Strike 2

Why do I bother asking for favors when I can just simply finish the task on my own without anyone else's assistance? Why do I feel the urge to ask for support when I can complete what I needed to complete faster if I did it alone? Why do I ask when I know that I might get an outcome which might only irritate me? Why do I resort to begging in order to avoid the unavoidable "No" which, then, only makes me kick myself thereafter?

The answer --- I don't (specifically) know. Maybe sometimes I want to be reassured that I have friends. Maybe sometimes I want to lessen a not-so-heavy load out of laziness. Maybe sometimes I want to waste my time alongside someone who I wrongly thought would want her time wasted as well. Maybe sometimes I expect some minor 'returns' to minor favors I have given. Maybe. Just maybe.

Well, at least now I know better. If it's just me, I have only but myself to blame. And when it's just ourselves, we are usually more forgiving.

Remember this day --- this is the second time in your entire life that you asked for unnecessary favors, do you really want to lose another friend just because she, unexpectedly, said no??? Think about it.

The Morning After

It is the day after another wreck. I watch her stand there like an idiot; her hands on her hips, wondering what the hell happened. Moments like these, I grab my camera and take photos of her with that frown on her face. I know then, that my eames chair girl is back. She was sober again or shall I say logical, and was in her right mind. I have about forty-three snapshots of her looking exactly like how I am describing her now. I guess that goes to show how many times she got drunk when she was pressured by her agents or how many times she was reported to the authorities by our neighbors or how many times I lie awake at night worrying and hating myself for falling helplessly in love with a woman who was as unpredictable as the weather and as unreliable as the news anchor in Channel 8. Worst, falling in love with a woman who does not know I exist. She does not even know my name. Sure, she knows she has a neighbor. In fact, she is quite aware she has neighbors since she has been reported countless times to the authorities by the same neighbors who complained of too much racket at her house. She does not know a thing about me. She does not even know I watch her. I do not know what she will do if she will learn about my stalking rituals.

She is sitting on her chair now, her small hands are clasped on her lap as she sadly stared at the stab marks on her favorite chair. She looked closer to check the damage and to hopefully find a clue to the culprit’s weapon only to discover the charcoal smudges on the sides. She shook her head and slapped her face several times before stopping. I almost heard her sigh. She traced the stab marks with the tips of her fingers and lovingly enclosed the ripped black leather together before wiping the skin clean with a daisy-scented sanitizer. She is careful not to cause further damage to her already damaged chair. In times like these, I wish I was that chair. I care not for the torture the day or night before, what mattered was the love I will be getting the next day when she was my Salome again. I am certain, that the lows of her momentary insanity will be compensated by the highs of being taken cared of her clear-headed disposition.

Suck It Up

Ah it is finally dying. Not as quickly as I hoped though. I am so tired of hearing about the recent Sex Scandal. Who cares? Well, Okay I admit, I cared for like an hour or two but that was all and nothing more.

Here is what I can say to all the most interesting characters in this stupid play.

Boy Who Took The Video Secretly, you're a pervert! Whether you released those videos or not, your disgusting hobby of collecting videos of your unknowing sex partners is something that you should learn to get by without. Yes to revoking your license!

The Boy's Sugar Mommy, your brain is creased as your artificial face! What the hell were you thinking when you blurted out those cheap, senseless retort about "stealing someone's boyfriend"??? I am quite sure that all that education could have certainly taught you to handle the fiasco with a little tact (or shall I say taste) the least. Would not want our family to agonize over the waste.

Starlet On Fire. You are not as innocent as you say you are but I do agree with you that The Boy is a scum as he should have asked your permission first before taking that obscene video of the two of you. It was simply rude. Besides you would have agreed with it possibly if he so asked you nicely likened to the other 2-3 instances, right? Well now you know better.

Over-Acting Politician Supposed Knight In Shining Armour, shut up! Who are you trying to convince, us or yourself?

And to that tabloid reporter who poured water on The Boy (I still can't remember his name), can you try creating your own drama instead of forcing yourself in a drama which you obviously are not part of??? Talk about trying too hard.

