It’s that time of the year. Notebook needs to retire. And so I’m feeling sentimental.
I usually burn through a notebook in two months, but this time, I was writing in two simultaneously, and a couple of days ago, the pages of the last one just ran out. Poof. The last two notebooks are square-ruled Moleskines — yes, they look like Math notebooks, get over it. Anyhoo, I started writing on one about mid-February, stopped a while to go to the other, returned to the first on the last days of March, stopped, didn’t return to it for a really long time, went back May-June-ish, hopped and skipped and juggled.
The notebooks have, I guess, a record number of false starts for stories, and some daydreams/fantasies because I’m O.C.-creepy that way. Here are a couple of G-rated excerpts from the two notebooks, and I’ve kept the mushy stuff to a minimum. Maybe. I dunno.
So. Indulge me.
* Descartes: the evil genius. Malevolent deity. He’s like Christian God, but completely evil, yo. Could the evil genius fool one into doubting his own existence? Wasak. But, but, but: manifesting this doubt—just having it, actually proves you’re a thinking and questioning being, a being. You’re real, man. YOU’RE REAL. (I want to go home.)
* Thesis defense over. Knees shaking. I think I came off as a cold bitch. Damn it.
* J. W. von Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther: “Oh, what a creature is Man, that he may bewail himself.”
* Writer’s Festival:
– Fiction marginalized? Mas gusto ba ng tao ang mga tula kasi mas maikli? LABO MO, BOSS. And and and, if the Greats don’t recognize you, you’re not a writer? Cynic. And why isn’t there a forum on Filipino romance novels? To use a grade school syana term: snobbish, haha. In denial ba ang mga tao?
– How is this international? Why are there so few people—w ala bang nagbabasa? Why isn’t there an antho of the 40 under 40 people? Why am I wearing these shoes, my feet hurt, god there’s nothing to eat (that I can afford).
– Mogwai, Cubao Ex. Sasha Martinez is back in high school, One Tree Hill style. Think about writing a treatise: Crash Course on Polite Conversations, from an episode of OTH (from a line in a song?) I am such a girl.
* Larry: “A battle between ‘I want to write a story’ and ‘But this is a poetry class.’
* Reading The Writing Life, by Annie Dillard. Sometimes, she talks out of her ass. Sometimes she makes sense. But even when she makes sense, she sounds like she’s talking out of her ass.
* … pretended to be absorbed in a book (one out of three I brought along with me — I prepare for props for convincing sought-for solitude.) …We try so hard to pretend that we welcome this solitude; we arm ourselves with objects to keep us company. What use Kafka, Camus? You need a storybook date.
* Too many people tell us how to love. And the fictionist can’t get a word in.
* Banish words like “juxtaposition” and “entropy” from conversations.
* From Camus: “Why do I need to write or create, to love or suffer?”
– “To write is to become disinterested. There is a certain renunciation in art.”
* KILL THE DOMESTIC. SICK AND TIRED OF LISTLESS WOMEN AND THEIR VOLATILE LIVES. TIME TO GET OUT OF THE ROOM, BITCHES.
* Requiring a state of inebriation to be able to humor the possibility of loving him. Shouldn’t that tell you something?
* Revolutionary Road: “People don’t forget about the truth — people just learn to lie better.” Shit.
* “…speech is not a secure possession.” – Heidegger.
* “The status is quo.”
* When did I start believing that a pen falling to the ground would mean its ink would cease to flow smooth? When I began noticing that whenever a pen fell to the ground (always by accident, of course) the print looks like this.
– Curious: the grim finality of the pen’s clatter. Clack! — Oh no, oh shit. And the foreboding that kicks in when I bend to retrieve it. No matter how grim (perhaps grimness intensified), why couldn’t life be as predictable, with its concrete omens?
* I wanna make out.
* YOU WANT ME TO WRITE A SUMMARY?
* The Plinkies should have a Short Story Collection category. But does this mean you’ll have to do a book report on your own collection? Guh.
* He (Caucasian) is wearing slippers with shorts. She (Filipino) cannot help but notice how pale his feet are, how pink his ankles, how fine the hair spattered on his legs.
* Soft-boiled eggs give me the heebie-jeebies. Anything that falls short of its intended design, and settles for placid gelatinousness deserves to be slid glooped down the drain.
* When people under 30 (and God forbid, under 20) assert what they think, what they want to do, what they plan on doing, they’re projecting. When people over 30 do it, they’re speaking with the wisdom of their age. Fuck it.
* Who I wanted to marry when I was in grade school: Michael Bolton, Shawn Michaels, and Robert Downey Jr. A taste of things to come, yes?
* Woman daydreams about seeing husband with another woman. Giddy at such morbidity. Displacement. Much easier to handle a scene instead of the slow erosion of loving. Things are always far easier with scapegoats.
* Sneaking up on a story to write it.
* Couple beside me. Woman asks, “If you were given a free ticket to anywhere in Asia, where would you choose to go?” Man says, “Mainland China.” And she utters a disappointed “Oh.” They leave soon after.
* What the fuck does “carnal whistling” mean?
* I am not a writer who consoles. Dear Reader: the world’s full of shit, deal with it.
* Shortening Happy Mondays to HaMon is funny.
* Maybe I’m just predisposed to boredom, moreso with the desperation of the lengths I go to that I can rid of it. When I didn’t know any better – when I knew less – I chose to call it ennui, because it sounds nicer (thank you, Dorian Gray). But you and I know that just because it sounds nice, it doesn’t mean it’ll feel nicer.
* He tells me I’m praning. What he really wants to say, “Relax, bitch.”
* I am so glad a majority of my friends don’t squirm when I hug them.
* “You outgrew it.” He was talking about love, but I guess it applies to many things. Like pants.
* The scientific name of the Telmatobius Frog means aquatic scrotum.
* I have not written in so long, I feel like my blood has thinned. Jaysus.
* Dear universe, thou art a heartless bitch.
* * *
I suppose I should put something here about the sentiments and reason behind keeping a notebook, and why I’ve kept a notebook for a long-ass time now. But that’s not how I roll.
Oh. And many thanks to K. for sponsoring the newest Moley I defile with my inanities. :) Nadaan sa pa-cute, buwahaha.