Written On Glass

Good Morning, Vietnam! (Part 1)

2012-02-22T03:46:00.037+08:00

In recent times, traveling has become largely affordable and a bit more convenient especially with help from travel websites. Every now and then, a change of scenery is a good thing. This spells more opportunities to explore different cultures and expand our perception of the world we live in. It instills a sense of history and enriches our understanding of people from diverse cultural backgrounds. So when my brother and I stumbled upon an online seat sale offered by the most tweeted airline, otherwise known as Cebu Pacific, we knew we had to take advantage of the opportunity.

You can say our family is quite a bunch of avid travelers. My mother loves to travel and it’s no surprise my brother and I take after her. Apart from notable sites we've visited in our country—indeed, it’s more fun in the Philippines!— we've crossed out a few Asian countries from the travel list. For the next couple of years, we plan on going to Cambodia to visit the magnificent Angkor Wat, and to Vietnam for its rich history, jovial people, and awesome pho and spring rolls.

Last weekend, we went on a dreamy whirl-wind adventure to Vietnam.

Alright, fine. It’s not as dreamy but it’s definitely more of a hectic jaunt. Once I packed my light luggage, I knew I was ready for 2 days of travel shock. What can a backpacker do with just 2 days in Vietnam? A lot of course, but there’s so much to visit in so little time.

We got to see the following places during our stay:

· Ho Chi Minh - Ben Thanh Market and Cho Lon Market

· Cu Chi Tunnel

· Mekong Delta

· Saigon River

Good Morning, Vietnam!
Ho Chi Minh City

The city has more motorcycles than cars

Purchasing saled seats meant enduring evening flights (that’s going to and from our destination), being patient when the flights got delayed for an hour, and arriving past 3:00am in Ho Chi Minh. My brother says it ain’t Cebu Pacific if your flight isn’t delayed. He’s had a number of trips with the airline to boot and I didn’t bother questioning him. Fortunately, although we were on a budget tour, I’m glad to say we were able to book a good clean hotel. I fell asleep as soon as my back met the bed.

For starters, we stayed in the southern region of Vietnam in Ho Chi Minh, the city more popularly known as Saigon thanks to the world-renowned Broadway play. Truth be told, I only knew a thing or two about Vietnam from watching that play, not to mention movies like Forrest Gump and Good Morning Vietnam. I didn’t do much research before the trip, and I think it’s this very lack of knowledge that made our tour more exciting than usual.

Upon arriving, I found out it was possible to cover the major historical destinations in the southern part of Vietnam as long as we remained faithful to our itinerary. However, for travelers who want to see more sites all over Vietnam, I’d say you’ll need about two weeks. Those who wish to visit the northern region of Hanoi, which is home to the scenic shores of Ha Long Bay, will have to take a 9 hour bus ride or an hour’s flight coming from Ho Chi Minh. Though this meant no sandy beach photos or bikini lines to boast for budget travelers like us, I was fine with the idea because it’s not as if we don’t have spectacular beaches here in the Philippines.

I couldn’t catch my Zs during the two and a half hour flight. However sleep deprived, I woke up at 6:00am in time for our 8:00am trip to Ben Dinh. On my first morning in Vietnam, I barely had 3 hours of sleep. Nevertheless, it was still a good morning with clear weather just right for an entire day of sight-seeing. From the city, it took about 45 minutes to reach our destination. On the way, we stopped over to take photos in a man-made forest with endless rubber trees.

Waiting for the undead :p

With ate Mhelon

Tai, our tour guide, eagerly talked about the history of Vietnam. Like most Southeast Asian countries, I found out Vietnam was colonized by Westerners as early as the 1800s, particularly by the French. I took photos of the century old Holy Virgin Church, the Grand Hotel which was erected in the 1930s, and the Post Office, all built during the French occupation.

The French let go of the country in 1954 and left its people divided; the northern region succumbed to communist rule, while the southern region became a non-communist republic which later became a U.S. ally. Vietnam was occupied by the Japanese during World War II, but it didn’t affect the country and its people as much as the 2^nd Indochina War. The Vietnam War began in the 1960s and went on until 1975. On April 30 of that year, Northern Vietnam was subjugated by Southern troops and Saigon was renamed after its leader, Ho Chi Minh.

Holy Virgin Church

Saigon Grand Hotel

The Post Office

When we arrived in Cu Chi, we watched an old documentary film which recounted how the three levels of the tunnel complex was built. The documentary was dubbed in English and it looked like a film reel rummaged straight out of the ‘60s. It explicitly venerated Vietnamese men and women who killed Americans, declaring them heroes of the war. The Vietnam War went on for over 10 years and the Cu Chi tunnels served as an underground city and defense unit for the Vietcong. It enabled them to organize guerilla attacks against unsuspecting Americans. But then, years of crossfire brought thousands of Vietnamese refugees to neighboring countries like Laos and Cambodia in search of safety and a chance to rebuild their lives. For the same reason, quite a number of these refugees also found their way to the United States.

My brother and I talked about how the film must have served as propaganda utilized by socialist supporters to organize and train the locals for armed combat. This movement defined their nation’s stand against democratic representatives. Evidently, it fostered unity and discipline among its people enough to successfully drive out their American oppressors.

Ho Chi Minh and my imaginary goatee - yes, I came in uniform

Being a fellow Asian from a country with a history that spans over a hundred years of colonization, i thought the Americans weren’t supposed to have any business in Vietnam. They underestimated this Asian country and it took them years to realize they had to give up their conquest. The funny thing was a lot of American tourists were watching that propaganda film. It made me wonder what was going through their minds after learning that many Americans were mutilated mercilessly by Vietcong assassins. Were they merely tourists just in it for the show, or were they offended? In the same manner, I wondered how these Vietnamese facilitators and historians felt about what the Americans did.

Cu Chi Tunnel is a major attraction which draws thousands of tourists every year. So much of Vietnam’s tourism booms thanks to Americans who enjoy visiting this country. Today, ironic as it may seem, most Vietnamese are drawn into the American Dream. Our tour guide Tai talked about how numerous Vietnamese families wish to migrate to the United States in hopes of having a better life in the land of the free. At that point, I realized the whole of Vietnam is under communist rule.

I tried to access my Facebook to post photos when I realized it's blocked. The government strictly regulates media and public establishments prohibits access to various social networking sites. That's just one example of communist power, and it makes me wonder what other rights are being regulated in this type of government system (I'll do some more research on that).

It’s strange how many of us colonized countries have that same mentality toward our oppressors—we mostly end up adoring them. I think it’s either we deliberately forgot what they did to us, or they did a good job cleaning their reputation that we seem to have this colonial amnesia. They were simply opportunists. I'd like to believe every country is equal, and absolute power is a terrible joke. Well, just to cut the whining, all I want to say is that the U.S. does not deserve that kind of adoration from us or from any other country. Don't get me wrong, I'm not launching an anti-U.S. campaign. I'm just saying they aren't that great. People shouldn't buy into that American delusion so hastily.

Through the Tunnel

After the film, we went to see various human traps and secret tunnel entrances in Cu Chi. I got the chance to enter a reinforced tunnel which was a bit wider than the original tunnels built in the 1960s. I have to say it’s one of the most interesting experiences of my visit. On the other hand, this isn’t for claustrophobic folks, dudes with severe hypertension, or anyone who can’t tolerate back pain. Here’s a tip: take your time before going inside a tunnel, you don't want to pop a vessel and end up with a bleeding nose just because you rushed to jump in. If you happen to find yourself nervous while under ground, don’t worry too much. Someone will guide you out safely. Also, there are instances when a tunnel forks, so unless you want to end up crawling for miles to the border of Angkor Wat, avoid wandering. Follow your guide.

Secret Passage

Claustrophobia?

Stuck in a tank

Following our half-day excursion in Cu Chi, we headed back to Ho Chi Minh to shop at Ben Thanh Market and Cho Lon Market. These places reminded me of Divisoria and Tutuban in Manila mainly because vendors sold everything from food to china, toys, and clothes all in one market place. It’s where wise spenders buy wholesale items and get great bargains. One can definitely make use of their exceptional haggling skills in this shopping district.

My mom bought coffee and tea at discount price, we even got free coffee strainers. Before I forget to mention, Vietnam is also well known for its exquisite Oolong and Lotus tea, as well as the most expensive coffee in the world—Kopi Luwak, also known as Civet Coffee. If you want to know why it’s so expensive, click this link. No, I am not shitting you.

Well, that’s it for now on part one of my weekend in Vietnam. Stay tuned for my update soon.

To the Film Editor

2012-02-03T00:38:00.008+08:00

I imagine you must be deeply absorbed watching the last film you downloaded and saved into your hard drive. I do not think you would be asleep by now. If you are, perhaps your dreams are far more wondrous, strange, and vibrant than all the films you’ve seen that it could redefine the word cinematic. Your dreams could be stored in your beautiful mind for all of eternity, or at least until your neurons degenerate—forget, and die taking them all to the grave. I only hope to have a glimpse of that realm, to see it with your eyes: live boundless until I wake.

