*Larita Kutsarita - n. see THE AUTHOR
*Spoonfuls - n. articles/dispatches/scribbles by Larita Kutsarita
(Background photo by Aiess Alonso)

Thursday, November 19, 2009

I Once Wore a Helmet (with an excerpt from an unfinished and barely begun story)

Henry Miller once said, “The best way to get over a woman is to turn her into literature.” Actually, Mr. Miller, the best way to get over anything is to turn it into literature. This much I have understood, tried, tested, and proven all these years that I’ve been writing. Of course, this makes me very selfish in my pursuit towards becoming a writer. Then again, life’s harshness often reminds me that I am also human—prone to (A)H1N1, everyday corporate crimes, distress caused by Brilliante Mendoza films, and probably one of the most dangerous: loneliness. I’m quite sure that even the most hardcore writers of revolutionary literature have succumbed to the temptation of transforming shit into 24k-Fred Leighton jewelry. Fiona Apple, though not exactly a “revolutionary,” sang about being an “extraordinary machine.” I want to be one, too. I’ve always found it amazing how some people can transcend human feelings and frailties by making art. It is quite naïve of me considering that I must know that art mirrors nature and thus, may originate from human woes, of course.

I remember when I was madly in love (ugh, that phrase really sucks) with somebody who only called me on the phone when he was drunk, texted me when he was sober. Let’s just call him “the one who sired a child” (don’t ask). He constantly warned me that the number one girl in his life would have to be his daughter despite the fact that I never asked for such a place in his life owing to my strange indifference when it comes to feeling “valued”—my drama’s more like, “If I’m important to you, that’s great. If not, tell me so I can give you the same level of unimportance.” I’m not the clingy type but a friend once said that when I’m in love, I can really be such a hopeless romantic hard ass. I wrote somebody—let’s call him “the crybaby”—a letter more than ten pages long that one of my fingers actually bled. There were times when I felt like I was a character in “Love in the Time of Cholera.” What a sad sucker I was, all because I was socialized to believe that there is true love, and that it conquers everything, and that it is “winged Cupid painted blind (Shakespeare’s fault)”. O.o

Anyhow, to say that my Mother disapproved of my relationship with “the one who sired a child” is an understatement. She actually threatened of disowning me if I did not break up with him. In spite of this, I stayed. For a month. We only got together as a couple for two days—first, when he sat in the little speech class in which I taught for the summer, and second, when we had coffee and hung out before I left for the university (and I paid for that fucking coffee!). The rest of our “in a relationship” days were spent being apart from each other. (NOTE: Keeping a long-distance affair is the stupidest thing to do in your young life, well, except if you’re a missionary on an overseas evangelization mission and your guy’s a eunuch a.k.a. “dead man walking”/castrated/dickless).

One time, I got so depressed and suicidal (hell, no…I hate pain…the closest I got was getting ink on my body) because of my Mother’s harsh reactions to my decision to stay with “the one who sired a child” so I went to the library and hogged as many books as I could. Mostly, they were books of wise, white, dead men’s insights on love—that, that wretched thing. I wrote down all the quotes that I thought could somehow save me from my dejected, desolate state. I can be such a sick-o, y’know. I took notes from Shakespeare, Miller, Addison, Tennyson, Marlowe, and all those miserable guys who did nothing but write about their miseries and fleeting pleasures. What I forgot, though, was that they had penises. I don’t, and so, I was possibly more miserable than they were. O.o

