The Wannabe Blogger

I want to write naked because only then can I become real, more natural. I do not hide and pretend, I write and offer every part of my self. And so each day, I become like the Aztecs. I sacrifice to please my gods because writing is always a sacrificial ceremony. I am writing naked. The hardest thing is to get naked in front of mere strangers, to get real with them, exposing the scars I never wanted to share. The writer becomes a mother and the readers her children, sucking milk from her breasts until they began to explore every part of her that they can suck. And she becomes an open commodity and she forgets she still owns herself. This is what sacrifice is, selfless.

I was sitting on my bed. I was hungry. I thought of wars. Of religion raging wars. Of men. Of women. Of conquests –

I am interested with women. I have always been fascinated with women. I hunt women- tattooed women long haired women women wearing tight skinny jeans women with the fresh blood of fish on their shirts women smelling nothing but nicotine and strawberry tanned women fat women with deep cleavages women with scarred legs women with sagging breasts women with ingrown toenails small breasted women finally, women.

Writing is my only defense – my last resort to save myself from insecurities. Ever since I was in elementary, I was always sitting in the last row, hiding from every single person in the room. They knew me as the skinny little girl who used to wear pretty dresses in school until two boyish classmates stopped me from doing so and stole my daily allowance. After being beaten up, I went around with my boy classmates and decided that I should forget being a girl anymore.

The hardest thing about such experiences was that I never learned to fight. I was too scared to fight. Now that I am old enough to understand the art of defense, maybe there are indeed reasons to fight. Jean Claude Van Damme made me do it—to fight and never to run away. Above all, poetry made me do it.

I understand deaths, half deaths, and senseless deaths. I write pain because it is only in those sheets that they can get stained, and sooner they will no longer inhabit my head. I write based on how I see the world and how the world wanted me to see itself. I become a writer when there is enough reason for madness and temptation to hate and to love.

I have a love-the relationship with poetry: I am tempted to hate it yet worship it at the same time. I thirst for conquests. I was bullied. I was frail and weak. I was beaten. And so I write with a vengeance. This is my ultimate motivation why I want to be a good poet. Poetry is something to be conquered. It is something to be owned. It is something to be controlled, manipulated with your fingers.

Why can’t we write and not mind why we ever write at all? It is more like drinking beer and we forget being drunk. Why can’t I see beer as words or ideas and let myself drown, filling my stomach with words until it stops growling? My beer belly is a deposit where I dump untold stories, unwritten poems. And finally, when I vomit, I could see art before me. I could see pages of paper in my bed, all ready for submission, almost ready for criticism.

I write because meat still tastes like meat; John Grisham has more lawyers to save; Lourd de Veyra has more songs to write; my boyfriend has more fats to burn and dates to remember; my roommates have more eyebrows to pluck;  Chuku still has another skin to scar; Physics still cannot explain pain. As long as writing makes love to me under a full moon, I continue writing. As long as my imagination survives, I am still a survivor. I relax, I eat and still continue writing. I am still the fearless and fearful conquistador. May I live forever.

TEIA