Inevitably, your memory will become selective as your hard drive will lack space. Perhaps you would delete titles to store fished files from abundant torrents, make room for unseen films, write drafts that need to be saved. Scrap unnecessary data. You require higher capacity to transfer raw footage into your folder for editing.

As you attempt to transcend the limits of dreams, capture and preserve measured flights of fancy, consider the sharpness of memory even with the intent to forget. For this, I know: the heart could house what the mind has lost. It is my case. I dare not ask yours.

Autonomy

2012-02-02T10:02:00.001+08:00

In danger, the holothurian cuts itself in two.
It abandons one self to a hungry world
and with the other self it flees.

It violently divides into doom and salvation,
retribution and reward, what has been and what will be.

An abyss appears in the middle of its body
between what instantly become two foreign shores.

Life on one shore, death on the other.
Here hope and there despair.

If there are scales, the pans don’t move.
If there is justice, this is it.

To die just as required, without excess.
To grow back just what’s needed from what’s left.

We, too, can divide ourselves, it’s true.
But only into flesh and a broken whisper.
Into flesh and poetry.

The throat on one side, laughter on the other,
quiet, quickly dying out.

Here the heavy heart, there non omnis moriar—
just three little words, like a flight’s three feathers.

The abyss doesn’t divide us.
The abyss surrounds us.

--Wislawa Szymborska (1932-2012)

Fire and Ice

2012-01-31T20:07:00.002+08:00

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

-- Robert Frost

Moment on Loop

2012-01-21T04:42:00.000+08:00

Yesterday

2012-01-14T18:36:00.000+08:00

My friend says I was not a good son
you understand
I say yes I understand

he says I did not go
to see my parents very often you know
and I say yes I know

even when I was living in the same city he says
maybe I would go there once
a month or maybe even less
I say oh yes

he says the last time I went to see my father
I say the last time I saw my father

he says the last time I saw my father
he was asking me about my life
how I was making out and he
went into the next room
to get something to give me

oh I say
feeling again the cold
of my fathers hand the last time
he says and my father turned
in the doorway and saw me
look at my wristwatch and he
said you know I would like you to stay
and talk with me

oh yes I say

but if you are busy he said
I don't want you to feel that you
have to
just because I'm here

I say nothing

he says my father
said maybe
you have important work you are doing
or maybe you should be seeing
somebody I dont want to keep you

I look out the window
my friend is older than I am
he says and I told my father it was so
and I got up and left him then
you know

though there was nowhere I had to go
and nothing I had to do

-- W.S. Merwin

The song that could change your life

2012-01-06T01:34:00.005+08:00

Gold teeth and a curse for this town were all in my mouth
Only I don't know how they got out, dear
Turn me back into the pet that I was when we met
I was happier then with no mind-set

And if you'd 'a took to me like
A gull takes to the wind
Well, I'd 'a jumped from my tree
And I'd a danced like the king of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would 'a fared well

New slang when you notice the stripes, the dirt in your fries
Hope it's right when you die, old and bony
Dawn breaks like a bull through the hall,
Never should have called
But my head's to the wall and I'm lonely

And if you'd 'a took to me like
A gull takes to the wind
Well, I'd 'a jumped from my tree
And I'd a danced like the king of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would 'a fared well

God speed all the bakers at dawn, may they all cut their thumbs
And bleed into their buns till they melt away

I'm looking in on the good life I might be doomed never to find
Without a trust or flaming fields, am I too dumb to refine?
And if you'd 'a took to me, well I'd a danced like the queen
Of the eyesores and the rest of our lives would 'a fared well.

-- The Shins, "New Slang"

Until I find a way to write the words

2012-01-04T17:44:00.006+08:00

Photography by Viktor Rudi

Lines

Geometry class taught me the meaning of a line
Declaring it as a collection of points extending infinitely
On opposite directions. One point followed by another,
Connecting. And I speculate on relation, points struggling

To connect, saying my hand is held across waiting
For you to come, and hold it. An ardent point A, relating
To a fading point B, meaning extension. To give
Part of the self to another. At night, I dream of lines,

The kinds that make up the four chambers of the heart
And what lies in each of them, how they set themselves apart
Drawing lines to distinguish their insides from the exterior.
Outside, a train pulses to its arrival, a child rides for the first time,

A man forgets patience, and a faraway place is near again.
I define lines simply as something that exists in everything
I see. Is this what holds the world together? The margins
Of this city, finding necessary slits and openings, blue horizons,
The lines on our palms, the trail our footsteps leave.

September 2010

So, do we really care? I'd like to think so.

2012-01-03T17:43:00.000+08:00

“I’m hardly what I would call an “intellectual.” I think a lot, and I ask a lot of questions and do a lot of reading and watching documentaries, but most of it is just fueling my own personal curiosity. When it comes to having a political opinion, to me that’s almost the same thing as having an opinion on pro wrestling. Politics in this country (and all around the world for that matter) are an impossible tangle of bullshit and corruption. When I start paying attention to it and forming opinions I almost get mad at myself for following the projected storyline. The truth is always far more complex and twisted than what’s being broadcast through the media, and behind it all is a wave of special interest money and propaganda. It almost seems impossible to fix. If I ever had to go on a political talk show I think it would be very hard to take the whole proposition seriously, and I would almost certainly just start ranting about how ridiculous it is that we’re even discussing it instead of unveiling the true motivation behind all world events; people with fuck loads of money want to make more of it, and they don’t give a fuck who has to die to make that happen.”

— Joe Rogan

Introverted Intuition

2012-01-02T22:04:00.008+08:00

Of all the people in the world, I am part of 1% that struggle daily to find other like-minded personalities. I guess that explains why I don't exactly have it easy making close long-term friends. But not to worry, I don't think I'm that hard to get along with unless you're a total douche. This not so accurate online test also reveals I'm pretty average. It's another way of saying, "You're special, but you're not that great either". Well, whatever. As long as I get by, I'm fine how I am.

Sunset

2012-01-02T03:50:00.039+08:00

We rose from bed, took twelve steps,

and gazed at auburn skies bleeding.

I took you to the balcony to get away

from the room. Some air, I said.

You couldn’t do more than nod.

Our breaths met the afternoon breeze.

It felt like the final days of summer

long ago, whenever a friend’s mother

sent me away at what time

I did not want

to go home.

How that left a heavy feeling in my throat;

stones lodged too deep to heave.

The only way to displace the weight

was to let it flow. Later, they became tears—

a child sees endings this way.

That day was no different. Coming outside,

you let go of my hand, stood near the ledge

and caught a glimpse of the low sun.

I watched from behind. Waiting for dusk,

we did not say a word.

No sunset is the same as the last.

Years later, I stopped the flow.

Most of us don’t cry

as often as we used to.

Where there are no pleasant departures

some are more distinct, like the color

of nightfall as I watched you

prepare for everything after, setting it

apart from the others I’ve seen

and have yet to see.

Look Back, Move Forward

2011-12-31T17:31:00.000+08:00

Because some days and nights felt longer than the past year. Cheers to life, my friend, to life.

Bubbles for 2012

2011-12-28T13:15:00.001+08:00

Because fire crackers give me the creeps

photography by Laura Kok

The New Year

2011-12-28T12:59:00.000+08:00

I will dive to the bottom of the hotel pool and find my mother’s hairpin.

With the mouth of a drowning woman on my lap,
I will add her breath to mine. In the dark, I will lay the thin white sheet

of the moonlight over the blue plums of my wife’s breasts.

With the new planet I discovered just when I thought I was losing my sight,
I will love another man because I will be a woman.

Everything important will never as yet have happened. Let it happen.

I will throw a lit match on the secrets my body
has kept from me and stand in the fire. The people I have sawed in half

will appear in my bedroom mirror, getting dressed.

--Jason Shinder

On to various manuals

2011-12-28T11:01:00.002+08:00

A Drunkard's Guide to Heartache

“There is no space wider than that of grief,
there is no universe like that which bleeds.”
-Pablo Neruda

I can come to only one conclusion.
One that is pillared by starlight
and teaches me how to dance.
I can only dream of spaces that
dignify my sorrow with a view
of dawn, and sound out my loneliness
among all of yours. Let us leave
the world for a while. Turn our
minds to the span of mystery.
We are all children of feeling.
So hurt. Because what we require
is the opposite of space. A wall.
A tide of self. Whatever it is
you fill, know that you still hold.
Remember your family and breed.
Don’t waste your purpose.
And if you don’t have a purpose,
sit down and drink until
you reacquaint yourself with need.
That delicate ache, that beautiful
cliché. I want to hear you feel.
I want to dream with you and search
for our ghosts. I want desire
to keep me away from my desires.
So that I may suffer space. So that
my hands may know the reaching.
So that tomorrow I may still be
too alive to believe in emptiness.
Let me keep my days filled with
quarrel and deceit. This is what
I know, this gravity, this life, that
pulls all light and turns it into beating,
A rhythm, a form of art, my being.

