Sunday, July 20, 2008

Y-Speak

Attack of the Killer D
By Jeffrey M. Tupas/ My turn

BEYEF came out with the most perfect line I have ever come across with -- with regards to my being depressed and its bizarre association with the downpour -- as he tried to clear out the layers of cobwebs that clogged my tubes: Why can't we all be frogs and be happy when it rains?

I had to apologize for not making sense and -- a run-through the conversation later made me realize -- for sounding "yehhyehh" while Fleetwood Mac was persuading me to understand that the poetry in Landslide is not pain, no matter how bleak it may seem.

I blame it on this weird feeling that makes the body feel like an inflatable void that not even the immensity of the release can stop the air from filling in. To outpour is so tiring but keeping the air inside is impossible as it is almost endless. But I will give it to Beyef. He made a good job in the cleaning department, picking up even the spider poops with his bare hands.

It has been a long time since I had a bout with it. It felt new to me but at the same time, it felt like some old friends that I left but remained real. Contrary to what I have been thinking, perhaps it never left me at all -- just there lurking, awaiting for the best timing to launch an offensive.

This one knows me more than my closest friends. This one sees my vulnerabilities. Surely, this one kills.

Requiem for Hair

For more than two years, I allowed the hair to literally go down without me giving it much attention -- even covering a presidential visit -- with mass of it gathered by an overly tired panali at the back my head, and loose portions hanging, caressing both of my cheeks.

It was just like that. Hair was far from being beautiful but the comfort it gave me was unquestionable. It allowed me to achieve that lukaret look. That easy look. That tambay look. Cool. Very kanto.

For two years, I so loved hair that not even one of my greatest depressions succeeded in pushing me to grab a pair of scissors and cut it, never mind if they had their share of depression that they pull themselves off and fall like messy threads littering the bed, the floor.

Hair was just there. A silent witness to my bliss, a loyal companion when I was in pain.

Until recently.

Of moons and more...

Something is really depressing about sadness. I seldom get sad. I am often depressed. Recently, however, I have been swallowed by this old feeling of sadness. Not really constantly. But close. Almost. And, over just anything.

The moon. The new moon. The full moon four nights ago. The rain yesterday.

The sun today. The overcast today. The neighbor's radio this morning. The news.

Les Miserables. The letter I wrote. My expecting of a text message. The text message that I did not get. The text message that I got.

The pine trees at Agusan del Sur. The dried up river of Compostela Valley.

Diwalwal. Space Burger's cheeseburger. The fries... And the mustard... My yellow shirt. My cellphone; the refusing keypad.

My lover. My former lover. The lover that I almost had. The lover that I will never have. The lover that I will never become. His stare. And the smile...

Actually, it was a grin. And more. (email: jeftupas@yahoo.com / www.bananachoked.blogspot.com)

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