very fragmented post; random thoughts
i heard we put up a good fight today before losing 20-6 to steak jagermeister. not bad, considering that a lot of guys on the '06 griffins are rookies. getting there, getting there.
i wanted to play so badly, but my knee has other plans. i haven't been playing football for the past month now because of it. the funny thing is, i got it in basketball when it popped twice in one weekend. my dad's orthopedist friend says it's most likely a partial tear of the acl but i need an MRI to confirm what's really fucking up my knee. i don't know how long it's gonna take but i really am itching to play.
------------------
guys answer my johari window here. :D
------------------
sabi ni pamela alexander:
Semiotics
Pamela Alexander
Rain falls between the notes
the violist in the next apartment plays.
He's one quarter of a distinguished quartet
that hasn't much English; you pass
the same word back and forth. Hello!
What is there to say? The world is dumb
and sings.The world is dumb and speaks
in its big dumb voice that sometimes sounds
like a viola, very nice. Sometimes like diesels. Or
it insists on sign language, waving seasons around
like busy flags. What does it mean that
your heart gets hiccups? The world wants you
to speak its language and you don't know
American Sign or Universal Sign, certainly not
Cosmic Sign. Now your heart wants
an interview. It scribbles madly
on the monitor, giving itself a polygraph test
and failing grandly, proud that it lies.
It never thinks ahead. You're its wrapper,
its bathrobe, and it loves you deeply
but can't remember your name.
------------------
i'm excited to watch munich when it opens. wait, has it opened? it's a spielberg, so few twists and turns in terms of plot are expected.
i still want it to win best picture though, and i'm speaking after having seen only the trailer. premature, maybe, but it does look good.
------------------
as an aside, valentine's day is just around the corner. it's complicated. really.
------------------
another poem in english. i've finally written after two months. as always, feedback (calling on heaven_spawn and anteyes) is appreciated. enjoy, yo.
Stammer
He remembers how the first word breaks as his lips sparsely taper
into a stammer - a signal of sorts to remind him that he is around
her. How the subsequent syllables trail off in mid-stride like cars
stopping and going along a jammed afternoon on EDSA, that is
his work of art. Because he dreams. He dreams of her seamless stride
that reminds him of nights on highways set on cruise control;
or, if he’s watchful of detail, the way her eyelids narrow upward
as she unknots a smile, opaque as the moon’s concave crescent above
a lucky rarity, such as an empty South Expressway at rush hour. He looks
at her as she approaches but his mouth is caught in the gridlock
of speech, a simple hello arriving a syllable or two too many. It happens
amidst alternating, altercating afternoons. He daydreams when silent,
but his thoughts stutter as she weaves in and out of the traffic
in his mind, flipping her hair which speaks clearer than his sentences.
Because that’s all he does. He dreams, but where is the solitude
and lightness in dreams? Even the highway’s white-painted lanes fade,
peel, as if its words were his own. He smiles as she greets him with a wave,
shorter than it takes most of his attempts at one-word answers to her
questions. What, then, would he make of this bumper-to-bumper
situation escaping his lips in the form of a syllable? Even traffic turns
to a predicated predicament, an inconvenience of sorts, because he thinks
speech therapy will do the trick, forgetting that she is the one who leaves him
speechlessly impaired, stopping traffic like she does, whether she’s
ambling or running or staring into the void of a starless sky. He watches
as she walks past him, but his eyes overtake his entire being. Still,
driving the back alleys of his mind he knows, he knows no other meaning
than this: never mind his stammering speech. Between him and her, yet
in his mind, is a two-way street under construction, where words never run
out of pavement to cruise on, where sentences are sustained with the
sturdiness of cement, where watching the skyline-lit horizon while looking
at his hands says never having to come up with half-phrases a syllable or two
too many. He thinks of the things which need not be cured by fluency.
February 10, 2006
i wanted to play so badly, but my knee has other plans. i haven't been playing football for the past month now because of it. the funny thing is, i got it in basketball when it popped twice in one weekend. my dad's orthopedist friend says it's most likely a partial tear of the acl but i need an MRI to confirm what's really fucking up my knee. i don't know how long it's gonna take but i really am itching to play.
------------------
guys answer my johari window here. :D
------------------
sabi ni pamela alexander:
Semiotics
Pamela Alexander
Rain falls between the notes
the violist in the next apartment plays.
He's one quarter of a distinguished quartet
that hasn't much English; you pass
the same word back and forth. Hello!
What is there to say? The world is dumb
and sings.The world is dumb and speaks
in its big dumb voice that sometimes sounds
like a viola, very nice. Sometimes like diesels. Or
it insists on sign language, waving seasons around
like busy flags. What does it mean that
your heart gets hiccups? The world wants you
to speak its language and you don't know
American Sign or Universal Sign, certainly not
Cosmic Sign. Now your heart wants
an interview. It scribbles madly
on the monitor, giving itself a polygraph test
and failing grandly, proud that it lies.
It never thinks ahead. You're its wrapper,
its bathrobe, and it loves you deeply
but can't remember your name.
------------------
i'm excited to watch munich when it opens. wait, has it opened? it's a spielberg, so few twists and turns in terms of plot are expected.
i still want it to win best picture though, and i'm speaking after having seen only the trailer. premature, maybe, but it does look good.
------------------
as an aside, valentine's day is just around the corner. it's complicated. really.
------------------
another poem in english. i've finally written after two months. as always, feedback (calling on heaven_spawn and anteyes) is appreciated. enjoy, yo.
Stammer
He remembers how the first word breaks as his lips sparsely taper
into a stammer - a signal of sorts to remind him that he is around
her. How the subsequent syllables trail off in mid-stride like cars
stopping and going along a jammed afternoon on EDSA, that is
his work of art. Because he dreams. He dreams of her seamless stride
that reminds him of nights on highways set on cruise control;
or, if he’s watchful of detail, the way her eyelids narrow upward
as she unknots a smile, opaque as the moon’s concave crescent above
a lucky rarity, such as an empty South Expressway at rush hour. He looks
at her as she approaches but his mouth is caught in the gridlock
of speech, a simple hello arriving a syllable or two too many. It happens
amidst alternating, altercating afternoons. He daydreams when silent,
but his thoughts stutter as she weaves in and out of the traffic
in his mind, flipping her hair which speaks clearer than his sentences.
Because that’s all he does. He dreams, but where is the solitude
and lightness in dreams? Even the highway’s white-painted lanes fade,
peel, as if its words were his own. He smiles as she greets him with a wave,
shorter than it takes most of his attempts at one-word answers to her
questions. What, then, would he make of this bumper-to-bumper
situation escaping his lips in the form of a syllable? Even traffic turns
to a predicated predicament, an inconvenience of sorts, because he thinks
speech therapy will do the trick, forgetting that she is the one who leaves him
speechlessly impaired, stopping traffic like she does, whether she’s
ambling or running or staring into the void of a starless sky. He watches
as she walks past him, but his eyes overtake his entire being. Still,
driving the back alleys of his mind he knows, he knows no other meaning
than this: never mind his stammering speech. Between him and her, yet
in his mind, is a two-way street under construction, where words never run
out of pavement to cruise on, where sentences are sustained with the
sturdiness of cement, where watching the skyline-lit horizon while looking
at his hands says never having to come up with half-phrases a syllable or two
too many. He thinks of the things which need not be cured by fluency.
February 10, 2006