--Rafael San Diego

Online Test: Personality Disorders

2011-12-20T21:12:00.000+08:00

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid Personality Disorder:	High
Schizoid Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Schizotypal Personality Disorder:	High
Antisocial Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Borderline Personality Disorder:	Very High
Histrionic Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Narcissistic Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Avoidant Personality Disorder:	Very High
Dependent Personality Disorder:	Very High
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder:	Moderate
-- Take the Personality Disorder Test -- -- Personality Disorder Info --

Insomnia

2011-12-14T02:17:00.012+08:00

Sapped veins colored with penitence,

insides churning mad with frailty.

The thin of blood is thin of blood.

How do you intend to kill

these stagnant nights?

Only you could remember

how it all began: vestiges becoming

a shadow inhabiting, the restless

rising black against black walls.

Eyes drying white. The apparent

lack of signs, vital. Nights will die

engulfed in the body’s ailing.

To the Displaced

2011-12-10T01:36:00.005+08:00

Many dread the difference time draws
in a day trying to hear careless passing
as it treats each moment like the next

just another happening no longer lasting
only a second, a minute, an hour, a life-
time behind your mind suspended inevitably

encrypted: fragments cast into the turning
tides of the sea where uncertain is recovery
grasping severed pieces being stolen away

Oh time what use have you but for us to forget
and so you are forever indifferent to all
the pining and pounding as we dare to salvage

our wants in ifs, for this is

what I mean
when I miss.

Through the Woods: An essay about an essay

2011-12-02T15:01:00.009+08:00

I am currently digesting assigned readings for my creative non-fiction class. Out of the pile (but I've honestly only read four), an essay by American reporter Leslie Rubinkowski made me understand a little more about issues which concern truth and lies, not just in writing, but in our daily lives. The title of the piece is In the Woods, below is a brief summary and commentary about the essay.

Summary

Leslie Rubinkowski recounted his experience as an adolescent who dealt with a grandfather who constantly told strange stories. Growing up, he always knew they were lies. He began by narrating one of his grandfather’s stories about a naked woman he saw one evening in the woods. Another unbelievable story, also set in the woods, was about some weird animal he found; it had quills like a porcupine that seemed to look more like feathers, and a duck bill. No, his grandfather didn’t think it was a platypus. He told lies with great gusto.

Rubinkowski hated it when his grandfather lied, but for some reason, he was still drawn to ask what happened next. He wrote, “That is where it all starts, doesn’t it? Then what: that lovely painful pull of the thing you need to know, whether you need to or not.” Later on, Rubinkowski became a reporter. His inquisitive nature and penchant for getting into the bottom of things definitely worked to his career’s advantage.

In one of Rubinkowski’s assignments, a woman lied to him about being cast in a hillbilly variety show back in the ‘70s. This woman even suggested she had “known” Elvis Presley, that she was in love with him. He knew the lady was lying but he did his research anyway. The lady believed so much in her dream that she came off as sincere. Although Rubinkowski knew she was a fake, deep down he still wanted to believe in her story. He realized that there are lies that try to hide, and there are those that reveal something more significant about loss and hope. He concluded that part of the essay by saying, “So maybe what I'm looking for aren't lies at all. Maybe what I'm looking for—hoping for—is a happier truth."

The final part of his essay narrated one of his grandfather’s stories about the strange animal. He saw it walking toward him from the woods. Here, he began to see the world through his grandfather's imagination. That morning, the writer was born.

Commentary

The narrative presented Rubinkowski as an adolescent who was keen on listening to the story itself, regardless of whether it was fact or fiction. At first he seemed to reason that he was just fond of good stories, which was why he didn’t mind listening to lies. While writing the essay, I believe he was trying to understand why people went through all the trouble just to tell lies, and why he actually took the time of day to even listen to them.

In an effort to understand his grandfather, he researched the kind of life he lived. From what I gather, he believes his grandfather made-up narratives that represented his ideal self. Maybe he did so to establish a connection with his grandson. The experience opened his mind to great possibilities, helping him cope with a melancholic childhood. And, I guess it worked because Rubinkowski said he thinks he did so out of love. He also acknowledged that his grandfather was a great influence in the kind of writer he has become.

In the middle of the essay, he confessed that, as a writer, writers lie all the time even when they deal with facts. Because we derive a lot of information from memory, at some point it’s likely to be inaccurate. Memories can be factual but it’s not fleshed out—it’s just imagined. I can identify with this point because more often than not, memories aren’t very reliable especially when we try to recall something so distant. They usually require proof. Personally, when I try to remember specific details from my past, I sometimes happen to confuse myself with what really happened and what I dreamed could have happened. This is why it’s so important to talk to other people and confirm events if we really want something accurate. But, what is the point? Is it simply to recover the past and arrive at some truth? I have to say the process of remembering and sorting fact from the imagined is just as important because at the end of it all, we have to make sense of it.

I appreciate how the writer was able to arrive at the conclusion that there is some significant meaning behind the kind of lies people create. He gave perspective to an essential aspect of the human condition: the kind of hopes and dreams people live with. I believe the final part of the essay described what it means to finally have a shift of perspective and to dive beyond the parameters of reality to experience life as it should be lived.

I guess it’s true that we might just find that truth we’re looking for if we hang around long enough to see it. But then, if we don’t, maybe we can move on and create new truths by living life as earnestly as we can.

Discrimination: Like a Boss

2011-11-24T21:19:00.001+08:00

Archetypes

2011-11-24T11:09:00.003+08:00

What Fantasy Archetype are you? Your Result: The Mentor You are wise and knowledgeable due to years of experience. Your sagacity is unparalleled, and you find yourself training the hero to fulfill his or her destiny. You are the real power behind the crusade.
The Hero
The Damsel in Distress
The Prime Evil
The Hapless Extra
What Fantasy Archetype are you? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

Introvert’s Regress

2011-11-21T03:06:00.027+08:00

If you've never walked away from anything, you wouldn't know how good it feels. The best things in life are short, they must be savored.

These days, I’m a very light sleeper. Even the faint sound of the door creaking can stir me awake no matter how late I fall asleep. There’s no need for alarm clocks. I’m up the moment somebody else rises from their bed and walks down the stair case to make breakfast. You can count in my mom’s hair dryer, the TV, speeding cars, and the neighbor’s caffeine infused chit-chats to wake me. Of course, I usually feign sleep so I won’t have to get up right away. I prefer skipping mornings. And lately, I don’t feel like talking to anyone. I don’t want to think about anything.

This morning was different: my cellphone alarmed, or so I thought. It took a while for me to realize somebody was calling at 6AM. I thought what now? When I answered the call, I heard Jun grumbling just like the night before. The first call lasted a minute; I didn’t understand what the hell he was saying. His voice was stiff, languid, he sounded perfectly spent. Jun didn’t seem to have slept. After a few minutes, he called again. That’s when the gravity of the situation hit me: His recent ex-girlfriend, my close friend Tina, was threatening to kill herself if he didn’t take her back. Something inside me knew that call was coming. It was inevitable. Unsettling as it was, it didn’t keep me from staying under the sheets. I slept again right after dealing with the call.

Yesterday, however, I decided to: 1) wake up 2) go out.

Morning Kinks

Well, okay. I didn’t wake up that early, I still pretended to sleep. I woke with that morning after feeling wet and tender down there. It was a cozy morning, my head was light. I quite enjoyed lingering in my sheets fantasizing about what goes inside private rooms when two people are left alone together while others outside aren’t watching, or when two people get it on while a pair of stealthy eyes can see them. I guess I dreamt of that, I just tend to forget. I’m not sure whether I’m the voyeur or the one indulging with another body in the dream. In any case, I thought I had a pleasant morning.

I sipped dark coffee and played 1979 by Smashing Pumpkins on my laptop. One might think it dreary to hear a song about being in a land of a thousand guilts so early into the day, but it was frankly reassuring. It’s exactly how I’d describe coming of age if I had to sing about that threshold. When you've withdrawn long enough from the world outside, coming back to reality feels like being born. This day was one of them.

I logged into my account and made an effort to validate my existence by making a human connection. I decided to leave him a message. I didn’t think he’d reply. At first, we talked about rooms. Then, he asked about this film.

Have you seen Closer?

Yes, back in college. I liked that movie.

I did too. It was straight up, frank and complicated.

Yes, it absolutely was. I bet you can relate?

Haha. Yes, Jude Law’s character was so much like me.

Oh, but out of all the characters, he was most cheated. Guess which character resembles me? Julia or Natalie?

Yeah, well that’s exactly how I ended up. Hmmm. I’m not sure, but I think you’re more like Natalie.

You got it, I’m more of a Natalie. But I didn’t like her character at all in the film, she was so fucking vile.

Hahaha. But that’s why I loved her more.

