Saturday, July 03, 2004

JULY 3, 2004 (SATURDAY)

Free Comic Book Day

Somehow, I’d like to pretend that I was productive today.

Went to CCHQ to help out with the Free Comic Book Day – which basically involved sitting behind the long long table where all the free comics were neatly piled up and Atsi Tin was manning the whole thing. Charles and I involved ourselves underfoot while Elbert started chatting people up. Ended up having lunch with the Hey Comics people at Munch, where Elbert grudgingly treated me out. It’s nice to have friends who earn money regularly.

Came back afterwards and made myself useful – as well as peruse the selection available. Felt like I was in a buffet where everything was good. A definite favorite was Andi Watson’s Love Fights, and which made me want to follow the issues. Ever since Slow News Day was lent to me, I was a gradual fan of Watson. Also renewed my love affair with Craig Thompson’s Blankets, and made me want to get a copy. If only comics weren’t so damn expensive! T_T Another fan favorite was Scott Morse, who makes adorable animals play jazz riffs.

Met up with the GRAIL people – Roja, Zena, myself, Ruzela, Meia, and Don (who technically isn’t a GRAIL person, but we might as well since Meia drags him around everywhere like her favorite stuffed animal…) – and watched them have a really late lunch at Tajma, a small Persian place just at the back of Shakey’s Katipunan, where they have real, functioning hookahs! Fascinating place, with real carpets and overstuffed pillows. Of course, talk varied from sex and dreams and pleasure balls, the Holocaust and pain and everything else in between.

Now, I realize that I should seriously start working on my thesis. I already have a few poems in mind, but what’s emerging from my writing is a distinctly female point of view, which sort of frightens me because this might mean that I might have to do a mytho-feminist point of view, which means that aside from creating a solid theoretical foundation on which mythology can stand on without wobbling too much, I also have to go into feminist discourse, and woman as myth-maker and storyteller, and this foray into the tarot may branch out into feminist mysticism and there goes my poor little brain.

Anyway, first draft of a poem from my supposed collection. One of several, but this one seems the most solid. The others are merely outbursts of methane floating towards our atmosphere.

PRIESTESS

She keeps the altar in her closet,
her pictures of him taped on the old wood
surface, edges faded and yellowing
like fading sunlight.
His music plays in the background
at night, just before she goes to sleep –
already a woman at sixteen
with her breasts jutting out at angry angles
as if challenging the world.

She knows all the words to his songs
and recites them under her breath
like an incantation
during Math class. She lights candles
for him during his birthday, and writes
letters to him on pink paper.
Secretly, she seals each one with a kiss.
Sometimes she dreams of him
slipping a gold band on her finger.

In a year, she will exchange him
for a real boy – that shy creature hiding
behind the Poetry section of the library.
She will coax him out with words,
perhaps a tattered copy of Neruda,
and an invitation for coffee.
They will walk down the neighborhood
beneath the imperfect moon,
hands clasped together in careful prayer.

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