fw
restarting traditions
My mind teems
with memories
of species extinct,
your ghosts undead.

The truth is
that I am haunted.

If my brain bleeds
and the blood pours
from my arteries, my veins,
will I find your bones?
— s.d., Ghosts

a decade of connecting dimensions

Preparing for the upcoming Cinemalaya X, which will be showing from August 1 to 10, 2014.

The last time I attended this was 3 years ago, when I watched a film with him. This time I am going alone, and the mere thought of it is thrilling.

Thanks to Lakwatsero for the tabular format of the screening schedule (which I printed because I am slightly obsessive-compulsive).

You can go to the Cinemalaya homepage for more information.

He is

honor,

excellence.

Service.

She is

justice,

humanity.

Progress.

He is

burdensome:

a blessing,

a curse.

She is

bearable:

a feather,

a stone.

His open arms

are home.

Her upturned palms

are inviting.

Both born

from the same pair of hands.

He is.

She is.

I am his and hers.

your arm around my shoulders,

warm and tight, heavy,

like boulders.

your words in my ear,

asking me to marry you,

and, dear.

i look up at you, lips parted,

breathless,

about to say yes,

and i wake up to familiar—uncharted.

In all our wrongs,

      I want to write him,

      in a time where

      I can find him.

from “Time Travelers” by Lang Leav

tempus edax rerum

It took a long time and I had to change universities in the process, but I am finally majoring in Biology―a field I have always loved―and I think that it will be a fulfilling experience.

And soon, Medicine.

Something new. (Place. Conversations. Scrabble.)
Something old. (Friends. History. Laughter.)

Thanks, Roi and Jose.

Happiness in an afternoon nutshell.

There is something about
early hours in the morning,
the sound of teeth grinding in the dark,
and the cold, sweet air of home.

There is something
in the way the years past dangle at the edges of your memory
like the fringes of trees,
or the full bangs of a child,
or swaying feet.

There is something about
the silhouette of your dog:
the soft outline of white fur,
light in the darkness.

There is something,
always something, about family
that this poem can never contain:
perhaps the inevitable connection,
or the comfort of a smile.

There is something about
being loved at your best,
but even more so at your worst
that only family can do.

There is something
in the truth that family does not exist only by blood,
but also in the ties of the heart,
in the solace of tears,
in the shared moment of a laughter.

A Gift