Then, we talked about old photographs and our desired hair length when it comes to the opposite sex. I believe we both agreed that long hair is definitely sexier. But as always, these innuendos and impish exchanges had to stop somewhere to be continued some other time. I logged out and went to take a shower. I had plans to go out.

The Hasty Aspiring Proletarian/Capitalist

I’ve been looking for part-time work that can accommodate my schedule. Because I’ve three hour classes from Tuesday to Thursday, finding one that I could commit to proved challenging. A good friend of mine sent a link to a part-time advertising position—that’s what the ad said. I gave it a shot. At first, I thought it odd that I should text professional information to apply. They didn’t even ask for a resume. But then, the contact called me on the same day I texted and told me to come for an interview that Friday, 1PM to be exact. After weeks of searching, a company was finally willing to give me the time of day. This was the first reason why I wanted to go out: I wanted a job. Hell, I needed a job. I was dead broke.

So, let's pop the bubble. Shall we?

To say I was disappointment was an understatement. I was appalled, truth be told, at how shady and misleading that online ad was. The contact made it seem like I’m going to be interviewed for a promising part-time position in a competitive industry only to later find out that it wasn’t an advertising company at all. I was hoodwinked into attending an orientation to join a 'network' which made profit by selling beauty and wellness products such as Glutathione, L-Carnitine, etc. Now, before I’m passed-off as a condescending bitch that looks down on sales and marketing jobs, I just have to say that’s not what I’m so furious about. In all honesty, I admire people who thrive in that kind of industry because I don’t exactly have the guts for it. It is not an easy job. I am mainly frustrated by the fact that somebody just had to place a fake online ad for a job opening just to have people join their group. This is a registered legal networking group which unfortunately recruits people in (I can almost imagine) every misleading way. I know they could encourage others to join in a legitimate manner, but I guess honesty wouldn't scoop much money. It felt like using your family, friends and unsuspecting students as opportunities to obtain profit. I may have been quite a liar/manipulator, but it doesn't mean I can do this kind of work. It's outright capitalism and I'm just not the right person to do it.

They had us ‘fresh recruits’ locked in listening to this awe-inspiring orientation of success stories all thanks to their commitment to networking. I was really convinced; I believed I could do it too. At first, they laid out all the benefits you can get when you join: free modeling, acting, dance, and photography workshops. You can even get a chance to become the image model for the products they sell. None of that appealed to me, except for photography classes. They presented incentives like trips abroad so members will be encouraged to sell more products and recruit more people. The list of reasons why you should invest went on for two hours.

Eventually, all the hyped materialism drizzled and the ‘show’ shifted to appeal to our dispositions. They marketed this networking thing as an actual solution to the labor crisis: they claim that networking is a lucrative industry which garners massive profit in the long run. It's a business where in you invest small capital and earn profit exponentially as long as you stay. Because nurses can’t find jobs in the country and abroad, students that graduate with professional degrees end up working for call centers because many employers give very low compensation, networking, they say, is the best thing to do in order to have a stable life and "reach your dreams". They went as far as stressing the reality that, on average, if your salary as a professional is Php 30,000 a month; it would take you over ten years to save at least two million pesos. In networking, they explained how pyramiding profits you exponentially when you encourage more people to join so you can earn a million pesos in a span of two years. Worst case scenario, they said, would be for you to earn just Php 60,000/month (that’s Php15,000/week). Now, tell me, who wouldn’t be enticed? That afternoon was all about the money. However, the real question is whether networking is a life-long career that someone can do. Personally, maybe it is, but you can't force it on people. Those who aren't sure of their place and join these groups eventually leave to pursue more definitive career paths. This just isn't for everyone.

The most stupid thing about it, and I confess, is that I was driven to invest in this kind of shady business because it can reap huge profit in the long run. Yes, I spent most of my savings thinking I can do sales work and eventually earn more than enough to support my matriculation every semester and, of course, be a little bit more useful to my folks. I went home and realized that kind of work really isn’t my cup of whatever beverage I feel like sipping. I’ve proven it twice, social situations strain me. I didn’t last long enough in PR or media, so I wondered what made me think I’d make a career out of persuading people to purchase unwanted and unnecessary beauty products.

I told my friend Jessie that I’d rather wait on tables at a small café or teach English to Koreans than sell those things. I'm more of a focused worker. I also spoke to Michael about my anxiety over having realized that I made a hasty decision with more long-term detrimental consequences than profit.

Direct selling and networking is much like talking to clients in a call center, the only difference is that you meet the client face to face. I just didn’t have it in me. If I do this, it would defeat the purpose of having left my previous job in a call center. I’ve said it dozens of times, and I’ll say it again. I am not the type of person who thrives in that kind of industry. I am severely socially awkward, but I know I can find other jobs that will better suit me while I'm trying to get my degree.

What's the idea of a society that gets richer and richer when it doesn't make anyone happier? -- Lars Von Trier, 'The Idiots'

This, after nearly a year of removal, is exactly what happens when I attempt to inhabit reality. At the end of the day, I chose to remain in my fishbowl, for the time being. The world outside is a crowded aquarium, and everyone needs to swim because only the dead float. In reality, we all swim in our own excrement. But I’m not confronting all that shit just yet. No. I don't think I'll be waking soon.

I made a mistake, again. This time, I’m coming out. A bit sorry, yes, but I'm still walking away. I’m just walking away to move on.

After Dark

2011-11-03T20:14:00.000+08:00

God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinnsel gaiety of "parties" with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter - they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship - but the loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering.

-- Sylvia Plath

1932 - 1963

Capped the day with a reminder

2011-10-21T00:26:00.001+08:00

I got this tattoo a year after I graduated from college. I've always wanted one, but I had to work up the bravado to get it. "It will suffice" is the hopeful person's mantra. It's actually inspired by years of praying-- with hope that in everything I do, all my efforts will be enough. In difficult days and unbearably dark nights, we all have to believe in something.

On Orange Skies and Alternate Realms

2011-10-19T19:32:00.004+08:00

My fantasy fiction class final project is done and it officially marks the end of this semester. Check it out, it's good to add something strange into a normal day. Visit an alternate world now.

I woke up to a warm afternoon. I was straining a bit, my eyes hurt. By the time I was on my way to school, it started pouring. After the rain, I was expecting more blue and grey shades, the usual monotone in the day. But this was the prelude to dusk I have always looked forward to: the sky was flushed of all its blue, bleeding orange, yellow and crimson hues. I just had to take a few photos.

Through the mesh and last year's palaspas

View from the old man's room

Whoever you are, wherever you come from, I want you to know I appreciate you. You may be a sick stranger, masturbating lurker, psycho killer or an al qaeda terrorist. Whatever. I just want to say I really appreciate that you take the time to read all this junk from the deepest recesses of my faded soul. And to my real friends who try to read all my ramblings, of course I wouldn't forget you. Don't worry, i'm not offing myself soon. I'll shut up now, I sound like a freak recieving an award.

I am just glad today.

FINALINES

2011-10-17T17:40:00.001+08:00

Concluding my first semester of Poetry

My Shooting Star

2011-10-09T23:15:00.001+08:00

Los Chupacabras, "Dark Backward"

Fragile Bones

2011-10-09T03:07:00.008+08:00

These fragile bones are wearing thin

You feel like home, so let me in

--Ali Murray

He had wide dreams, the kinds that can take one places, see the world and live its long forgotten awe. She knew promising years awaited him, while every day was a life waiting to happen for her. She relished all the moments Life left over lilting somewhere in the midst of sameness, even when its order was abridged to chaos. Long before they had grasped how memory splinters even without the intent to forget, they believed in something.

He arrived home one evening in Quezon City during the summer of 1999. It was a long way from his flat in Palo Alto, from the stony halls and wide classrooms of Stanford, its broad fields and icy mist, as if jeepneys were once just imaginary objects in his restless dreams. He saw one again and was disappointed by how pale it really was compared to his memory, or did this colorful mode of transportation lose its vigor? Like how I’m so easily parched by the heat now, he thought. It had only been five years but already he felt displaced; five years since he had spoken to her, seen her. He had often wondered what kind of life she chose. Was it as peaceful and light as she had always said she wanted? The simple: a supportive man, a white house in a green neighborhood, bright and curious children playing in the yard, a gentle orange cat sleeping on the porch. Thinking of this made him feel comfort in cliché.

Her eyes grew bright every time he would pass by their gate to say kamusta, and ask her if she’d like to go for a walk. Those sleepy eyes lit like the amber lamps at night which lined the stretch of their street. She had always looked forward to those afternoons. They would walk aimless to find themselves having fishballs and Coke for mirienda or even sweet taho just before sundown. It didn’t take too long before they started holding hands and exchanging furtive kisses by the time he would walk her back home. That was how things were as far as he could remember. They were together for what seemed like a very long time.

His memory was selective and he would rather not deal with things he chose to forget. How the memory of their trysts didn’t lose sharpness baffled him. He had long decided to let go of excesses, at least most of it, but not her. He mumbled to himself, could I be forgetting too late? He was struggling to remember.

