immense, illiterate consoling angels
also i’ve been bumping into people online the whole week. people i used to have really long conversations with, i used to spend a lot of time with —- and time has just put us in different countries (or well, for some, love did. heehee)
i just love how conversations seem to start midway. like there’s no real warm-up.
like trinka all of sudden starting talking to me about re-editing a music video that she wanted me to see on youtube. then we moved into other things we’ve been working on. and even if for about the first five minutes, i had no idea who or what she was talking about. it was like she hadn’t left.
i should emphasize how trinka and i have always had this kind of a relationship. we can spend months not seeing each other —- then when we do, it’s how it begins, just midway.
well with most of my closest friends, this is how it goes. i see why i’m such a ladybug texter, and i love getting random texts. like hey, we’re sort of together even if not really.
and i realize i miss people. i really do.
and there was santacruzan kanina at cubao a while ago. even in the rain. all these establishments (the queen of pizza hut!) walking as it drizzled. causing traffic and wrecking their dresses and shoes in the process. there was the mama mary of course at the end, and there were altar boys at the head of the parade, but the corporate logos were just bigger.
there definitely is a lot to say about that.
but all i could think was, they’re all so pretty.
and because i was just listening to him while trying to gather the school goldfish that i was threatening to become:
Privilege of Being
Many are making love. Up above, the angels
in the unshaken ether and crystal of human longing
are braiding one another’s hair, which is strawberry blond
and the texture of cold rivers. They glance
down from time to time at the awkward ecstasy–
it must look to them like featherless birds
splashing in the spring puddle of a bed–
and then one woman, she is about to come,
peels back the man’s shut eyelids and says,
look at me, and he does. Or is it the man
tugging the curtain rope in that dark theater?
Anyway, they do, they look at each other;
two beings with evolved eyes, rapacious,
startled, connected at the belly in an unbelievably sweet
lubricious glue, stare at each other,
and the angels are desolate. They hate it. They shudder pathetically
like lithographs of Victorian beggars
with perfect features and alabaster skin hawking rags
in the lewd alleys of the novel.
All of creation is offended by this distress.
It is like the keening sound the moon makes sometimes,
rising. The lovers especially cannot bear it,
it fills them with unspeakable sadness, so that
they close their eyes again and hold each other, each
feeling the mortal singularity of the body
they have enchanted out of death for an hour so,
and one day, running at sunset, the woman says to the man,
I woke up feeling so sad this morning because I realized
that you could not, as much as I love you,
dear heart, cure my loneliness,
wherewith she touched his cheek to reassure him
that she did not mean to hurt him with this truth.
And the man is not hurt exactly,
he understands that life has limits, that people
die young, fail at love,
fail of their ambitions. He runs beside her, he thinks
of the sadness they have gasped and crooned their way out of
coming, clutching each other with old invented
forms of grace and clumsy gratitude, ready
to be alone again, or dissatisfied, or merely
companionable like the couples on the summer beach
reading magazine articles about intimacy between the sexes
to themselves, and to each other,
and to the immense, illiterate, consoling angels.
hear him here