Seek out the light
leaving your lover’s eyes. Seek the song
strummed from the remaining
fingers of a god, cursed and withering
in its quiet temple. Seek the solace
offered by a kingdom
of stone. Seek out a cure
for the many antidotes of loneliness. Seek out the perfect
bottle more potent than all the whirlwinds stirring
your chest with regret. Seek an ocean
that will deny you all your desires
of drowning. Seek out the absence
of memory: landscapes exempt from time, wine
sweeter than that fatal lie. Seek out your name
in the alphabet of forgotten faces.
On my shelf rests a bottle recently emptied of its contents. In the following days I intend to send the bottle over to my friend F who was with me on a recent trip to The Most In/Famous Beach/Port/Sandpile in my Archipelago (i.e., Boracay, or as prepubescent tweenster twerps call it, “Bora”). Anyhoo, friend F had the sand we stole from Station 2 (where we were staying), at the crack of dawn before taking a speedy little tricycle to the port, taking us back to Caticlan, where we took an hour’s ride in H’s van to get G and F’s remaining stuff in Culasi, then off to the pseudo-mosh pit of doom AKA Kalibo airport.
Inside my planner are some tickets from the same trip (the plane, the boat, et cetera). Somehow I wonder if this matters as I took photographs of the same tickets (much to M’s insistence, mostly).
In my notebook parading as journal parading as idea notebook parading as poetry notebook, I used bits of the foil insides of a cigarette pack as a makeshift tag for the pages I consumed during the trip. Part of me thinks this is a reminder for the 30something cigarettes I smoked in a single night. On the other days it was a toss between what M or H had to offer, what my sadness would decide. Whatever. It was raining on the beach. For the second day we were gloom, doom, and beer at night. M had RUQ pain, H was acting like a dad (i.e., not getting drunk but smoking an entire sandbox), F&G got lost, and I just moped around. The third day was better, surprising – considering we were stranded due to a nearby storm.
I’m not good with keeping souvenirs. Most of them end up on my shelf (the lucky albeit soon-to-be-dustier ones) while others end up in boxes or between the flapping pages of books (usually origami or postcards). A rare kind ends up on the insides of my shelves (post-its and othersuch nonsense from friends). Gifts from previous lovers suffer the worst fate (i.e., the trash bin or donation box, for stuffed toys). Once, I attempted to press a flower a boy gave me for valentines. A week later I ended up tossing it into the garbage bin because my pressing process was pretty fucked up.
I really don’t get souvenirs. Another proof that you were where you were? Yes I know we grow old and memory can only do so much.
Guess the question isn’t about what you keep, what’s handed to you, what you buy, or what are the chances you’ll get another chance like this again –