One afternoon in 1994, after waiting an hour for her to come out, she came to see him with stony eyes, her face pale, almost blank. She seemed very tired. He asked how she was doing and what kept her long. She smiled with a faint hint of life and told him she was happy to see him, but that she could not go out, that she had chores to do. Upon hearing this, he felt weakening sadness. He was leaving the following morning and she had known for months about his departure. He held his sweaty hand through the gate’s gap for her. She placed her trembling bruised hand on his. He didn’t know it would be the last time.

In 1993, her eleven year old cat Aisha died. It was crushed by a tricycle in front of the sari-sari store three blocks away from their house. He saw how the lithe feline was pinned to the side-walk as the tricycle’s right wheel caught its neck. The rumbling motor went by so fast. After four days, his heart skipped a beat when he finally found Aisha that afternoon, only to break—the news raw on his eyes, he ran stupefied on the way to her house. She saw him but she had to turn. She was too delicate to see his face pale with loss.

People aren’t meant to remember memories that were never made. He could not remember things that were untold. But he was told the day he came home that she no longer lived in the old house. He decided to visit her three days after New Year’s celebration in 2000. He drove by himself to Loyola. By then, he knew he would again be going away indefinitely. He will soon fail to distinguish actual memories of her from the dreams his mind would create.

One evening in 1994, the family doctor said she needed more serious treatment. A lot of rest was necessary so she could recover from the bruises and lesions which didn’t seem to heal. Long before that point, she knew early on that he would go. He was not the kind of person who was meant to stay in one place. She didn’t try to make him. She couldn’t ask such a thing. She was not staying long either, she couldn’t anymore. By then, he was to leave indefinitely.

Like his memory, her fragile bones could not keep her vital elements together. He will try to remember but fail to recall every detail he so longed to recover. Nevertheless, he knows she’s alive inside somewhere. He resigned to this verity: Whatever we lose within ourselves, we’re bound to take to our graves. He thinks of this while removing the wilted flowers from her stone. That afternoon in January 2000, he brought her roses for the first time.

On to Stranger Days

2011-10-07T20:15:00.001+08:00

Good morning, don't cop out.
In a Coma (1995-2005)

The One Secret That Has Carried

2011-10-02T11:18:00.009+08:00

Irene loves a man
      who is afraid of sex-- 
            she's attended

to everything,
      said it was okay,
            held me until I slept.

She says, Why don't you just
      not think about it?
            But I want to know

every sensation,
      nothing untouched,
            though I pull my hand away

once she's found it
      I can't be around a woman
            too long,

too much.
      I say, I was mistreated.
            She says, A cup of tea?

I say, I can't start a thing
      and then
            describe the kind

of thing I'd start.
      We talk about ballrooms,
            long sleeves and sashes,

say someday 
      we should go somewhere
            though we can't think

of anywhere
      and then I say abruptly,
            I've never loved

hard enough
      to be loved back.
            I say it as if I've had enough

of the whole goddamn
      world and will never
            be satisfied.

I'm looking
      at the wall.
            She's looking out

the window because
      she needs 
            to be somewhere.

Later, I leave a note:
      Sorry for the difficulties.
            Meaning: how come

you don't leave?
      I've never told this story.
            Even at the moment
   
of dying, 
      I would say
            it was someone else's.

--Jason Shinder

What 8 Tracks Can Do

2011-09-30T21:20:00.004+08:00

Yes, because it is quite a long aftermath oozing into hiatus.
I am appealing to the audiophile in you in you in you.

Listen to an 8 track mix of light and somber songs
you can let go and unwind to until you're dreaming.

Fitting

2011-09-30T06:41:00.007+08:00

I went to my favorite dress shop to survey the latest

styles on display. Two fully clad mannequins were up:

one flaunted a refreshing red summer outfit while

the other elegantly wore a long black dress. I walked into

the new arrival’s aisle and ran my fingers through the

chiffon pleats of the delicate red skirt and, at once, went on

to caress the dark silky frock next to it. A closer look

at the dress revealed careful hands must have sewn

the chic lace near its lining. I took the pleasure of trying on

the smooth black dress—and oh, how it thrilled!

The dark fabric embraced the shape of my body

like a second skin; it hanging softly on my breasts

and falling gently to the curve of my hips and round thighs.

By then, I made up my mind. The dark dress will be mine.

But how my undressing gently uncovered these things long gone by:

The comfort of slipping into cool darkness with his hands gesticulating

immeasurable yearning, to nights on the living room floor and stripping

to the TV on static. I pulled down the black straps on my shoulders and

inevitably conjured his tender fingers caressing back, his warm hands

slowly stroking my uneasy arms. Stripping down my torso to my hips,

I could feel him embracing, mildly touching, gradually descending,

as I lower the silky garment to completely slide down the dark

dress to my touchy thighs and legs. And how I made up reasons

as to why these memories need not be agonizing (I find little

gratification in others, this hasn’t been surpassed at all these days),

until I got dressed and went out of the fitting room. I soon fell in line
behind this pretty lady who held the same dress as mine, only to stop

in excruciating wonder to ask whose body could he be holding now?

On Salvaging the Essential

2011-09-30T00:59:00.001+08:00

How I wish I remembered all the details.

What more can I be but content with what has passed?

Love remains love. Let go, for love's sake.

September 2010

See Things My Way

2011-09-28T15:28:00.000+08:00

I miss you, those words,
And I don't know what I'm saying.

Aftermath

2011-09-24T02:34:00.002+08:00

And so it is, just like you said it would be

Life goes easy on me most of the time

—Damien Rice , “The Blower’s Daughter”

There is nothing more there but air. Slowly now, letting go.

When the words escape you as you trade them for silent

sighs, polite glances; manage ostentatiously

with well-meaning pats on the back

so awkward and trite. When you would rather

retreat to the dim comfort of a familiar room, remove

your dagger sharp stilettos, pull down the scratchy

constricting pantyhose and undress your body

of layer upon layer of flimsy affectation (odorous garments clinging

like a second skin which calls for slow and careful peeling), strip off

insincere whims, the fashionable valiance that dazzles

both the earnest and the fool. Wipe your blood-stained lips

pale, and remove the mawkish haze from your smoky eyes

before they begin to mock you again when you meet

the mirror on your side. Never mind the achieved failure

or the sense of indignation and discontent that surrounds.

Tolerate the slow obliteration of your soul upon grasping

what it means to forget— the disintegration of your memories

and memories that will never be made. Embrace the wholeness

of loss. Let your guard down. You are closed in unswerving walls.

Trepidation ceases where you can crumble numerous times into

yourself. Walk inside a room inside another room with reckless

abandon. Make a proposition to survey the formidable without

restraint: wander about aimless without the weight of eyes

casting stealthy agonizing stabs. Permit yourself to fall naked

on that welcoming bed and delight in its soft consoling covers

convincing the core of your being to say that

it’s over,

it’s over.

It’s over.

Overcoming

2011-09-23T02:26:00.004+08:00

She was afraid of things that hide:

The black cat at the back, the rat

that escaped the trap, the tiny

tricky ants nibbling at her snacks.

She would tremble at the sight of

the slightly opened door to

the study that invites peculiar

shadows as seen only by

the corners of her eyes.

The vacant chair by the window

is worn because of the weight

of black entities and years of

neglect. She would feel peering

eyes studying her from a quiet

distance whenever she’d enter

to pull the books out of disrespect,

read the pages, and recognize

which chapters were left bereft

by many hands which browsed

what would slowly accumulate dust.

But a child would grow fond of

unearthing bright things in the dark:

Father’s gold watch, his once loyal

pen, and a stack of old records

waiting to be played again.

Not to mention discovering

a parallel universe where

traveling is merely flipping

through pages of C.S. Lewis

just before bedtime, closing

her bright eyes, and flying

boundlessly in her sleep.

Bright as Yellow Out of Sight

2011-09-22T00:26:00.005+08:00

Daniel: Can’t believe it’s been years. Did you do it?

Claire: Yes.

Daniel: Too bad. I can’t ever see your paintings.

Claire: You can feel the images on the canvas.

Daniel: It’s not the same.

(beat)

Daniel: What colors do you like to use?

Claire: I’m fond of reds and yellows. My somber paintings are blue.

Daniel: What’s yellow to you?

Claire: The sun, at certain times of the day.

Daniel: I don’t understand.

Claire: Come with me, I will take you outside.

Daniel: But you haven’t answered my question.

(beat)

Daniel: It’s warm and I can feel the cool air. Where are we?

Claire: We’re in yellow.

Daniel: A sunny day?

Claire: Breathe, Daniel.

Daniel: I’m breathing yellow?

Claire: Yes.

Daniel: I feel so warm and light. Can I taste it too?

Claire: Uhuh.

Daniel: How?

Claire: If you’ve ever relished the sweetness of honey, it’s yellow.

Daniel: Oh. Let’s have some today.

(beat)

Daniel: Claire, what’s it like to paint?

