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tinjazz
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Name: tinjazz
Birthday: 6/28/1986
Gender: Female
Interests: chocolate, reading books, watching sappy chick flicks, nature-tripping (hiking/trekking), archery, eating A LOT of good food, psychology, cable tv, swimming, skimboarding, beach bumming!!
Expertise: "the only skills i have the patience to learn have no real application in life" - calvin, calvin&hobbes
Occupation: Student
Message: message me
Yahoo:  tinjazz04
Member Since:
5/9/2003
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| he closed the door behind him and pushed in the lock on the knob. he went over to the long windows that faced east and north into the neighbors' porches, and drew the yellow curtains over them, neighbors and porches and trees and birds and clear summer light.
"i want to talk to you about the conversation at breakfast today." he began. his ears, large which meant a long full life, seemed unusually larger this morning. "when i asked you how your vacation was going, 'boring,' you both replied." i counted the gray hairs coming out of your left nostril, your nose was also large. "well, there is no such thing as boredom or boring things or bored people, only people too lazy to think of anything worth doing." i didn't inherit your ears nor your nose, and not too, your industriousness. that last, i regret.
that was many summers ago. every time i hear someone say, "ang boring!" or "bored kaayo ko uy," with an impatient sigh that dismisses anything and everything, an annoyed scowl that demands to be entertained, that lecture in grandfather's humid bedroom comes back word for word. there is no such thing as boredom, bored or boring, only people too lazy to think of anything worth doing.
people die from laziness.
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| crisp image of the day: the spindly fingers of your left hand, certain
of the chords, next to my stubby right fingers, unsure of the notes, on
the yellowed and faded keys of the upright piano against a ribbed wall washed
in sunlight across the roof of the greenhouse and through the open door to our right, the east.
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| i see you through a prism
in fractions and slits
the hues that line my prison
the premise of unbelief
my skin floats with the seaweed
(having been born in the ocean)
i am water
i am fluid
you cannot own me
or brand me with your will
i melt away at sunrise
into mercury and remembrance
the blue hurts the eyes
white powder draws me out
turning toenails fair
life should be this soft, this sweet on the feet
i stand and wait
for the assault of memory
but the images do not come,
emotions do not taste bitter
or metallic in the mouth like they used to
second visits allow you to forget
until i think, forget what?
nothing, it no longer matters
infinity has an edge
that drops into rocks
and bathes you in clear, moist heat
i see you
through fresh spring water
clear as abstract
in dream, in dawn haze, in deep
daylight | | |
| boredom. when you search for the perfect little hot pot.
fleeting panic. when pop songs make too much sense.
escape into a world of men who do not die but live to taunt
Organization, women with emerald earrings travel through mirrors, and
adolescent boys see through tanned skin, taut muscle, rattling bone and
see God lurking in the crevices.
*
when all around you is the sea, the sea, nothing but the sea, in
waves you gulp in and retch out, and there is nothing to grasp, not
torn sea grass or sharp fish scale, nothing, nothing, and your legs
kick madly under you, forgetting to make the figure eights Red Cross
taught you, and the pounding in your chest makes your head whirl about,
scanning the dark blue distance for green or brown, a sight of land,
the spiky stabbing in your gut reminding you you are mortal, mortal,
mortal. from ashes to ashes, dust to dust, water to water, air to air. | | |
| the resurrection of my xanga.
"you were a mistake," she said simply, blinking her eyes once. " a pretty one, but a mistake still."
"you don't believe in mistakes," he replied abruptly. she was fading into a stranger, only feet away from him.
"no, i don't. but that's what you were." she said, withdrawing into her memories. he didn't listen, couldn't look her in the eye, was too selfish, too proud. it was infatuation, martyrdom and fear. his rough gaze, abrasive tongue, scared her into quietness, annoying submission, cloying attention. even his voice over the phone, when she told him she was seeing someone new, frightened and disgusted her at the same time. the truth of it all was this: she couldn't see herself growing with him, growing up and growing old. no matter how hard she tried, in tomorrow's distance, she couldn't see them together.
"i hear it in your voice, that you've rejected me. that i am not worthy of you, and it hurts. it hurts that you've moved on, so quickly, it tells me you don't value what we had, that i could be so easily replaceable, that i am not unique." his monologue elicited nothing but pity, brief and shallow pity. she was not swayed.
"i don't know what to say." she said into her phone. to him, she didn't know what to reply. to herself, she thought, now you know what it feels like. without a trace of vengeance of course, it was just a fact. you hurt me. and i thought it was worth it. now i know i can be happier. is that such a bad thing? to want to be happy? call me selfish but so are you. i no longer live in fear. i have no energy left to be mad at you, to hate you for all that you did and didn't do. i no longer feel anything for you. i do not care. i do not care that you hurt nor that i caused it. you wrought this on yourself and you know it. that's why it hurts. you had your chance, chances in fact. you cannot blame me wanting to be happy.
you take a deep, shaky breath. you will cry, after i end this call, i know. hours later your friend tells me that you did.
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