You’re a lot of sun.
A lot of wind.
A lot of rain.
And a lot of storm.
Afraid of your being.
Of how one person.
Can be so full of.
You’re a lot of sun.
A lot of wind.
A lot of rain.
And a lot of storm.
Afraid of your being.
Of how one person.
Can be so full of.
The one thing I hate both as a writer and as a human being is clutter. I hate the sound of the word. That sound it makes when my tongue hits the roof of my mouth and pushes to the back of my teeth; clutter. It drives me nuts. And that is not the worst. It paralyzes me.
That is why I take the pain to clear my desk at the office at every given opportunity. I do this before I start work, and before I leave. It’s constant. I also do this in-between stuff. As soon as I begin to get that feeling of mess and confusion, something needs to go somewhere. Something needs to go back into its space. My mind and body cannot rest until my desk is free of junk.
When I come home it’s the same. Even though I take the pain to make sure my room is as tidy as it can be, I always find something to pick up.
The first thing I do when I wake up is to lay my bed. Note, not when I wake up in the morning, but when I wake up. So it doesn’t matter what time of the day it is. It’s been like this for years. I do not go out of my room without straightening the sheets, and making sure the pillows, blankets, and other things are clean or neatly folded. I am always rearranging books; tearing them down and then rearranging them because I have to. They have to be orderly.
My shoes are not spared either. I want them sitting perfectly on the rack; left-right-left-right. In that order.
My wardrobe. The one place I don’t mess with. All of my girlfriends know this. I will do anything. I will give anything so they don’t do girl stuff in my wardrobe; like pick and drop. A couple even blackmailed me with that.
You’d be surprised I even hate it when the notes in my purse are jumbled. I want all of my money arranged in a particular order.
My friends think I am obsessed. I’m not. I just really hate clutter.
When I was in senior year (level 400) at the university, I had this friend. Matter of fact, I was sleeping over at her place one-time because we needed to work on our thesis. We agreed to take turns sleeping so that one of us would wake the other.
That night before she slept, I watched her arrange all of her stuff around her, on the bed, leaving just some small space for her body. She told me she could never sleep unless there was stuff on her bed. Stuff like clothes, books, whatever. I was shocked.
I was shocked because it was the exact opposite for me.
I cannot, under any circumstance, sleep with stuff on my bed. It takes my breath away. And it’s not the good kind of taking breath away. I will choke to death. My body will be restless. My mind too. And I will start to itch all over. That happens to me when I am very uncomfortable. That’s why I hate to be out in the rain, especially when it’s mud-spattered. I tend to itch.
Clutter is not my friend. Perhaps it’s even my worst enemy. It doesn’t only affect my life negatively, but my writing too.
Sometimes I tear sheets out of my journal or workbook just so I can start afresh. I’m not afraid of starting afresh because I produce better when I do. When I get ideas for a poem and I start writing something down and I try and try and it just doesn’t make any sense, I let it go. I cancel it. Tear it up. Throw the sheet away. I put it in my past and tape it there. Then forget about it. I don’t like the past haunting me. I don’t like the what ifs. I want it gone. I want a clear mind to move forward.
It doesn’t necessarily mean I forget the idea I had for the poem, no. The idea is still there. The foundation is still there. It is the construction and the structure that changes. And for the better. It’s almost 100% guaranteed for me. I produce better.
It’s maybe why I keep a lot of journals. Because I need new pages every now and then. I’m a diarist. I recently found my diaries of 10 and 15 years ago with all sorts of things in them.
Maybe I’ll talk about that some other day.
But clutter, of any form, does not make me productive. It kills my creativity. I cannot write when my desk is a hot mess. I can’t concentrate. I feel like there’re lots of creepy little things standing on me.
It has the same effect on my life, as a person. Some years back, I deleted almost all of my contacts because I wanted to start afresh. That didn’t necessarily stop people from calling me, but it did stop me from calling people who were, more or less, not adding any kind of value to my life. It gave me a lot of space to breathe and allowed me to invest more of my time into profitable things and people.
I intend to do this often.
Another thing I do to declutter my life is that, once in a while, I turn my room around. I change the position of stuff. Like I shove the bed to the other end. I’ve been doing this for years. It leaves a feeling of newness, fresh start, and I like it. Sometimes my situations change for the better when I do this. It’s almost like my whole life turns around too, for the better.
I can’t imagine going through life without decluttering. I have learned, so far, in my life that things have to go. People have to go. To make room for others. To make room for all the better stuff.