Claire: It feels like dreaming, only I’m awake.

Musings

2011-09-21T02:33:00.007+08:00

We might as well be doting on clocks

each time we begin to mind details worthy

of our recollections, no matter how

faulty this faculty tends

to become,

as it withers

with age. Our consciousness

would then only house the essential.

Perhaps we wish to venerate them

by clinging tenaciously to memory,

or even fervently ask, When

will I see you again? as if looking

forward to everyday

like an oath

never

once

said.

And we know enough that this

will not come: twice around the bend

must have been too much of a plea.

What is enough could leave

these clocks wilting as they hang

to tick consistently out of

necessity and exhaustion; weary faces

with soft arrows reminding me

of your tired

yet yearning

eyes.

The space we had

remains arid and bare.

What is enough

always leaves

something behind

and does not stay.

After Dali

Persistence of Memory (1931)
Salvador Dali

Last One on the Table

2011-09-20T02:56:00.005+08:00

She was a sickly child of seven when her mother told her about the importance of eating fruits and vegetables. It was a way to encourage her to become stronger. Not that feeding her kangkong or sitaw was a problem. Angela ate anything her mother served on that table whether she liked the taste and texture or not. The child practically ate anything, she swept her plate clean. However, she never got to finish lunch or dinner without everyone leaving her on that dining table. Angela’s dad and brother would go and watch TV or play baril-barilan right after eating. She was always left alone to finish a meal, always the last to go. And she didn’t seem to mind.

On that particular night, Angela’s mom wanted her to eat faster. Her mom found it a bit annoying that she always had to wait so long just to clear up the table. She got used to collecting the other plates, utensils, and glasses to wash them in the kitchen sink, only to come back and find Angela still poking at her food.

To instill a sense of urgency on the child, Angela’s mother decided to tell her what her lola and titas used to tell her about women who always get left behind on the dining table.

“Angela, hurry up! Do you know what happens to girls kapag napagliligpitan?” She seemed passive, but her mom knew she was listening. She didn’t talk much. Her mom sat beside her and turned toward her with a pensive stare.

“Masamang napagliligpitan sa hapag kainan. Sige ka, hindi ka makapag-aasawa.” Angela’s mom, realizing she’s too young to give thought to what she said, suddenly felt careless. The child just gave her a dumb stare like that of a delicate cartoon deer.

The next night, her mom decided not to force Angela to eat any faster. Just when she was about to stand up and clear the dishes, Angela’s brother began poking fun at his sister’s slow eating habits.

“Hey, slow-mo! Hurry up! Sige ka, ‘di ka makakapag asawa.” Angela’s mom was shocked. Gino, Angela’s older brother, must have overheard her little talk. Gino would pester Angela with this almost every dinner time. She hoped Angela would forget it but it didn’t seem like she would quickly dismiss her brother’s insensitive banters. From then on, her daughter would sit through dinner fumbling hastily on her food for years to come. She stood when everyone was done with their meal.

Years later, her memory would be too fragmented to remember that part of her childhood. A grown up Angela would come to enjoy fine dinners with some of her friends. The restaurant got used to their group’s Saturday dinners that they always reserved a spot for them, one with a good long table.

“Who’s up for dessert? Trish, Mike? Kayo, Angela?”, asked Paula.

“Ryan and I want some! Hmm, let me see”, said Angela, now with her boyfriend, Ryan.

“Order some more cocktails! Kulang pa ‘to!”, a tipsy Camille insisted.

Ryan wasn’t particularly demonstrative, but he cared a lot for Angela. He was already her 6^th boyfriend after a series of bad, not so bad, and terrible break-ups. They’ve known each other a while but have been on and off their relationship. On that night, nonetheless, Ryan wanted to ask Angela a very important question.

“Hey, drink up! Wala munang uuwi!”, it was very much like Camille to assert her fondness for friends and good stiff drinks. Ryan saw this as an apt opportunity to ask Angela while her close friends were around. So, ask he did. And the drinking just went on and on.

Hours after the plates have been cleared, the last order of Mojito came from the bar. Most of Angela’s friends have left, and so did Ryan. Now she’s thinking about how to go home. She thought, “There must be a cab somewhere at this hour.”

Proof

2011-09-19T03:23:00.005+08:00

In her secret heart, Miss Mijares’ young dreams fluttered faintly to life
--Kerima Polotan, “The Virgin”

The wooden paperweight, though broken,
holds down slips resourcefully with one
wing mimicking a bird in flight. It lay firm
on her table, so were her ways;
not minding the years of guiltless
crosses and dreams locked
for another day. What she had
kept hidden might as well be forgotten
in rows of drawers and mounds
of filed sheets organized meticulously,
lest one should require proof. A record
is only as valuable as what it represents:
names, numbers, dates, and signatures
reserved for proper validation.
Its austerity is overwhelming
and quite often taken for granted
as she manages to keep it
compartmentalized with fasteners,
staples, and the weight
of a flightless bird. Thrice removed
from reality (but not quite),
in due course, it gave
the impression of life
whilst cupped by sturdy hands.

Late Dates: Second Coming

2011-09-17T21:06:00.007+08:00

Orange Lori had been waiting an hour for Green Gerry at a coffee joint. Pissed, she swigged green tea latte and smoked a heap of red cigarettes to shake off frustration.

A creepy blue boy sat on the opposite table. She didn’t mind his occasional stares until she was certain the guy was on to her. Like he knew her. Finally, however, the late Green Gerry came. Orange Lori was so relieved she forgot about being pissed.

An orange girl walked in clumsily and skimmed the café. She was off to meet the creepy blue boy for the first time.

S.O.S.

2011-09-17T09:54:00.006+08:00

The shadows of the smoke linger as if trapped in

the invisibility of white on white, its intolerable

lightness clings about as we breathe by

signals of distress; vapors that conjure up

instances which take place only in haze.

Once, I was told to possess suaveness

that of vampiric demeanor; tranquil and

remote with surreptitious disturbances

bellowing from within, seen only

by a jagged stare. Some ghostly

smoke swathed that man’s eye,

divulging this dark apparition

from my soul. In my projections

where misery is withheld

and appearances are pied,

my breath extinguished the

flowing folds of smoke—

as I went about fanning

underneath to keep these

scarlet cinders

burning.

For Tupe

Misogyny in AA Psychotherapy

2011-09-16T02:47:00.007+08:00

Dr. Grey: Tell me about the things you would rather undo.

Ms. Maudlin: I told you, it was a lost year. Shouldn’t you ask for what I should have done?

Dr. Grey: I must really cut down your Prozac. You’re being apprehensive again.

Ms. Maudlin: I am not. And the dosage is fine.

(beat)

Ms. Maudlin: Let me see. There was Mr. Musician, Mr. Painter and Mr. Writer.

Dr. Grey: You seem fond of these types. What do you suppose you get out of their company?

Ms. Maudlin: Nothing.

Dr. Grey: Hmm, alright… So, in what group do you classify them?

Ms. Maudlin: Manipulative egotistic bastards.

Dr. Grey: I see. And why do you associate with them?

Ms. Maudlin: I give myself away.

Dr. Grey: Oh, right. You’re a—

Ms. Maudlin: Don’t say it, bitch! I know you think low of us!

(beat)

Ms. Maudlin: Dr. Grey, isn’t your husband a musician?

Dr. Grey: That isn’t relevant.

Ms. Maudlin: But don’t you want to know more about him?

Dr. Grey: No, thank you. I think I know enough.

Ms. Maudlin: Why? Aren’t you going to do anything about it?

Dr. Grey: That’s it. I’m changing your Prozac to Valium.

Ode to My 8,000

2011-09-15T02:10:00.015+08:00

Goodbye, 8,000 days—

the years they made will not go
down my book unmissed.

On my 22^nd year, let the wolves,

snakes, and rats fester on

my pesky romantic schemes.

Goodbye, 8,000 unicorns, wizards,

my timeless friends outside

the unavoidable door. I am grateful

for your transient wishes.

We drank to the final vestiges

of ignorance and recklessness

youth entitled us to live.

Goodbye, 8,000 visions and tricks

and what seemed like a bright idea

but was just another stolid plan

hackneyed too many times.

I’ve acquired the stuff of machines,

chased the green light beyond the bay

and drowned in the ebb of ambition.

Goodbye, 8,000 tales and lullabies,

to nights of sleep filled with dreams.

Goodbye, 8,000 sunrises that do not

sore my eyes when I wake.

Anesthetics and Everything After

2011-09-14T01:35:00.006+08:00

You could never forget the comfort
and confusion caused by anesthesia
once introduced in your young veins:
Your blood was already thinning
from severe insomnia and coffee
usually served bitter black
as it easily found its way
through unlit places in your body
until it reached a chamber
situated in your heart. I
spoke so faintly it could only
be another temporal kind of
treatment for the ill tempered
possessed by a demented spirit.
They've the strongest of wills
and we have deemed it best
to restrain their hunger
while there is much time
to kill, figure out what else

is there that keeps us frozen

inside, while all you ever
hoped for was a moment
congealed to last.

