Poetic attempts.

For most of my Saturday, I was stuck at home reading Marlowe and Raleigh's "bickering" on love by way of the iambic tetrameter. I'm not really much of a poet -- actually, no, I'm not a poet at all, period. I cannot write poetry to save my life, even if I wanted to. In fact, I think I am the antithesis of poetry. There is nothing poetic about me, which is tragic, considering I am a CW major. I guess I have to thank the gods of Fiction and Non-fiction for saving my literary ass.

But I did do something close to poetic and that is getting myself a knitted top from Freeway's National Artist Collector's Series featuring Jose Garcia Villa. It has the poem "Farfelu" on the back and can be worn as either a top or a mini dress. I will put myself under the illusion that maybe wearing clothes with poems on them will rub off on me physically, then eventually mentally and emotionally. Ooh, I hope the gods of Poetry somehow repay me for this one day. There should be points for effort.

Since I am hardly ever poetic, I can never give anyone the satisfaction (or humiliation) of getting poems from me. Not even songs. Nope, not for Valentine's, for birthdays or other special occasions -- expect nothing. My words find other means of being coherent: they come together in sentences, not verses. I can, however, give someone the humiliation (or satisfaction) of being mentioned in this blog through perfectly adequate nonfiction: an anecdote.

The other night, I couldn't fall back asleep after having awoken at one in the morning. I can blame it on stress messing up my body clock, or my body missing my dorm bed, or my thoughts cluttering my mind but nonetheless I watched a movie in my iPod to free my head of all the weariness. Finally, I dozed off but not without the stress. I dreamed I was in the passenger seat, driving around the Oval, feeling frustrated and tired. It felt like I just had an exam or a paper to rush, and I was physically and mentally bruised. But as the rain slowly sprinkled the windshield to make up for the tears welling up in my eyes, he whose hands rested on the stirring wheel pulled over just in between Melchor and Malcolm Hall to hug me.

I woke up, feeling like it wasn't a dream. The rain, the setting, all the other elements were poetic. Even the words. But it wasn't just a dream. And I know. Though set in slumber, it was creative nonfiction at its finest.

Dear July,

What the hell is taking you so long? Please move quickly, you're stressing me out.

Writer's block.

You have no idea how frustrating it is to have five different Word documents open, some blank, others incomplete, all in hopes of finally coming together for one paper. I keep losing my stream of consciousness, I keep changing my mind, I keep going off track and missing the point. No matter how badly I want to get it done, it just doesn't happen. I'm sorry English 42 but I just can't seem to find the words to write about regionalism in American literature in the early 19th century right now.

You have no idea how difficult it is to suddenly be left staring at the ceiling in bed, placing yourself under the deep recesses of the night when you've been desperately forcing your tired body to sleep for the last hour or so. I know I've said insomnia has become a surprising but sometime-welcome friend, but not right now. And especially not in my bed at home. I don't know what happened exactly but every time I lay my head on my pillow and face the wall I've been staring at longingly before I slumber for the last eighteen years of my life, I just can't sleep. It's as if the bed isn't the same anymore, this isn't where my head is supposed to rest. I'm guessing it's because my bed at the dorm has become cozier than this one and that a part of me has started believing that dorm is home, not this one. The one right there is my bed, not this one. The place where I can completely relax is that small, single bed by the cluttered bedside table, not this one. I'm sorry bed but I just can't seem to sleep comfortably like I normally should in you and it angers me right now.

You have no idea how exasperating it is to be pressured unnecessarily into something you don't think about because it's something you actually fear. I'd like to believe I'm doing fine with handling all the stress of being a student of a course that's completely subjective and talent-based, an only daughter with parents and family having only the best dreams for me, and an over-all sane person, but when something unexpected gets thrown at me so suddenly, I'm afraid I just might topple. I don't worry about my grades not because it doesn't matter but because I don't want to care right now, right when everything is still happening. I don't want high school happening all over again -- this time, I want to do things my own way, without people expecting medals and certificates of me. I'm sorry people but I just can't afford to be pressured to becoming this perfect, ideal character you created of me, but who isn't really me.

You have no idea how annoying it is to realize unexpectedly that you've finished an entire blog entry, and still not an entire paper. Damn it, creative juices, can't you get your priorities straight?! I need you for academics, not ranting.

But oh God, how I needed that.

So far, keeping it together's been enough.

"How are you, Karla?"

Default question. So easy to answer. But really, so difficult to take seriously. Do they really want to know, or are they just being polite? Cos if it's the latter, well then, Okay lang. And technically, that's not a lie because of course I'm okay. But I guess it's also a half-truth because that's not all there is to it. I'm okay, and more.