It doesn’t mean I don’t care. It just means I care a lot about where my life is headed. People and things that make me a better person and a better writer get to come with me. Otherwise, they are left behind. They become part of a past. Part of all the things I appreciated, but had to let go to become a better person.
Discovering an old novel I was yet to read languishing around the house was a pleasant surprise which tickled and roused all my reading buds. Since I’ve been pushed, somewhat, into a lot of ‘me’ time lately, I can use all of such ‘lost and found’ books, and every so often movies too. In fact, I’ve been alternating between the two for a while now. So yeah, whiles social media has been bustling with US Elections and the Trump effect, I’ve been busy on the yellow pages. Let me remind you again that my favorite kind of books are the ones with the yellow pages.
Honestly, I did a little dance when I found John Grisham’s The Partner. I was happy I had found something ‘new’ to read.
This is the first book I have read from him, and I can promise that if John pulls another stunt like that on me again, I will head straight to his website or wherever I can find him and spell my rage in caps and exclamation marks with all the swear words I can find.
Alright. That settled, let me give you a synopsis of this legally thrilling, but ultimately annoying 468-page book that got me all grumpy last night.
Patrick Lanigan, a young lawyer and newly made partner of a law firm, gets in an accident and dies, leaving behind a wife and a daughter.
Well, so it seems until he comes back to life as Danilo Silva.
Apparently, Patrick was tired of his bad marriage to a superficial and cheating-from-day-one wife, with a daughter he knew wasn’t his. He was stuck in a job he hated and when he covertly discovered that he was going to be fired, faked his own death and bolted with ninety-million dollars of his firm’s money.
With such an amount of money to spend, life could be luxuriant. But it came at a cost; constantly being on the run and fearful of one’s own shadows.
As Patrick foresaw in his meticulous plan, the past finally catches up with him and he is brought home where everyone impatiently waits for a pound of his flesh. But not before the million-dollar question is asked, ‘where is the money’? There are other charges leveled against him; charges of capital murder because if Patrick is alive, then whose incinerated body was found in the car?
The trial is to be one helluva show, and the prosecutors in for one shocking ride!
Now skipping to the part of this book that got all sorts of angry chemicals released into my bloodstream, the end. No, I mean the end of the book. The part where we all want the happily ever after or at least, a satisfying twist. But dear John had something else planned for me.
Seriously John, where the hell did Eva disappear to?!
Such a cliffhanger! I can think of only one way this story could should have ended. That is, Patrick walks, gets reunited with Eva, they have a dozen babies and live happily ever after.
Mr. Grisham, how can you take away this moment in what could have been a perfect story? I mean how can you do this? I strongly demand the end of this story be rewritten or I will write it myself. After all, there’s still two and a half blank pages left at the back. Humph!!!
But folks, outside all this bamboozling, The Partner is quite interesting. Grab a copy if you haven’t read it yet. And when you get to that ‘unfortunate’ end, yeah, I thought so too!
Soda. Mine is soda.
Today I read a post from Tholakele Antamu about how many of us are ‘depending’ on all sorts of things to keep us together. I don’t know what yours is; what you’re doing to be above all this internal and external chaos. I do know mine isn’t wine, although I have been harboring a lot of wine thoughts lately. It isn’t coffee either; I am not that crazy about the black substance that keeps human beings awake. I am only now realizing how much I have depended on soda to get by these few months.
This is my truth. I am not drinking soda casually anymore. I am drinking to survive. I am drinking to somehow be above the stress. All this tiredness. This wooziness. This monotony. I am drinking it with so much need.
I am addicted to it. I crave it. And the craving is even worse after I have had an afternoon nap. I hate afternoon naps, especially if it goes past 4pm because I wake up feeling sick and cranky like I feel right now.
Growing up, my mom always woke us up before 4pm when we napped in the afternoons. She would say, “Napping after 4pm will make you sick.” I don’t know how true this is. But I know for sure my body doesn’t feel good if I nap past that time.
“Many, actually most, of us are taking something or another to cope, be it wine, sleeping pills, coffee, or any other substance.”
All I could think of while reading Tholakele’s post was the ‘life’ sitting next to me (yes, right next to me), and how I was going to indulge in its fizzy goodness.
“We are all suffering in some way or another.”
Yes. But soda makes my suffering BEARABLE. I feel okay after I have had soda. I feel good to go.
“Why are we doing it to ourselves?”