Heart

2011-09-13T23:21:00.002+08:00

I don’t anymore want melody
with its want for pleasing and pattern
and why should I have it lilting in the background
when consoling relatives? My heart
is forged for frailty and failure.
I am accepting this now: its many vessels
leading to sorrow, its southpaw stance. I pin
a right hand over it at times, out of duty or
earnestness or just to check if it’s still there. Yes,
there is always some grand grief in its capacity
to quiet everything, eventually. And I do not cherish
such knowledge. So every day I work it,
this heart, pacing it because I hate syncopation.
Skip that. I want complete monotone. I prefer
the metronome, cadence. I insist on heart.

-- Joel M. Toledo

A Smoke with the Old Man After the Funeral

2011-09-12T22:46:00.006+08:00

Little Miss Wistful: I hope I’m not disappointing you too much.

Sir Dragonfly: Don’t worry. You never did. Mind if I take your wish stick?

Little Miss Wistful: Go ahead. Sir, how come we never shared a smoke when you were
around?

Sir Dragonfly: Look kid, you know cigarettes kill. You should quit.

Little Miss Wistful: I know, sir. But then, we all go anyway. What’s the point?

Sir Dragonfly: I used to say the same thing. Don’t steal my words.

Little Miss Wistful: Oh. I’m sorry, sir.

Sir Dragonfly: It’s alright. You’re getting old, try to take care of yourself.

(beat)

Sir Dragonfly: I see you took my night spot.

Little Miss Wistful: I’ve been coming here to smoke since you left.

Sir Dragonfly: Stay as long as you want. Just remember to clean up.

Little Miss Wistful: Sir, I took your camera too. Do you mind?

Sir Dragonfly: Take it. The place is yours now, kid.

Little Miss Wistful: So, I won’t be seeing you soon?

Sir Dragonfly: No.

Little Miss Wistful: For how long?

Sir Dragonfly: Until the last day you write.

Little Miss Wistful: But I’ve so much to write.

(beat)

Sir Dragonfly: Hey, kid.

Little Miss Wistful: Yes, sir?

Sir Dragonfly: Don’t forget to take my dog to the vet.

Little Miss Wistful: Don’t worry, I will.

Aimless

2011-09-12T00:24:00.003+08:00

walk toward

the bend

a fleet

of cars

caught

static

point to

the g

shiny

blue

building

down

stairs

and

pass

under

to to

cross

the

street street

stop

and where

stand a

tree

once

stood

and

is now

m_ss_ng.

The Ritual

2011-09-11T23:00:00.003+08:00

You tore a page from the notebook
which held last year's reminders:
places and dates you attended,
canceled, and purposefully
missed. Scribbled numbers useful,
others meaningless. Some names
you thought worth remembering.

Your steadfast hands pressed it
against a wall as you began
to fold it down into a triangle,
again and again, reducing it to
thick paper with three sides,
until you could fold it no more.

Before that, the flimsy fawn sheet
had you recognize words you didn't
write with your own hand. The clear
strokes revealed good intentions,
unsaid reservations, and an overture
to unexplored territories you knew
you'd never tread while each letter
maintained its depth and sharpness.

The folded points were too blunt
to cause cuts. You pressed it on
the table and saw it try to open
itself, the last fold, until it gave up.

Torn paper— spent, folded, somewhat
open. Still, useless. You just throw it.

Expecting 2nd Place

2011-09-10T02:55:00.002+08:00

I’m half-way through the race

when I realized I’m wearing

mismatched socks again.

The left sock is much softer,

thicker than the one worn

by my blistering right foot.

I ran rubbing on the rawness

of these sores while my feet

burnt across the winding track.

It stung more apparently as I

came much closer to the finish

line, expecting second place.

This is one way of tolerating pain.

Keep rushing. Don’t think, until

you get there. I kept it numb.

Not without stumbling, I crossed it,

my face slapping the pavement.

Mismatched socks did it again.

(first verse from Jov)

That I Would Be Good

2011-09-10T01:51:00.018+08:00

All over the place:

1.
It's strange to find that after all this time, I still can't understand why we hurt when the one's we care for are hurting. Maybe I've been denying this truth for a long time. Whether I came to accept it early on or not doesn't make me feel any better or wiser as a person. I simply cannot write over the fact that what happens in their life affects me as much as it affects them. I'm talking about how I feel when it comes to important people in my life. For a long time, I tried to project this solid shell. I just convinced myself I'm fine. With it came masks which were easy to wear. It has become part of my life. It's not about pretensions, it's just a way of coping. These are the kind of things I don't apologize for.

I haven't really dealt with my emotions in a long time, and I guess it's just catching up with me. Bottling everything up helped me on the surface, but it's just not enough anymore. I guess it explains why I'm so guarded, why I limit potential relationships, and fail to have more fruitful friendships. I am selfish. I'd rather not give of myself. This has been the case for years.

For someone who's passive and thin of blood, this is nerve racking. However, it is liberating. I know I should at least try to free my mind. I try not to put parameters on myself (there's enough of that in the world outside).

3.
I'd like to think I haven't lost my mind. I'm just possessed by years of pent-up emotions. I need to remind myself not to take that route the next time around because it has obviously greatly failed.

4.
How do you trust something that changes all the time? Is the heart ever satisfied? Does it know enough to guide you? (Don't be all romantic Cor, don't trust emotional whims, you never won that way, you know you never will.)

5.
Love is not enough. I will say it now and it will be true for years to come. It is never enough.

6.
It's difficult to be honest with others when you can't even be honest with yourself. I denied lots of truths and I only began to deal with them after having ghosts linger in my room.

I used to feel guilty for being selfish. These days, I think it's just a driving force that fuels me to live.

8.
It's difficult to negotiate within human relationships. It would be a lot harder if the mind and the heart never found a way to compromise. I tried to rid myself of this problem by eliminating the heart, only to search for it again. We were designed to work with both. We're so human that way.

Substitutes

2011-09-09T02:21:00.006+08:00

Surely something must have gone

Wrong,

things don't break without a cause.
Not that it's such a big deal this time.
Mother said I could always get a new
one, definitely better than the last.
On a weekend, get all dolled-up
to the shiny mall and stroll free until
one of them strikes your eyes.
There will be many arranged in
a row, giving you plenty of options.

Choose

among different styles which come in
every color, shape, and not to mention,
size. Try them all on and be sure to get
one that perfectly fits. As if it were
that simple to replace. I tried to mend
it with thicker thread, sewing the torn
lining but each stitch just made it

Worse.

My sister said some things never get
better, and so it's best to leave them
that way. In between the choosing and
longing, there was no resolve but to

Stop.

For Kristina

(revised from 2007)

Awaiting Dusk

2011-09-09T01:42:00.009+08:00

Today, my eyes are heavy from the spell of dreams.
I cannot wait until the clear sky trades its bright hues
For nightfall. This firmament is turned day after day
By invisible hands; fiery crimson in the afternoon

Bleeding, soon revealing the purple backdrop
For dusk to commence. Mystified, I breathe in
These thoughts so fondly. Whose hands could be
So slow and subtle to stir such wistful wakefulness
In me? They make me linger long enough for eventide

To flush all lightness down the horizon’s drain,
Illuminating brilliant holes on heaven’s floor
Which my eyes map to draw webbed lines over
One star to another, peer closely into distant planets,

Study and understand satellites. I imagine
The moon’s faithfulness would yet again rouse
Higher waves in the nearest shore, as I stand here
Still, looking after broad daylight. I’ve no qualms
Recollecting that night, when once I grasped
What the slowness of subtle hands meant—

How they inched gently to release
The drapes upon my eyes, examined the lines
On my palms, and held the webbed spaces
Between each finger, to which they fit. How the night
Left my eyes heavy from the spell of dreams, lying
Ahead in the wake of the sky’s turning.

On the Pursuit of the Essential

2011-09-08T09:42:00.005+08:00

I could study you all my life and still not find it.
-- Paz Marquez-Benitez, 'Dead Stars'

The Unrepressed Monologues of Ailing Kent

2011-09-07T20:43:00.000+08:00

A.

'Lines', you say? I failed
Geometry more than you
brushed your teeth in
a week. Ever tried riding
that god-forsaken train
from Makati to Q. Ave.
buzzed like a bee?
What man won't forget
patience? Stand and hold
on to dear life as some
old fart keeps staring
at your assets, brushes
against your nape, push
just to be pressed in a
journey to Hades and back.

B.

The part where I have
to say something about
sex. Good news, kids!
It. Is. Fucking. Overrated.
Next please!

C.

