I love Spotify! And yes, I’m still naming playlists like a teenager. #sorrynotsorry
AMBAHAN poetry of the Hanuoo-Mangyan of Mindoro Island, Central Philippines
Alam Niyo Ba?
The Hanuoo-Mangyan of Mindoro carve their poems in bamboo.
These poems are called the ambahan. Each ambahan has seven syllables. They are also chanted and has been here since the ancient times.
When the Spaniards arrived in the 16th century Philippines, they were surprised to find the inhabitants reading and writing in this Asian script. It is a syllabic writing derived from ancient Brahmin script that originated in India some 2500 years ago. Although it has gradually disappeared it is still used by the Mangyans for their poetry.
It is either engraved on bamboo or embroidered on cloth.
(reference: ncca.gov.ph; filipinobooks.com | photo: filipinobooks.com)
Cousin: Are you giving up dating for Lent?
Me: If I do that, you’ll have no dating mishap stories to laugh at anymore…
Cousin: But you’re the gift that keeps on giving!
The ones who are not soul-mated – the ones who have settled – are even more dismissive of my singleness: It’s not that hard to find someone to marry, they say. No relationship is perfect, they say – they, who make do with dutiful sex and gassy bedtime rituals, who settle for TV as conversation, who believe that husbandly capitulation – yes, honey, okay, honey – is the same as concord. He’s doing what you tell him to do because he doesn’t care enough to argue, I think. Your petty demands simply make him feel superior, or resentful, and someday he will fuck his pretty, young coworker who asks nothing of him, and you will actually be shocked.
Give me a man with a little fight in him, a man who calls me on my bullshit. (But who also kind of likes my bullshit.) And yet: Don’t land me in one of those relationships where we’re always pecking at each other, disguising insults as jokes, rolling our eyes and ‘playfully’ scrapping in front of our friends, hoping to lure them to our side of an argument they could not care less about. Those awful if only relationships: This marriage would be great if only… and you sense the if only list is a lot longer than either of them realizes.
So I know I am right not to settle, but it doesn’t make me feel better as my friends pair off and I stay home on Friday night with a bottle of wine and make myself an extravagant meal and tell myself, This is perfect, as if I’m the one dating me. As I go to endless rounds of parties and bar nights, perfumed and sprayed and hopeful, rotating myself around the room like some dubious dessert. I go on dates with men who are nice and good-looking and smart – perfect-on-paper men who make me feel like I’m in a foreign land, trying to explain myself, trying to make myself known. Because isn’t that the point of every relationship: to be known by someone else, to be understood? He gets me. She gets me. Isn’t that the simple magic phrase?
So you suffer through the night with the perfect-on-paper man – the stutter of jokes misunderstood, the witty remarks lobbed and missed. Or maybe he understands that you’ve made a witty remark but, unsure of what to do with it, he holds it in his hand like some bit of conversational phlegm he will wipe away later. You spend another hour trying to find each other, to recognise each other, and you drink a little too much and try a little too hard. And you go home to a cold bed and think, That was fine. And your life is a long line of fine.
And then you run into Nick Dunne on Seventh Avenue as you’re buying diced cantaloupe, and pow, you are known, you are recognised, the both of you. You both find the exact same things worth remembering. (Just one olive, though). You have the same rhythm. Click. You just know each other. All of a sudden you see reading in bed and waffles on Sunday and laughing at nothing and his mouth on yours. And it’s so far beyond fine that you know you can never go back to fine. That fast. You think: Oh, here is the rest of my life. It’s finally arrived
"Gone Girl" by Gillian Flynn.
This entire thing hurts so good.
Just had to reblog the whole thing.
You can have that kind of love again, if you want it. Fall in love with yourself. Invest in a good career, treat yourself to a couple of traveling or shopping trips, spend some time alone. It isn’t all that bad. Make yourself the kind of person that you would fall in love with, and eventually, you’ll be ready to let someone else in again. Someone who would fall in love with you the way you deserve to be loved. Excuse the cliché, you’re probably sick of hearing about all this from your own friends, but you will be okay. Someday you will look back on all this and be thankful that you had your time alone, when you learned to fall in love with yourself.KATRINA TAMONDONG (via felicidadfelicity)
Thank you, technology.
Good morning texts, Skype conversations with family, recorded Facebook voice messages, shared Hulu+, Netflix and HBO GO accounts, NPR podcasts, Kings of Leon/ Phoenix Pandora station.
Alaskans // Volcano Choir
At the end of the song is audio from the end of a reading by Bukowski of his poem The Shower.
when you take it away
do it slowly and easily
make it as if I were dying in my sleep instead of in
my life, amen.