repressed

i, myself, pent up my emotions inside, and i know they’ll come out someday. uglier than what i expect them to be. i just hope the guitar is nearer to me than the knife when the time comes…

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~ by saikow on October 3, 2007.

One Response to “repressed”

  1. Writer’s Note
    “ to live is to know.”

    A literature professor was meeting his class for the first time.
    “Why are you in this course?” he asked.
    Some seconds have passed, but none of the students dared to answer.
    The professor sensing the awkward atmosphere that this question brought upon the class then smiled.
    “Why do you write?”, rephrasing his earlier question.
    To this the students responded.
    The first one that raised her hand said, “ I write to create my own world”.
    “Uhuuuum”, the professor muttered, nodding his head approvingly.
    “I write because it’s my passion”, another student answered.
    “Good enough for me”, the professor remarked.
    The professor then called on the rest of the class to answer the same question until he came across one student.
    “You, why do you write?”, the professor asked the student.
    “I really don’t know, but I think I write because I feel that much memories will be wasted if not written”, the student answered.
    The professor upon hearing this, stared at the student, then at the class.
    “Very good”, he said clearly in his soft voice.
    The professor then asked his next question.

    Often when we are asked questions about our reasons why we write, we resolve to providing answers like—“I write to create my own world,” or “I write because it’s my passion,” (as mentioned in the story) or “ I write because I like to write”, or even “ I like because I love to write.”
    There is no denying that there are truths in these answers, but as often as these
    answers are uttered or written, these truths are not contemplated upon, thus making these, mechanical answers.
    The story pretty much discusses the role of memories in writing. “One writes what one has lived”
    We can argue as well, say like, that one doesn’t need to live with dragons to write about them. This is true, however “to live is to know”. It is indeed the truest thing to say that one doesn’t need to live with dragons, or even just to see real dragons to write about them, but still one has to know what dragons are, what they do, what they look like, how they are, and the likes, to write about them. Its not enough for one to hear the word dragon and then pooooooooooooof!, a written material on dragons. No, it doesn’t work that way.
    It takes one’s recollection of what he knows, therefore memories, to write.

    Photographs in Pajamas is a literature collection conscious of the fact that memories are not just the remembrance of moments lived but, recollections of knowledge.
    Therefore it was made with a conscious effort to provide the literatures included with a common theme, which is the recollection of the writer’s personal memories.
    The collection includes:
    Testimonial (micro fiction)
    Arabian nights (personal essay)
    The Giant Wrist (poem)
    He, Him and She (not Her) (poem)
    and
    A Poem’s Riddle (monologue)

