Looking for a Song

December 2015 marked the first one's arrival. There were three of them. Each one's name starting with the same letter. Each one better than the last. But sometimes, thoughts return to the one that came before this last one, and to the one that started it all. It's all but proof that certain feelings still persist. The memories of the songs you gifted each one comes alive in your head; a playlist for all the loves that came and went. That's how you show love the best, isn't it? By sharing your music. Yes.




The first one turned you on to J. Cole. That's why you loved him, among other reasons. But he also taught you that similar music taste and mutual proclivity towards abusing certain substances didn't mean he felt the same way for you. In fact, you were alike in the worst way: your emotional unavailability. In a rage, you destroyed his album in your garage. Tell me, were you angry at him, or at yourself?




The second came in like a comet; his presence compelled you to produce a zine, your first body of work in 4 years. You were like a bitch in heat for him, you would have spread your legs for him in a heartbeat. If your brain could sound like a song during the time he resided in your heart, it would be that one by James Blake and Bon Iver. The one that sounded like a night sky adorned with knowable constellations. But he did not budge. Not one fucking bit. And you know better (now) than to push up against a wall. Ask yourself: did you want him, or did you want to be him?

Yet, you don't love them anymore. That's the important part. Twinges of tenderness appear once in awhile, as they are wont to do - because you fucking loved them. This is the last time you will write about them. This is you bidding them goodbye: instead of pretending they do not exist, you pay tribute to who they were when your souls intertwined with your words.
The third one, well, he doesn't have a song yet. It will appear in due time, at random. Don't rush it. Just remember to be present, to be open

You Move Me

(For N, with acknowledgment to Gina Loring)

You move me.

You move me, like the Cordilleras in November, when there are no tourists

and it’s cold, when the mountains outside my window gently remind me that God exists.

Like trusting the Universe,

You move me, like Deftones, Age 25, like Wolfgang, Age 14.

You move me, like Don Glover singing a Tamia song, like

Frida’s art, Whang Od’s grace, Solange’s hair,

Like the first time I realized I was happy being alone

That it was worth celebrating, coming home to the feeling that I am complete,

And truly believing it.

Like making friends with the people in the hostel, knowing we would be sisters for life,

 watching the sunset on a deserted beach together in silence.

You move me, like a fat girl going to the beach in a bikini for the first time, because she finally felt free and she claimed beauty as her birthright.

Like the time I met Evan Dando after a show. God do I love Evan Dando.

And I was so overcome that I couldn’t hold my phone up to capture us meeting, and all that exists are terrible selfies from that night, because I was nervous and he wrote all these great songs that made me feel warm and want love after denying that I did for so long.

Chino Moreno, John Martyn, Mike Kinsella, Eddie Vedder, Jermaine Cole, I LOVE those guys.

They were constants in my headphones at a time when it felt like continents were shifting, drifting away.

I have abandonment issues, you see,

and when girls like us see something we love, we hold it tight

like promises, 

like Pigeon Pose, 

like Daddy’s hand even if you’re 30 fucking years old.

You move me like postcards from places I want to visit

And being a loner, please understand it’s special when I think about wanting to take you with me.

You move me like the very first bowl of bun cha,

A tall glass of ca phe sua da.

You move me, like truth, grace, peace, love, and light

Because I was in the dark for awhile, and you came in like stars

Guiding our ancestors across the sea, in the days before compasses trying to find land.

You move me, like smiles from strangers, 

like a soft bed, 

like Shakti coming in and sending me dancing back to life, like

Love unconditional: when my twin nieces were 2 years old, and the way they smiled and said my name when I arrived at their house.

You move me like my mother telling me about shame, and how she, like me, carried it deep within her heart for years, letting it go first by calling it by its name.

You move me like hip-hop, like circles, like cycles, like ciphers

You move me, like leaving a toothbrush at a lover’s house

Hinting at the possibility of love.

You move me, like Common and Badu

Recognizing the Light in each other,

Standing tall

and coming together

in

Love,

Like sunshine,

Like lifetimes,

You most definitely move me.

Leave a toothbrush at your crib love

GOMD; J. Cole.

As usual, I haven't visited this blog in awhile. I tend to let a lot of things pile up before I decide to open up about my feelings in a written medium. I think it's safe to say that I may be going through a period of depression right now. It started in December, permeated through all of January, and it's only the start of February and I still feel like shit. I turn 30 in 24 days, and I think that I'm going through my Saturn Return. That entails a huge overhaul of priorities in all aspects of life, basically. A chunk of my depression has basically circulated around my old ways of doing things being challenged (very Saturn Return) because I seem to be outgrowing them.

The truth is, I feel more comfortable with who I am as a person, but there are still things that trigger my sense of self, and usually those things involve the input of people I care about. If I could only learn how to think for myself and back up what I truly feel instead of caving to the opinions of my family and friends about how I should run my life, I think I would feel less sad and attacked. It's a work in progress, though.

Oh yeah, I also went blonde in 2015.

Oh my God I think I may have fallen in love last year, though. For a really long time, for a huge chunk of my 20s in fact, I was hung up on a dude that wasn't even my boyfriend. Why did it take so long to get over him? I guess I just wasn't over myself, because I couldn't deal with the fact that he didn't love me. Towards the end of December, I met this guy and I felt like things changed forever. He is half-Filipino, half-Syrian and based in Lebanon. He is a musician (of course), and raps in Arabic and English, slays in both. And he is beautiful. I will never get sick of looking at that face, I think. I'm fairly sure he doesn't love me back, but I am thankful I met him because I feel like I have a better idea of what I want in a future partner. I like the Western worldview, and the intrepid, artistic soul, but I admit I also like the Filipino family values he seems to still uphold.

Yes I still like brown boys. And halfies. I like halfies. And beards. Um.

However, I've had to let my feelings cool down because he doesn't live here. I imagine if we lived in the same metropolis, we may have been dating by now. He may not feel the same way about me, but I'm fairly sure I made him think, and that's fine.

There have been a slew of men after him, and I think I'm just looking for attention in order to get over him. Whatever. I just need to do what I have to do, I guess. 

I hope that the next time I come back in here, it's to write happy things.