There are so many things that can be said, that can be written about how I am right now. As I've said before, I was never really the cheesy type, although I know deep within the recesses of my brain lies a repressed cheese ball. I guess I don't give in to that because based on experience, it's when I recognize the happy state that things end, or at least momentarily stop being happy. I'm afraid of these two things, primarily: of my words not translating the emotion completely, and of me jinxing it.

But when I'm in the middle of something so completely different from what I'm used to, when I'm currently riding a wave of contentment and gladness, when things are not how I expected them to be but so much better, I'm also afraid of letting things slip by without having some proof other than my fail of a memory to remind me of them. I want it written down, at the back of my notebook, in quick notes in my cellphone, in status updates, in this blog, somewhere.

As opposed to what Hollywood has been shoving down everyone's throats, this kind of love is not this perfect, grand, all-encompassing feeling, though. It's like a simple, little secret, like tumbling into bed after a long day. Having the pillow between your arms, the blankets wrapped around your legs, with your old shirt and comfy shorts -- it's not the most striking part of the day, but it's the most comfortable, the most needed. It's not when you're most beautiful, but it's when you feel most like yourself. It's warm, it's cozy.

I don't know if comparing a relationship to sleeping is a good enough metaphor or just a reflection of how sleep-deprived I am. But I suppose it answers the question: For everything else that sucks about life, there is something (and someone) I look forward to at the end of the day. So I guess that definitely makes me more than okay. I'm good. We're good.

Trivia of the Day.

I just found out that our course, Creative Writing, was originally called Imaginative Writing when it was established in 1961, until its name was changed in 1989.

We would have been called Imaginative Writers. Which sounds so cool! But our barkada would have been called ImEng'g. Which sucks.

Today.

Today I feel like being random.

Today is the day I've been waiting for after a month's worth of stress and hassle: suspension of classes. With the heavy rains and the strong winds embracing me as the morning unfolded, I finally got my much-needed rest. ELEVEN HOURS OF SLEEP. Eleven glorious, beautiful hours! I haven't felt so rested in such a long time. While I don't think that's enough to completely wipe off all the sleep debt I've accumulated since college began, I think it's sufficient to keep me going for a week or so.

I think that may be the most productive thing I did today.

Today feels like the world has been turned one shade darker and suddenly everything is gray and pleasant. I always like this weather. I nestle in between sheets and cuddle with my pillows, and feel like things are going to be okay. Much like how life is pretty much going for me. Turbulent times have passed, and pain has done a good job of breaking me a part. But now, I feel calmer, more secure. Like the aftermath of a rainy day - things are not the same, but they are alright. Everything is cozy, everything is right.

Today I'm proofreading my English 21 critical paper on The Canterbury Tales. I'm doing a deconstruction on dominance & submission using The Wife of Bath's tale. Kinky, 14th century style. It was intriguing for me how someone from a time when women were considered second-class citizens could claim dominance on their men, and how these rich, affluent husbands allowed them to do so. It's fascinating how the need to lose control and be vulnerable is just as important as the need to be in power. We thrive on dominance, but we also desire submission and inferiority. I've always seen myself as a dominant type, but I honestly also like the feeling of being dependent, of leaning on to someone. I guess this makes me a.. versa? :)) CL184 would be so proud of me.

Today I'm craving for ice cream, McFlurry in particular, and much to me and my dormmates' surprise (and disappointment!), McDonald's Katipunan is closed! Goodness, how is that even possible? I know the power's been cut but it was restored a few hours ago and we couldn't believe we couldn't have our fill of nuggets and fries just when we needed it most. McDonald's is supposed to be this constant, permanent presence in the life of stressed-out college students -- it's not supposed to close. Nghhh.

Today is a Stars kind of day. I think the reason I hold this band so dear to me is because there is no one else out there who can sing about love and hurt so exquisitely like they do. They tell stories of life and despair, of sunny days and hurricanes, but always in such a beautiful, cohesive way. They're the perfect companion for staying in bed and refusing to get out of the sheets, or sailing through a perfectly fine day. They always, always make me feel better.

Today I feel like being random. But in all my randomness, for the first time in a long time, I feel consistency. I feel like everything finally makes sense, like everything has fallen into their right places.

Today I'm okay.

January 14th.

Little black shadows of rain droplets covered her legs. She hugged herself a little and felt the warmth of her new jacket. It was a new feeling, taking a ride with him. Disturbed was playing in the background, but somehow in the iPod inside her head, it was John Mayer providing the score to that moment.

She steals a glance at him. Eyes firmly planted on the road. She wanted to say something to break the silence, but decided not to. It was raining hard that afternoon, but she felt warm and fuzzy inside.

She could get used to this.