    Band room

    The A-string broke, and as soon as Xin noticed the snapped out string, laughter filled the band room.
    “Your fingers really are something man”, said Xin.
    “Yeah, they’re maniacs”, I replied, “always starving for the sound of snapping guitar strings”.
    You see this is the reason why I decided to play the bass, tougher strings. “Well, tough my ass, you fuck!” As if the bass could understand. Then I let out a laugh, like that of a terrible king, the kind that’d compete to the stupid drumming of Mun, fattest drummer in the world.
    “Hey you fuck, Mun, stop it!”
    “What’s the deal bitch?!” He shouted back, while hitting the hell out of the poor helpless drum set.
    I swear to all the gods , it was the most irritating thing you’d hear. He was hitting the drums with some super-syncopated beat, while singing some if you love me baby, kiss my heart kind of crap that he composed like since forever and sung over a gazillion times.
    “Hey, instead of talking crap, why don’t you go get another string, we’re not loaded you know, we don’t have enough for another hour”, shouted Mun, as he continued to beat the drums like a seriously sick fuck.
    “Okay, okay, I get the idea you fat bastard, just wait.”
    “Well, get out now, what are you waiting for, get it now so you can snap another string out”, then he laughed hard, innocent but arrogant, yet stupid kind of laugh. Boy, was he really getting inside my nerves.
    The moment I stepped out the band room, I felt like going back. The world outside, is overrated, real and hopeless like a love song.
    ***
    “Tito’s not around, he’s brought the keys with him, if you want you could wait for him, he’s probably on his way back”, the girl in the band room owner’s place said. She’s probably older than me by a year or two, probably 19 or so, kinda cute with her chinita eyes, fair skin, shoulder length straight black hair, kinda sexy, dresses sexy too, cool curves, pretty nice breasts. “Yeah, I guess I could do that, I’ll just wait outside”, I said as cool and as suave as I can, pulling out a stick of cigarette, and lighting it on my way out.
    Some moments have passed, and the cigarette is almost down to its filter. I foolishly shook my head, a little bit to the left, a little bit to the right. Damn, do I feel light, like a feather floating, falling. Truth is I don’t smoke, I mean I do, but not really that much. I’m just one of those occasional smokers. As for me I smoke in either two occasions, in times when I feel like all screwed up, or when I feel like being a good for nothing poser and pretend that I’m all cool, suave and all that kind of crap. As for this very stick, its both.
    “So, another snapped out string?”
    “Uhh.. uh. Yes sir, sorry again”. Damn, I was so busy smoking my lungs out, that I haven’t noticed him.
    “ It’s nothing Kyre. Got used to it by now. So what’s it this time?”
    “A-string sir, Bass.”
    “You’re fingers really are something.”
    “I’ve been told sir, they can’t quite avoid breaking… stuffs.”
    “Here it is kiddo, A-string right?”
    “Yes sir, thanks a lot. Sorry again.”
    “Not a problem kiddo, just try to take it easy on the strings. You snap them out, they break your music. Sometimes that’s the way things are.”
    “Sometimes that’s the way things are.” I wonder what he really meant by that. It’s funny how you could feel like an open book in front of some people, its as if you are story, a same old story being read over and over again.
    ***
    “ Why won’t you say anything! Say it Kyre, I know what’s on your mind, just say it! Don’t let me feel like I’m the worst girl you’ve met!”, her voice echoed deep inside me, like blood, finally gushing out an open wound.
    The cigarette was not enough to burn the memories of last night into ashes, the smoke is not enough to carry the weight of her tears out my chest.
    She told me once that I tell my whole life by keeping so quiet. Maybe she’s right.
    ***
    I hurried my way back into the band room like a fuck. I’ve wasted just enough time I could waste, and to think that Xin’s alone enduring the Mun’s seriously fucked up noise, bothers my conscience a bit.
    The sound of the city’s busy street—the furious blowing of horns, the heavy breathing of the crowd, they all depress me a lot, it seems to me that the everyone is so desperate, so tired, so old.
    Finally I’m back inside the band room, my only clear destination in a very strange world.
    ***
    “Hey you fuck! What took you so long?”, Mun yelled, the instant he saw me.
    “Relax, you fat ass. ‘Hey Kyre, do it fast, will you?” said Xin, calm as usual.
    “Yeah.”, I said, as I hurriedly took the snapped string out of the bass, and in no time, replaced it with the new one.
    I remember the first time I broke a guitar string, it was hell getting the broken string out, replacing it with the new one, tuning it, and all that kind of stuff. But it was a hell of time ago, now the thing goes easy as pie. I guess, that’s just the way things work, you just get used to it.
    “Right, let’s go.”, said Xin as he signaled Mun to count.
    “One, two, three…”
    I had almost wish I’d die that moment, where the last of my memory would be the music we played, cause inside the band room, even the beating of a broken heart is beautiful.
    ***
    Outside, its nothing but a broken part of a system, it beats just because it can’t stop.
    “Hey man, see you later, check the fuck out your bass before the battle.”, said Xin.
    “Smell ya later bitch!”, Mun added, as he foolishly spun the drum sticks between his fingers.
    “Hey, fat ass, bring the tuner of your old man, will you. I don’t want to spend time tuning on stage.”, I said.
    “ Sure.”
    I walked one with the busy crowd, not knowing where to head to, it is as if I’m a helpless child looking for his mother.
    I wonder when will I get used to this strange place and grow up, or will it be easier if I just fall.
    Last night, she told me she was sorry, and that he’s nothing, that she loves me more than him, but it seemed to me that her words and tears are nothing but a sound a snapped out guitar string, and that she is no more than one too. Still in the back of my mind I wonder, maybe its just me, and not her that’s broken, or maybe both us are.
    A snapped out string, a broken melody. Who really is what, and how in hell’s name am I supposed to find out?
    I remember the first time I broke a guitar string, it was hell getting the snapped string out, replacing it with the new one, tuning it, and all that kind of crap, but I got used to it somehow. After all, that’s just the way things work.
    Maybe I’ll just get used to this. I guess, then I would know…_