Day 2

Today is a Saturday and although I am not working, Salome is. She has been seated on her favorite eames chair for hours while she gulped down cup after cup of coffee with the usual tint of brandy. I am quite sure she is drunk by now but she is still working anyway. Doodling on her sketchpad, likened to a raving lunatic who claimed to have discovered a little island in the Pacific which was discovered centuries ago by the settler’s ancestors. I do not like her when she is like this. When she is drunk, not just with alcohol but drunk with rows and rows of ideas in her head, she has her own world. It is almost like she is building a wall around her and this kind of state makes it difficult for me to appreciate watching her. Her crazed eyes and wild, unruly hair scare me as they reminded me of the African witch who my nanny used to tell me about when I was little. I watched her rip the pages of her sketchpad whenever she is done with a drawing but decide that it was not good enough after all, while repeatedly stabbing her trusty chair with her charcoal pencil. At a time like this, I like to close my shutters and waste the day watching useless, irritating shows on television because I cannot bear looking at her like that. Like a rag doll in a ditch, all messed up and dirty. It was not the eames chair girl I have envisioned to get used to. Now, she is standing up and walking around unsteadily with her man shirt on and a pair of underpants to match. John Lennon’s God is blaring in her stereo and again, after an hour or so of being drummed with continuous classic rock music, the neighbors will call the authorities and complain. What else is new? She does this when she wants to clear her head and start all over again with fresh, new ideas. Any minute now, she will light a cigarette, fill her lungs with smoke and then puff them all out to form and deform circular clouds of O’s in the air. Salome, Salome, Salome, what are you thinking about? I want to pick on your brain and demand for answers while I tie you down in that chair of yours; so just, for a few minutes, you can hold still and do away with your restlessness.

Salome

There she was again, sitting on her Eames chair. I have been watching her like a nutcase badly in need of a heavy dose of tranquilizer. A typical stalker you might say. She does not know I watch her, that I have been burning her back with an obsession almost similar to a teenager’s raging hormones. I watch and watch and watch, day in and day out. She is my daily doze of hysteria while eating my breakfast. I eat my buttered croissants with her on my mind. I know at 6:15 in the morning, my little sun-kissed tease was still sleeping. I have observed that she was never a morning person, in fact, she can be quite a grouch when forced to wake up at a time she considers ungodly which the rest of the world considers the common start of the day. I remember a certain man knocking on her door one time to sell something and I saw her chase him away with arms flailing everywhere. She is not crazy, she just prefers to keep her peace at this particular time of the day. What can I say, she likes to sleep late and wake up late.

I go to the trouble of coming home for lunch too so I can watch her sit on that damned chair with her aviator sunglasses on. Legs stationed on the patio pillars, bare lotus feet broadcasted to all onlookers in the street, wearing a white bustier and a pair of torn denim jeans, splattered with paint.

I even hurry home after work, panting along the way, so I can just catch a glimpse of her lounging again on her favorite chair while reading her favorite book for the week. Last week it was Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Love In The Time of Cholera. I love it when she pauses from her reading, to frown and look up. I like to think that my stares have ruffled her and made her skin crawl because when she is interrupted like that, she stops and takes a peek at my unlit window. She will be squinting her eyes just to make sure if there really was no one up there; then her eyes will unknowingly meet mine for a minute and that is all I will need for the night. I can go to sleep peacefully like an undisturbed rock.

My eames girl goes by the name of Salome and no she is not a bum. She is an artist and works most of the time at the comfort of her home. A certain convenience that, I will assume, we are all envious about.

How To

how to break
when you feel like breaking
teach yourself to stop
drive yourself to the airport
get on that plane
and leave

how to say no
when no is a word you will dare not utter
open your mouth
breathe fire
spit on their faces if you must
and speak

how to cry
when tears are worthless
burn yourself
pierce a dagger into your fattening heart
rub your eyes
and feel

how to fly
when hands are pulling you down
befriend a bird
talk to an angel
jump from the tallest building you can find
and die

Divisions

colors breathing life
of joy
of pride
of love
of hate
this is the world of blacks and whites

where other colors are too bleak to be acknowledged
do they care for the color of the sun
dare they insult it, it lights the day

and of the earth
portrayed as dirth, the ground they walk on
else they would be falling

then the reds of blood and genuine roses
so full fo culture
what of they?

or the hues of bruises
are they not of worth?

I believe not
but who am i anyhow
I am the mud on your polished shoes
I will never go away