Why am I writing this? Nothing seriously borne out of an epiphany, really. I was just looking for a poem that I wrote last year (probably the only poem that I ever wrote in my life, “so far,” as Homer Simpson would say) and I came across my currently neglected journal in which I wrote all those quotes. “Crazy bitch,” I whispered to myself. LOL. Aside from that, I’ve recently gotten in touch with a few female friends who got back together with their erring boyfriends. I told one that she was driving me nuts and she only gushed that she was driving herself nuts, too. I’m so sorry, honey, I can’t laugh with you on this one. I guess the joke that there are some girls out there who “wear helmets” (dahil hindi sila nauuntog sa katotohanan) is not altogether false. And remembering how much I had invested in a relationship that was barely even one does remind me why I am friends with my female friends—we all had our stupid moments. Honestly, I’m not the kind who’s haunted by ghosts of the past. It’s more like I get haunted by the person I was. I guess most of us are like that, we just don’t acknowledge it much, because the world makes you believe that you have an obligation to remember, that “love’s sweeter the second time around”—a sort of thinking that I believe was invented to primarily oppress women, never mind that he hits you, never mind that he cheated, love conquers all!

I guess these are my favorites--from a guy called Lilly and from a man whose name I can’t possibly pronounce:

“A Heart full of coldness, a sweet full of

Bitterness, a pain full of pleasantness,

Which maketh thoughts have eyes, and hearts ears; bred

By desire nursed by delight,

Weaned by jealousy

Kill’d by dissembling, buried by

Ingratitude;—and this is love.”

From Lilly

“It is difficult to define love; all we can say is that in the soul, it is a desire to rule; in the mind, it is a sympathy; and in the body, it is a hidden and delicate wish to possess what we love—plus many mysteries.” From La Rochefoucauld

Looking back now, I only laugh at the turn of events. I do not exactly have the reputation for keeping relationships that long (my longest was with “the crybaby:” five months, and we weren’t talking anymore during the last month) but one month is admittedly pathetic. “We’re soulmates, we like the same books, we listen to the same music, he practiced Buddhism, and he also has tattoos!” Yep, I thought like that. Like I never got of high school. I find it hysterical, really. But then, still, I honor my past as I honor my present. It’s the same with my valuing bad grades—so what if I got a four or five? I worked for that five, godammit! I wear my scars as if they were badges in war. And they are. ^^

The father whom I dated for a month (mostly on the phone) has actually inspired a story or two, and I have been better since then. I believe that we are currently in good terms (hopefully, even after he gets to read this, if ever he does). At least I didn’t sleep with him, although I heard that he was good in bed. Hell, he was so good he had a daughter. LOL.

***

“Her fingers hold the stick of cigarette as if it were a paintbrush. She puts it in her mouth and tries to blow a few circles, although she only succeeds at making odd shapes. They ask her if she has ever fallen in love, and if this is the reason she writes so well on the matter.

After a moment of silence and other failed attempts at blowing circles, she replies, “Love? I don’t love anymore. I only like people to such an extent that I tell them I love ‘em.”

“But the way you write about wretched love. It seems so…real,” one naïve reader quips.

“Not really, I’m just wretched. That’s all,” she smiles. “Any more stupid questions?”

They snigger. Her fans love her for that.

4 comments:

sunshine said...

“If the voices in your head make you cry, you’re a lunatic. Put their words on paper, and you’re a writer.” — D.VonThaer

ADRIAN said...

Love is being here and there going around and about, up and down the rolling wind of chances, disappointments, "doors being slammed", being alone, darkness, sex and the sexless: an aimless journey human beings still partake through ages in order to become human beings themselves.

Anonymous said...

In my small way this is how I would tell you I love you.

it's like every time you have lechon manok in your meal with your love one, you would tell her you don't really eat drumstick so that she can have them both, except that it's a lie, your favorite is drumstick also. But we could be talking about ice cream or cake and lobsters and not just drumstick... TRUE STORY

warped4lyf said...

sunshine, i believe that i am actually a lunatic and a "writer" at the same time =)

adrian, was that your own writing, or a quote? i like it!

anonymous, love is sacrifice, indeed.

and yet, my dear readers, i do believe that as much as we love, we are not required to put on helmets. if it is painful, acknowledge it, and learn to abhor it...before we mistake pain for loving to such an extent that we lose everything. good night!