High altitude rest. Meron bang pupunta sa Baguio today? Stacy!!! Magkakaabutan ba tayo jan?? :p

Something that’s meant to be a part of this compilation of other short write-ups na new beginnings kuno. Di pa tapos. Forgive the grammar. :p

-.-

They say the best inspirations come from those which were either very hungry, or very much in desperation. Johann is currently neither, but maybe being absolutely bored can do the trick.

She has been sitting in the gallery since 3:30pm. The secretary said your father is currently in a call right now, would you be willing to wait for a few minutes? And she had to force a nod, but she knew it meant much much longer than that. Her father happens to be a rather influential person in the media business; a downright art snob, honestly. And she has lived long enough to know that by heart, and probably till her last artistic breath, and she knew that this hell she has been experiencing in the university is nothing compared to how she’s gonna be treated in the real world the moment people would hear her name. It’s a curse, it’s a sweet, sweet curse that she’d rather exploit than to burden herself with. It would come soon, but why not use the privilege for now?

She tapped her foot impatiently. It didn’t help, of course, but she felt she placed a very small sympathetic smile on the face of her father’s secretary who happened to just enter the gallery again for the third time today.

He won’t make it?

He can, but for a few more minutes, maybe.

Hours.

He’s very hopeful.

Yeah, I’m sure he is.

They’re rather huge clients, Hanna, your father’s been anticipating this ever since.

Only her father’s secretary out of all the other younger people she knew called her Hanna. That was her father’s pet name to her, something which most of her father’s peers have adopted. She didn’t mind. But she wasn’t sure if she still didn’t mind waiting further.

Two hours, Sally. He could have just rescheduled.

I’m sorry. He was pretty optimistic a while ago.

She nodded. There was nothing else she could do.

I’ll go ahead.

I’m sorry.

Don’t be. See you around.

You take care.

She picked up her bag which has slid to the floors from the couch and walked out of the gallery. It was just about closing time, with barely some people left. This was her most favorite time of the gallery when she was younger. She would go around, feel like she owned all the artworks in display. Soon, she said, I’ll have my paintings up in there. Her father was exhilarated to find out she got in to a well known arts academy when she was in high school, and moved on to conquering the top university for the arts. She was her daddy’s little girl. She’s taking after him.

But that’s hardly how she would put it. Johann inherited her father’s stubbornness and wanted to set out on her own, but she never could. Every time there would come an endorsement to some curators for an exhibit, they would simply look at her surname, and she was in. And she didn’t like this. How could she, if they are expecting her father’s art in her hands? She was who she was, but painfully, she still wasn’t.

She took a left turn in the hallway towards a certain painting that she has always liked. She made it a point to visit it everytime, but she only does so when there were barely people around. It was one of her father’s older works, and in fact, the only work which her father has painted Johann. He never sold the painting, and she feels that it was simply meant for her. She went in to the empty square exhibit and with anticipation she looked for the painting, but found a different sight instead.

Standing in front of the painting was a young lady. Couldn’t have been twenty, she thought. She was simply standing there, thoughtfully gazing at the portrait in front of her. Almost in deep reverence.

Johann walked quietly, almost crept behind her. She still wasn’t budging. It intrigued her, how intense somehow she eyed the painting, but for a moment, Johann felt both annoyed and defensive, like the girl was extracting a secret she wasn’t supposed to know about. This was her painting. She liked people admiring, but not extracting.

She coughed a little, as a warning to her presence, but she still didn’t budge, almost completely oblivious. Johann took the time to observe, yet still a little apprehensive. She’s rather small, a brown haired petite girl with clean nails and fresh lip gloss; with only a plain white cotton shirt and a brown ridged skirt. Both her skimmers are standing closely together, and her hand in front of her, holding a tote bag. She seemed like a little school girl if not for her fierce eyes. Johann stood beside her gangly, noting her clothes in comparison–she simply wore an old white shirt, with plaid pants and white dirty sneakers. Her hair was bunched up with a rubber she saw in her studio, and her own brown sling bag dragged by her right hand. They seemed like the obvious contrast; she, the simple, preppy and clean; her, the dirty eye sore.

She was thinking if she would feign another cough, but the lady cut her off.

