catching the duma virus
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
From The Girl Who Saw Death
There's a memory machine she always carries and last night her new guardian of ghosts offered to wipe out the memory. It made her pause and open Death's untouched files in this machine.
There, another untold story of sufferance. She feels sad about how bad she and it all was, nods, and says to the Pie beside her: Always the differences in things in all that silence.
For example, Death was putting the girl through the Single's test on she-loves-me-if-she-opens-the-driver's-door-from-the-inside. Well, the girl almost snorts but laughs instead to Pie, New cars and the automated lock system. You keep unlocking the driver's door from the inside and eventually that would wreck the system. Besides, the girl sighs, Death reprimanded me about that already.
The girl laughs to Pie, Even Death gets sucked into the reel of movies. And then there was Death who would always drive carefully because the girl would never wear her seat-belt for it choked her and said that she trusted Death's driving.
Really, what was the girl thinking trusting Death on the wheel? Then again she did. Then again she loved Death. And so was killed, and so she died.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Mary You Will Always Be
Fucked
over
by the bastards you fall for. Fall. The way you fall on your face or ass
juggling and scrambling over to do their bidding and pander to whims and roll
over their mood swings. Aren’t you tired yet, you stupid bitch. The long and
suffering Mary, you want to be. Why.
You
see
and
see and the voice inside you niggles if this is it and this is how it will be.
Exhausted, here you are, waiting still. You want to make a bet that after
Joseph’s done he might not even ask where you are, if you waited. Or worse that
he had already gone home while you are here waiting, when you could have gone
home yourself. Tired already as it is, your days now running for 24-hours to
ride his clock that refused to fall unto steady ticking.
You
are fucked
over.
Without dinner and dinner is now this beer to soothe your mangled nerves. You
knew it. You should have gone home. And you didn’t and you knew that your mouth
would run over given the restraint has been whittled away by the day’s
grounding. You refuse to assert or defend what good you’ve done. When would all
this falling and falling over be over.
Done,
like
clapped hands while asleep to wake yourself up. Why do you constantly seek the
difficult and seek its worth. Play, bitch. Play it like it should be, cool, and
cold, and mum. How about if the feared tonight happens. What then. Well, you go
on home stupid girl, oh you idiot and never say how you waited or why you
waited or how much you loved. Or to make an accounting of what you’ve done,
unappreciated.
It
will never
be
enough, what you do, for this one’s the hungriest of them all and look at you,
at how your flesh has been eaten or how your bones have been sucked off the
marrow. Want to make a bet that he will never search nor will he ever look or
ask where you are. Because he will wait and always wait for the lead from you.
And your skepticism will always try to trust, hoping always that this time
maybe you’ll let go, and it will war with your self-protective instincts to
anticipate. So that what hurts will not destroy you.
So,
silence.
So,
he will be comforted once more by his toad and lion. While you play out the
martyrdom here. Here, where you wait like a fool playing hide and seek.
Sickened and sickening. You look around. No. There’s nothing. No. There’s no
one. No. He will not come. No. He’s not here. No. He will go home. He will not
ask. And you, you will be hurt. And nurse that like the cold that never goes
away. That cold you feel in your chest.
Fucked
over. In the desert inside you
is
cackling. It is choking, isn’t it, Darling. When the wind is the air. It comes
and goes. Support? Whatever you do will never be supportive enough. The best
that can be done will never be enough. And you hurt like a child. Hurt by the
green’s anger. Green. Still green. Rage that cannot be controlled and a tornado
always comes to take what you have loved and love in this man-child. And what’s
feared has happened.
He
left. Did not ask
where
you were. Expecting for you to tell him. He did not ask. He tells you it’s your
fault. He tells you “whatever”. By god. Your dead God. He tells you to go home.
He’s too tire and frayed. He doesn’t want another outburst because you’re
frustrated. He tells you to ease the fuck up. Slaps. There it is woman: You’re
with the wrong man. This is horror. This is truth. And you… you want to laugh.
Come
on, be yourself,
woman,
Stop being kind. Be the cruel woman that you really are. Stop the Hail Mary. A
man gets to say that he is tired but a woman is never supposed to be able to
say that. You have to endure. This is a turning point. The cold in you knows
it. This is the night you decide that you will leave him. That cut. That
silence. There is relief.
Loss
is there
and
there is relief. You can look around the plaza now and finally see what you see
and smile. The Father who knows you is right. End it, he said. End it. Cut.
Just leave. And once more, it’s “Nothing’s gonna change my world…” in your
head, that song, that song that steadies you in the shifting reality by being
with the scorching wind, the air that drowns. You are intelligent but have yet
to smarten up. And here you are, smarting and smartening.
You
now remember that time you were
in
college, had become ill, dying and the only thing that made sense was dying,
and the only person to which this made sense was a metallic voice who listened
like a robot and a robot you would pay and who’d only nod and drug you more and
more after. And you were almost reduced
to a vegetable. Or was it the time just before then.
No,
no, that was after.
There
you were in one of the malls you would always hate. You were on the upper floor
where there were less people. And you were looking around. You went into a shop
full of coins made worthless by time yet ironically like with most real things
in life—rendered so by facts of what makes human— more valuable. You just went
in without looking back. You looked back and none of your family was there.
There
you were
wearing
your Mickey Mouse baseball jersey and baggy jeans and white socks and
flip-flops. There you were without money or ID in your pockets. Without even
that detested phone like the Nokia 5110 or 3210. Or all the Motorolas or Nokias
that you’d always lose after. You sat. And waited.
They
came back
for
you. They were looking for you the whole time.
They came back. They came back frantic and trying to dispel it with the
macabre humor you all developed from different childhood hells yet hell all the
same. The kind that laughed at laughs still at horror. There you were, a look
that would surface now and then on your face before shook off, the way a dog
would shake off the spinning from a blow to the head, a face crumbled by fear
and grief and loss. Shook off by cold resolve, that resolve which allowed you
to survive hells.
That
look
that
showed being lost and just lost, un-tethered, unmoored ad returned to that bed
where you would stare up towards the dark while the monsters do you in bed.
That look in the dark taking you way from the bed, from the house, from the
city, from the province, from the region, from the island, from the country,
from Southeast Asia, from Asia, from Earth, from the Solar System, from the
Milky Way, to beyond and beyond where the end is and it all began.
And
thereon, they
knew.
And so wherever you go one or two or more of them would walk beside you and
take your hand. Or you’d walk in the middle. Sit in the middle between two
bodies which reassured you that you were safe while in theatres. That would
usher you inside trains outside the country that is your home. And once, not so
long ago, someone you loved walked out the door and left you.
That
one told
your
loved ones, in a way, about it. Your
loved ones said that one who left would be really lucky if one could still ever
get to enter that door again.
And you hear
right
then, a door that had been swinging, and it quietly closed.
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