    The Unwritten
    When your eyes are shut to sleep, I could be the nothingness you don’t see.
    Like a dream, I could be an eve in the wilderness wrapped in damp blue moonlight, or if not, the dying night of the world’s last rose where no star flickers and only the sharpest lightning mourns.
    When the clock strikes your waking hour, I could be the soft light of the morning, the first you see—the upper deck of wooden bed that seems so still like your sleep, or the first sound you hear, if you are lucky enough—the blue bird that sings from afar , or if not—may as well be the cruel creaks of your electric fan.
    When you get up, take a good look around your room, I could be anything that lies around—pillows on your bed which you hugged tightly last night, dirty clothes that hangs around unnoticed, the books in your shelf, picture frames on your table, papers on your floors, the secrets inside your drawers, the skeletons in your closets, the pain in your photographs., or I could be the miserable bread in the corner that you left to rot.
    So fix your room, clean it, maybe then you’ll see me. I could be the folds of your blanket, or I could be every vine and flower embellished in your bed, or every dust on your cold floors.
    I could be your bed room door waiting to be opened, or I could be the knob, waiting to be turned.
    I could be the morning hunger that fills your stomach, or I could be the food the that fills your mouth. Now eat, eat princess—I could be what makes your coffee bitter and sweet, or the grease that makes the fried eggs on your plate look like the high sun above your head.
    I could be the toothbrush that dangles over your sink, waiting impatiently to get inside your mouth to brush your teeth and feel your tongue.
    Because you can’t see or hear me, because you don’t feel and you don’t know me, I have every reason to feel bad and you have every reason to be afraid.
    I could be the insigficant earth under your feet that silently awaits to open and devour you.
    I could the beating of your heart waiting to be written.
    So write princess and color me blood red, write me inside the pages where I cannot escape, where I cannot be anything else, but a little god to tell the promises of your own grace._

    Unwritten Poem’s Love Song

    When your eyes are shut to sleep, I am the black space you see, or I could be your fast changing thoughts between your eyelids and your mind.
    Like a dream, I am beautiful—an eve in the wilderness wrapped in damp blue moonlight, or like a bad dream I could be painful—the dying night of the world’s last rose where no star flickers and only the sharpest lightning mourns.
    When the clock strikes your waking hour, I could be the first light to shine to your eyes, or the first you see—the upper deck of wooden bed that seems so still like your sleep, or the first sound you hear, if you are lucky enough—the sweet chirping of the birds, or if not—may as well be the cruel creaks of your electric fan.
    When you get up, take a good look around your room, I could be anything that lies around—pillows on your bed which you hugged tightly last night, dirty clothes that hangs around unnoticed, the books in your shelf, picture frames on your table, papers on your floors.
    Maybe I am the secrets inside your drawers, the skeletons in your closets, the pain in your photographs.
    I could even be the walls of your room, or the floors. I could be your room. Or I could be the miserable bread in the corner that you left to rot.
    So fix your room, clean it, maybe then you’ll see me. You know, I could be the folds of your blanket, or I could be every vine and flower embellished in your bed, or every dust on your cold floors.
    When you decide to go out of you room, take a fresh pair of eyes. I could be everywhere.
    I could be your bed room door, waiting to be opened, or I could be the knob, waiting to be turned.
    Maybe a fresh pair of ears would help you hear. I could be the lonely song that the blue bird sings from a far, or the sound of your footsteps on your way out.
    I could be the morning hunger that fills your stomach. I could be the food the that fills your mouth. Now eat, eat princess—I could be what makes your coffee bitter and sweet, or the grease that makes the fried eggs on your plate look like the high sun above your head.
    I could be the toothbrush that dangles over your sink, waiting impatiently to get inside your mouth to brush your teeth and feel your tongue.
    Because you can’t see or hear me, because you don’t feel and you don’t know me, I have every reason to feel bad and you have every reason to be afraid.
    I could be the very earth under your feet that silently awaits to open and devour you.
    I could the beating of your heart waiting to be written.
    So write princess and color me blood red, write me inside the pages where I cannot escape, where I cannot be anything else, but a little god to tell the promises of your own grace.