It’s very…striking, isn’t it?

Johann for a moment thought the girl was talking to the portrait, as her eyes never left the canvass. She answered uneasily, what do you mean?

The colors. The way it was curved, it was blended.

Johann looked at the painting. She knew it by heart, but there could be some undertones she didn’t notice before.

They’re mostly earth colors, really.

Yes, but those aren’t the only ways to gauge intensity.

Johann’s eyebrows creased. She stared at the girl for a long time. Suddenly, the latter perked up, and started running away from the painting.

Where are you going? Johann called after her.

Out.

Yeah, I think it’s evident, but where are you going?

She screamed a little this time: Out!

Johann was trapped between following or simply ignoring. She caved into her instincts.

She followed her.

Wait! Johann called, but the girl didn’t stop. She reached for her arm and they both stopped in the entrance doors of the art gallery.

What was that about? Johann asked in between breaths.

I had to run.

Why?

I had to get away from something too intense.

Yeah? What, the painting?

Yes.

Why?

Because I can’t focus on two intense subjects at the same time.
Johann looked at her, confused. She gazed back at her with olive eyes. She whispered.

Now I can focus on you.

And Johann smiled.

May 01.

We have ways of keeping up. Mine used to be peeking at this black box containing all your letters. Everytime I would go home I would look up involuntarily at my wall cabinet and from the glass panel, I would find it resting there, almost at peace. It has been what, so many years since it has been placed there; molds and whatnots invading its private space every once in a while. I had a bad habit of waiting for the box to be too dusty I’d start contemplating about throwing it out and finally stopping the habit.

I said once that I voluntarily look after the people I once cared for.
When you learned about it, you almost knew what I meant. Since you probably don’t like my original way of doing so, I stuck to checking up on the box to see if it’s still there. If it magically disappears one day, aba, dapat siguro tanggapin ko nang di mo na kailangan ng checking up. :p

But sometimes, I still wonder how you are. There’s nothing else to do apart from hoping you’re okay. I used to think up thousands of what ifs whenever there’s a high probability you’d be around–each of them giving me a small panic attack. I don’t know. I guess I’m not sure still what I’d do when I’d see you. There would be an impulse to hug, greet, and smile, but we both know it’s not exactly the best idea. Because of all the times we DID see each other, those casualities couldn’t even happen. And it’s sad, because I did recognize you. Despite the changes, the age, the years, I knew who you were. But you didn’t. Wait, you did. You recognized me, gave a vague nod, and went on like nothing. But maybe…it was still my fault. We never really left things good that the only great memory you have of me is probably the first times in the magazine racks–back when I haven’t hurt you yet.

2009. I just realized it’s been years since I last took a glimpse of
the black box. I stopped keeping up. It made sense. None of these do, really, but it will someday.

So there. Happy May 1.

Sent from my iPhone

I feel like shit.

No, actually, my head feels like shit. Hot, steamy, straight-from-the-cow’s-ass shit. It’s murky and sticky and screams of freedom from a very tight ass.

Okay, maybe it’s just hurting like hell right now. I don’t mind, though. Half the worst is over; I’m bound for Bicol Thursday. Oh, did you know? We’re going there to chase some Butandings somewhere near there. I don’t even know hell about Butandings, but just saying their names make you go “ooooh!” and I’m like, “yeaaaaah.” And you’re like, “awesome.”

But there’s something much more awesome. I have a new agent who refers to himself in third person. Like, he speaks to his customers okay, but he refers to himself personally in third person. I am fucking thrilled. No joke. You know why? Because I’m fluent in third person language. Bet you didn’t know that, did ya? Bet you JC can kick your ass right there while you roll over the floor laughing, and JC can maul you over right there and JC won’t care, because JC has been so special ever since and no JC doesn’t think speaking in third person is bad, because JC feels it’s so fawkin awesome.

(JC’s tired. Wanna drink soya milk with JC?)

I can’t believe it. I’ve been looking through all my files, and I can’t find that one post that I KNEW I finished up.

Now I can’t even start my “Travels” page without finishing up that half-finished article I salvaged from google notebook. Sigh. Ang hirap pa naman tumapos ng article na mejo vague na sa utak yung memories and feelings associated with it. :/