Why am I doing this to myself? I don’t know. All I know is I am trying to survive. I need to get things done, and I cannot do them when all this sloppiness is getting in my way.
“Are we not the people who shape a society?”
I obviously cannot shape any kind of society if I’m not in good shape myself now can I?!
Deep down I feel guilty for how sweet it tastes. For how it soothes my throat and calms my stomach. I feel guilty for the relief it brings. For the new strength. I feel guilty because maybe I am not taking good care of my body. I mean with the calories and sugar bill attached?!
But how else do good things happen if not with some form of addiction, a craving, habit, compulsion? How else can we get all these…‘things’…inside to come out?!
For our rogue minds have a mind of their own.
And everything is right in the moments when they are for us.
Like when we won’t let go because we want to be ‘happiness’ for others at all cost,
even if it means a bad relationship.
Because convenience is staple and maybe lives longer than a broken heart.
Every day we discover parts of ourselves we never thought existed
That beyond the chaos and the suffering
Beyond our fears and our many lacking things
There is a will, more resolute than just conquering life
A promise and hope within us that we desperately must cling to
We have so much strength is it not frightening what we can do with ourselves?
Last night (or should I say this morning) at around 12:30 am, I was doing a little writing. Earlier in the day, I had gone to my cousin for some movies. Now I’m not exactly a ‘latest movie’ buff so it didn’t bother me so much when I realized it was a 2014 Fantasy Sci-Fi. The fact that I hadn’t seen it before was enough reason for me to want to watch it.
I love such movies. Especially on days like this when I want to keep my emotions intact and watch something that has nothing to do with crying or fear. My most recent of these descriptions will be ‘Me Before You’ and ‘Conjuring 2’.
“I have this weird habit of rewarding myself for getting things done”
I remember starting with the first episode which lasted for about 40-45minutes. I continued with the second episode, after which I told myself, “I am going on a movie break to put this article together.” (No, I don’t mean this particular one). When I was done writing it, I remember telling myself again, “Let me just write this second one, then I will reward myself with another episode of ‘The Flash’.
You know, I have this weird habit of rewarding myself for getting things done. I have always rewarded myself, somehow, for getting through work, surviving painful Mondays and irritating Sunday nights.
These little rewards, I have come to believe help to keep me focused on what I do and really do add the spark of joy that kills boredom and monotony. I mostly cannot get anything done if I feel any of these hanging emotions.
I reward myself with snacks too. Yes, I do earn my chocolate and candy bars. Sometimes I reward myself with poetry. It’s the one thing I absolutely enjoy writing. What better way to jolt my body into excitement and back on track to get some other form of work done.
Then there is music. I mostly live on Adele, Asa, Christina Perri, Katy Perry, Taylor Swift, Sia or go all the way back to James Brown, Michael Bolton, Tracy Chapman and Amy Winehouse. Not in that particular order.
There is also ‘social media’ rewards. That is when I allow myself a mouthful of Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or even get to call someone and speak to them for a minute or two.
I believe in giving back to myself someway somehow. It works. I am definitely more productive this way.
Actually, this was inspired by the #kpodolachallenge. But (of course!) since I didn’t get around to submitting it, I figured maybe I should post it on here.
Because love, this morsel, is just not enough
There’s no such thing as a ‘sort of relationship’
There’s no ‘kind of, maybe, let’s be together’
There’s no doubt, ‘baby, I want you, but I’m not sure’
No trying, ‘okay, let’s see if this will work’
Bad Talk. All you’re giving me is drifting words
Words that have no grip
Words that are limp
I can almost feel their sag
Before their last letter escapes your lips
Words, these same
That hop out of your throat
Without feelings or a care
Of the magnitude of their torture
I watch your tongue curl as your lips deliver the poison of a thing
You want going on between us like I don’t have a say
Like I should take it or leave it
Like it’s the best that will come my way
Like I should thank you for this generosity
I cannot begin to tell you, though, how grateful I am
That you show me love, this, much
That you consider me worthy to receive
This charity you give.
But when it comes to matters of my heart
And how it can be shattered into a thousand pieces
By non-commitments like yours
I swear, I’d rather take the lone way home
Because love, this morsel, is just not enough.
Find your wings
And darling fly.
Fly from this place
That brings you no joy.
Someday we will leave
this pain behind,
and all the suffering
that has been etched
on our skin will fade away.
We will tear into new bodies
created out of our will to live.
Home will be beautiful
and I promise,
we will get there.