    Apples for the Dying Queen

    How many more happy-endings will she fail
    To have inside the pages of summer’s slave?
    Where the grave earth is forgotten among her tales of eternal cold,
    Where none of her once warm tears, once young smiles, came told
    And she, to whom happy endings are just winter’s hale,
    Yearns for apples no one gave._

    Memories of my childhood have never been beautiful. They haven’t been tragic, sad or even ugly. They are just not that beautiful, a plain and simple truth.
    In moments like this when I am asked to write about these memories, I always get lost when I try to find the prettiest pieces of my young past. I’m quite sure I could catalog some events and label them “the beautiful moments of my childhood” or something like that. But the memories never come easy, and it never felt honest to say that they are the best or the most beautiful, cause if they really are, then I wouldn’t be living the ever so familiar scene of me lying on my bed, pumping on my brains, just to remember some moments that are supposed to be distinctly beautiful, like a dream glowing among my trashy childhood pains.
    As stupid as this may sound, but I look at the memories of my childhood as some things that are never meant to be written in beautiful flowing passages, I don’t think that they can comprehend the plainness of a blank page.
    Still when I want to remember my childhood at its loveliest, I just stay lost inside my desperate recollections, until I remember it at its shortest, until it is simple and strange—a diamond in the rough, until I find myself in loveliest memory of Agrabah’s Arabian nights.
    Ok, now let this essay be personal, the way it should be. As what I’ve said, my childhood has been so-so in when it comes to beautiful memories, but hey, I maybe a little older but I’m still young, but for this very moment while I write in these pages the child in me, the story of Aladdin is the loveliest tale I can tell, or more likely, it’s the story of me enchanted by the endless dreams and magic inside the days and nights of Agrahbah.
    Let my recollection of this memory begin with the evening I first saw the movie Aladdin on Disney Channel. I was in grade three back then. I cant remember how that evening was anymore, but how the night was in Agrabah, that, that I can remember clear as its own night sky.
    That night the moon was bare and blue, and its light wraps the immense deserts of Agrabah, where a man journeys across to tell the story of the lamp, and how it changed the life of a young man. His story begins in a dark night where a dark man waits, with a dark purpose. There stood Jaafar and his parrot Iago.
    The sinister Jaafar and his fast talking parrot Iago are significant pieces of my Aladdin recollections because as far as I can remember their characters gave me the perfect definition of what evil is during those days. Though I’ve seen lots of TV and movie villains before them, their evil seems perfect in to my young eyes. I mean the other villains I’ve seen are nonetheless all bad and evil, perhaps too evil that my young eyes refused to see them. But not Jaafar and Iago, their evil felt so true.
    Buy hey! I’m not writing this essay to talk about Jaafar, Iago or evil for that matter, those things I leave for reality, and besides my memories of the story of Aladdin were not in anyway about evil villains, but memories of endless night skies—the clearest horizons of the bluest moon and the brightest and loveliest stars. My memories of Aladdin were memories of awesome magic carpet rides, the genie in the bottle. A precious memory of the prettiest princess my young eyes have ever seen.
    One of my loveliest memories of Aladdin is Agrabah’s night sky, I think it was the first to show me how beautiful and magical night skies can be. The way it was calm and clear, the way it held the moon and the stars, the way it wrapped the Arabian nights of Agrabah, it was just the most awesome sight I have seen, and that same night skies became the skies that I dreamt for my own nights.
    Talking about dreams, the movie gave me much of my dreams-slash-fantasies, that until now I can’t help but to cling on to. I mean how many eighteen year olds still have fantasies of flying across the most awesome night sky on a magic carpet? Well I do, and despite the reality that its quite impossible, I can’t help but hold on to it. I think I fell in love with that scene of the movie where Aladdin and Jasmine flew across an endless diamond night sky and had the most magical time of their lives on a magic carpet. I think I fell in love with the dream that in some night I might have the same magic carpet ride, and maybe perhaps my own Jasmine, ‘cause it wouldn’t be as lovely without one.

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