeit not necessarily for me? I try to tell them that I completely understand and believe and share the same philosophical and poetic renderings about love. I knock and knock and knock. They hear it but very rarely do they heed. I always thought of the closed door metaphor. They know I am still outside waiting but they pretend for a moment that I don’t exist. Indeed, I only fall in love with strong women for rare are those moments when they surrender themselves to me. Completely. They are always, always, always holding back.

For there is this advice going around that it is foolish to just fall in love. To grow so deeply so quickly. How can you fall for someone you do not know? What draws your eyes to a stranger? Is it not a magnet of sorts? Women get scared to play along with something that was not in the original plan. They think it is absurd. Oh, and there is this common feature among my muses: they always imagined me as a friend. There always comes a point at the height of my indignation, I want to just shove that friendship up their beautiful asses (also a common feature). In the words of the character of Jack Whitman in the film, The Darjeeling Limited, I wish I had the courage to tell them this, “I promise I will never be your friend. No matter what. Ever.”

However, I see no other way of keeping them.

And thus begins the sobering bout for reconciliation and return. Return to the possibility of having a relationship with her like what I have with the rest of the people in my life – those who I care about but am not in love with. I get out of bed and stop dreaming. I eliminate the thought of all possibility of us being together. For these thoughts are so powerful that they cripple me if I let them. Dreams. Pure infantile wishes.

You might ask what are the content of these dreams. Simple, really. They are the stuff made of kisses. Sweet embraces. Knowing looks. Endless laughter. Adventures. Loving words.

The words will no longer be meant to disarm. They will be kind and encouraging. They will be the supplement to her already strong will. Instead, my muse and I will be side by side. I will arm rather than disarm.

I have learned that there is a quality I have. When I have been treated as a lover to my liking, the more I become a friend.

As far as I’m concerned, these women always want the shortcut. Why make a lover of someone who is truly a friend?

For I.P.

There’s nothing fancy about her appearance. She likes to tie her hair up in a ponytail and wear monochromatic clothes. Maybe a touch of burgundy here and there, but sparingly. However, in a crowd you will notice her for her stark fair skin as white as alabaster. Also, her face has a quality to it – a delicate but determined look – which requires a second, even, a third look. You will never know that…

She takes her time in the morning. As she rolls out of bed, she regards her aloof cat with all the sweetness of a doting mother. Cradles her as the feline resists. Shall I let her out? Does she still have food? She contemplates and looks around her room for something to do. Suddenly, work grazed her thoughts and she feels a sharp yet sobering tightness in her face. The day waits and she wants to sleep in, but she goes to the bathroom. Runs the water. Hesitates to get in for the first splash.

She likes to let the light in her room. Her dark brown eyes squinting as the sunlight slices through the blinds. She proceeds to work. There, she has a smile for each familiar face and they all think she’s a sweet girl. She goes about some tasks but slips in irrelevant distractions from the internet.

When work finishes, she finds some quiet time walking back to her car and driving home with the radio off. It’s automatic. She goes home and thinks about her bed, her cat and maybe, opening up her laptop for more internet distractions.

Time flies. Distractions. More distractions. Her mind becomes a leviathan stitch the more time she spends alone.

Then a voice. She finds someone to talk to. The timber of the voice echoes in the walls of her consciousness and recognizes it forever. She directs her thoughts inwardly but speaks with alacrity. And then a click. The line disappears and so does the voice. The vacuity of distance seeps in and people become imaginary again due to the lack of physical presence. She imagines the next meeting. After all, she would rather spend time with someone in person. To have the chance to watch each other’s irrepressible facial contortions over a nice meal or drink.

Lately, she thinks a lot in English but there are times when some of her sensibilities are inadequately expressed by it. Maybe at home she is understood more. Quizás.

She sleeps on one side and pictures a phantom arm around her, wrapping her in embrace. She feels loved again, for an eternity of a second as she fades in to sleep. Sweet dreams turn dark and sweet and dark and oblivious. Hopefully, tomorrow she forgets everything in order to start the day with the lightness of a routine. So that when your eye catches her on the street she has that energy which makes you wonder and take a second, no, a third look.

Time does not make sense to me right now. 4 in the morning in California still feels like my nocturne back home. I am a nocturnal person.

However, I attempted on my first night to sleep “on time”. Sleep at night and get up in the morning for the new time zone. The next day I fell terribly ill. Or maybe those were withdrawal symptoms for three days off the tobacco.

God, I want a cigarette.

A year, four years, even five
of smoking cigarettes
pleasure blows leave us hungry
and fumbling for more
or exasperated
breathless, even
fractured
later decrepit

A year or two
of time cascading fleeting
desires, shove people to
forget what once seemed like
memorable conversations

Good mother, bad mother. I believe one day I might end up being both.

***

Once, I have been told that I hold no grudges. I gave this some thought. I believe myself to be incapable of hate toward others. When I am gripped with rage it is often self-afflicted. In the event that I become hostile, I never do so point blank, yet I am capable.

Hostility is a gesture of frustration, usually toward the people I have strong feelings for.