You Gave Me the Mood Indigo

There’s this bit about Truman Capote that never ceases to amaze me. According to him, he can remember 94% of his conversations with anyone. And while I can only wish to share his genius, his superb writing skills, and his ability to document about killers in non-judgmental way (see: In Cold Blood), today I can gloat about being able to remember more than 94 percent of the conversations I had. 

Because it was you who I was talking to. 

Despite having said too often how much I don’t like being reminded of you, the rest of me are more fond of you than my words would admit. They like you so much, that I need not see you to know you’re already here. I can sense you from the way you speak, that unmistakable Ilonggo-accented Filipino words being muttered like the way a saxophone could play any notes beautifully. My brain suspends thinking about all mundane things they pass off as logic when you’re present. Every time you giggle the sound of it reverberates inside my ears for hours as if I need to let marinate every nuances of it. You look like a splotch of colors in the middle of an unused canvas that begs to be painted. 

So you did not come wearing that white clothes after all. So it was red. So you made it apparent that the color of my cheeks was trying to compete with that red polo shirt you’re wearing every time you say something too cute. Did you notice, the moment you held my elbow, that I was incapable of talking, incapable of thinking straight besides wishing that this moment lasted longer? Did you count how many times I said something very random and how I would get embarrassed after that? Did you realize how frustrated I was that I only have to remember 5 minutes of the span of time we talked because that was how long it lasted, because the world had set to expedite this meeting? Why did you have to leave so soon? 

But you said you might come back tomorrow. I can tell you this much: I was at the edge of my seat this entire day, probably anxious, probably too fearful, probably could not feel the ground no matter how hard I stepped. Yet if pressed to say whether or not I want you to come back tomorrow, I’m sure you know how I feel. I’m sure you know that remembering the things we talked about in five minutes is less than satisfying to me. I’m sure you know how much I cursed the taxi for arriving too soon. I’m sure you know I’d like to spend more time with you, if only to test how long I can sustain remembering 94% of what you say. Maybe if our conversation went for hours, I’d still prove to be better than Capote in that regard, but I’d still not be satisfied. 

Isn’t that right, woman?

Advices - Love or Hate ‘Em?

I believe the most prideful ones like to dispense advices, and that a writer’s pride is peerless. Writers gloat when they can express their thoughts so cogently, their words rock everyone’s perspective. They fancy being so perceptive, that they can plough through all hardships - even those not their own. Advising may be a writer’s nature. I defy you cite an exception.

I have a tolerance for people who get intrusive and offer unsolicited advices. I get plenty of those from my elder friends. Although it’s easy to think that they’re just being annoying, sometimes their words are well-meant.

But when strangers give unsolicited advices? Ah, now that’s nuisance! I won’t feel comfortable when I’m approached by a street preacher and am told to listen to the "voice of my conscience". Or if a bum tells me to be like John Galt.

So what about people who have read me online but haven’t seen me personally? They stand somewhere between unfamiliarity and kinship, and their advices have a more varying credibility. If, for example, I sound troubled on a blog post, their words could either hack away my anxieties, or just nettle me more. It depends on relevancy and tenability.

Any time you type, you’re a writer. The only thing that will vary is if others will see you as a someone who could write for a profession. But I don’t care if you’re an amateur or Pulitzer-Prize laureate. If your comments on my blog are wise and precise, I’ll be grateful. But, if you constantly knock me with patronizing self-important fodders, then you’re nothing but grating.