Caving on a Wednesday,
It’s a sick trance on-board
metaphysics, extra-sensory
sweat on freshly dyed
ashen-tan hair and recently
contracted respiratory
infection. Hell. It feels like
getting run-over by a speeding
6-wheeler truck in EDSA, or
stepping on shit half-way to
rowdy Sara's under hammering
rain when I’d rather scavenge
for inverted triangular stones
care of Dr. Frankenstein,
Dr. Meredith Gray, as long
as it's free. Or even that big
bald gay, Dr. Phil. Oprah, you
are one lucky bitch. I am so
famished I could eat a live
elephant. Oh, is that a lizard?

D.

A tree. A spider. Spy here.

Spider webs. Spider webs.
Spider webs. Spider webs.
Spider webs. Spider webs.
Spider webs. Spider webs.

MJ, where did you hang
last night? My spidey-
sense is broken. Please,
come back. Indulge me.

Anita's Guilt

2011-09-07T02:23:00.003+08:00

I shan’t have given you those fifth, sixth, or whatever senses,
I shan’t have chanted spells for you to know what it’s like
To feel the way I do. I ought to have just been content
Reading poetry or reciting Shakespeare’s Tempest with you.
I was tired of defining things all the time whenever you’d ask,
What’s a witch? What’s ‘like’? What’s ‘mind’?
So I thought it was best to bestow these upon you…

Oh, Timothy, you were more than just the Johnson’s scarecrow,
You’re more than rags and filth, you’re brain was well balanced
Though your head may be full of dirt. You kept me company
Throughout the dreary summer and you learned my ways faster
Than anyone has been with me before. Don’t believe me when
I said you were just some rotting spider’s nest. Forgive me.
I didn’t mean to hit your soiled shoulders, break your straw arms
And fracture your wooden spine to fall feet over into the stream.

I conjured you out of boredom, yet you grew on me
More than I’d wish to confess. You do not know how terrifying
It was for me to destroy my favorite creation, to let you go
When you have pleaded so much to stay. I recognized your
Tears on your faceless head, your sighs and strong resolve
As you stirred my heart out of callous selfishness.

Please forgive me, Timothy. I had to go away. Surely seasons
Will come to pass, even my great Prince will certainly turn to dust.
Do not fret for there will be no pain from now on. You will no more
Hold memories of the past summer, as I will forever carry yours.

After Keith Roberts’ short story, Timothy

Passing Through

2011-09-06T10:13:00.003+08:00

And it came to me then that every plan

is a tiny prayer to father time.

-- Benjamin Gibbard, “What Sarah Said”

Who leaves without pining to flutter back? Waking to warm sunrays through the windowpane,

We would write our plans on colorful stained glass, the promise of bright mornings, more days

For our wills seeking years to come. As these visits were reduced to waiting before you breathed

Out an entire story of the soul, a heavy stone must have formed inside my throat. Who chose the

Day, the time, the place? We sat clutching hands and embracing ourselves through one another

Inside spotless rooms with space so bare as to let minds fly leaving our stoic automatic bodies

When the eyes would turn white, when our glass plans would fracture and let harsh sunlight in,

Burning holes into our dreaming eyes. Until then, I have not for the life of me, grasped what has

Become of this containment after there are no pertinent words enough to pronounce the swift

Passing of sparrows snagged in flight; the incessant wreckage done by the exactness of flat lines.

For Mama Sol

See What I've Done

2011-09-05T11:56:00.000+08:00

Air

2011-09-05T03:06:00.006+08:00

Somewhere certain music plays gradually

Easing harmony and smooth rhythm

Like deep water through breathable waves

Swelling: a gathering of a hundred whispers,

Of lows and highs resonating a full chorus

And slowly letting go to begin a new song.

In the attempt to capture the invisible,

We resort to amplify all four senses:

To touch, smell, taste and hear—

And those blessed with susceptible ears

Catch even the slightest sounds from afar.

iii

And I begin to mind how our songs fill minute

Fissures, shadowy bends, a hairbreadth’s length

Of a hole, the immense space—within

And between. When distance and proximity

Equally persist and mean nothing.

Listen to the pervading wind whistling over

Vast oceans and heavenly peaks beyond

Pallid cliffs. It's unperturbed method of movement

Bending fields, carrying seeds, and sifting earth

To scatter all elements, again and again.

Il Signore

2011-09-04T20:28:00.000+08:00

The Prayer of St. Francis

Il signore, mi rende uno strumento della vostra pace
Lord make me, make me an instrument of your peace

Dove ci e odio, la sciarlo seminare l'more
Where there is hatred, let me sow love

Dove ci e ferita
where there is injury

Perdono
Pardon

Dove ci e dubbio
Where there is doubt

Fede
Faith

Dove ci e disperazione
Where there is despair

Sperare
Hope

Dove ci e nerezza
Where there is darkness

Illuminarsi
Light

Dove ci e la tristezza
Where there is sadness

Gioia
Joy

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek;
To be consoled, as to console;
To be understood, as to understand;
To be loved, as to love

For it is in giving that we recieve,
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
It is in dying that we are born again
To eternal life.

Il signore, mi rende uno strumento della vostra pace
Lord make me, make me an instrument of your peace.

arranged by Ryan Cayabyab

Sad is Her Temper

2011-09-04T02:15:00.007+08:00

Words create lies. Pain can be trusted.

--Audition, 1999 directed by Takashi Miike

I don’t appreciate it when a woman leaves

Without saying goodbye. I woke alone. You didn’t

Care to write a note. Were you always like that? Leaving

Without a trace? I had to search in dilapidated

Buildings, but nobody knew who you were.

That old man was laughing at me, mocking me

With his monstrous feet, telling me to go home.

You loved ballet, you say? You thought it dissipated

All that darkness you cradled. But darling, you’ll never

Dance. I should have listened when he said, Happy people

Can’t act—but as you lay there on the smoothness

Of white touching the sinister long scar on your thigh,

I could only give you love. It’s not my delusion alone

But yours. So, would you please just get to the point?

I’ve had enough of your seductive syringe and leather straps

Listening to that excruciating voice as you go deeper,

Deeper, deeper, deeper. You wearing sleek latex gloves

Matched with a girlie white dress was amusing

For you. Painful recurrence. Who wouldn’t grow
Fond in repetition? This is how you keep appearances up:

Inflicting scornful punctures on my throbbing tongue, sides,

Underneath my eyes. How much practice have you had?

How perfectly you cut off feet with your trusty wire.

Oh no. No. I will not succumb to that alluring stare again,

Or the tenderness of your words as you speak so keenly about

Sadness and pain. That’s all you knew. It’s all you’ll ever know.

Winding up

2011-09-03T16:23:00.006+08:00

Winding up bed covers stained with piss five grumbling stomachs the last aspirin consumed in the morning through mounds of reeking garments when to repair a broken faucet clogged toilette settle last month’s water bill clean with left-over bleach and soap just pour hot water or better yet just get last night’s fried fish and brown bahaw and catch the whiff of bacon and eggs from the neighbor’s adjacent window looking out to trodden pathways where hawkers lurk to strike a deal for the latest fabricated pair of Chucks nuts balls cigarettes mugged leather bags menthol candy and stealthy exchanges for cheap drugsdrugsdrugsdrugsdrugsdrugs along the crooked asphalt reach the junction and pass partial pipe-laying drills drill drilling drills drill drilling drills drill drilling stony earth liberating dust soaring debris caught in the eye tearing up silent sighs further upsetting the previously peace-less mind attached to a body racing in god-forsaken trains blasted buses scheming taxis hasty jeeps slapdashing private vehicles urging invariable departure and arrival to monetary tardiness and compulsory labor of the auto-pilot in you in you in you until the next dark coffee and round of stale cigarettes is consumed humbly getting by with convenience store heists the lottery and highly intellectual noontime shows for lunch

Scores of Assumptions

2011-09-02T00:36:00.002+08:00

to exist entails

deterioration and loss

our hearts tirelessly

insist their ways and

ache for

the same thing

love like a religion

i once had

the unheard of

is likewise essential

as uttered words

we are but a photograph

certainly fading

absolutely still

thus far

kept

For Jov

Ash on Wednesday, On Fire by Saturday

2011-09-01T03:10:00.005+08:00

Right after his work in one of the big shot buildings in Ayala Avenue, he drove straight to Glorietta where his mom, together with some long-time family friends, had been waiting. They were going to the Sacred Heart Shrine in Makati to hear mass.

Going to church was the least of his priorities. Jericho would rather hang around in the office and get bored out of his wits trying to imagine he’s actually doing something worth his life. But as Wednesday approached, he knew he had to accompany his mother and her three other amigas to another one of their phony pious activities. His mom calls it panata, while Jericho refers to it as “church-hopping”. Being the only son meant he was the designated family driver, much to his dismay.

“Hurry up, Jericho! Archbishop Ignacio Cansolas is celebrating mass. We can’t be late!”

“Can’t you see the traffic, Ma? Just be patient, we’ll get there.”

“You should have left earlier!”

To keep a constructive outlook, he decided to just think of it as another passing family obligation which has its rewards. His titas will surely treat him and his mom to a hearty buffet dinner after the excruciating religious ceremony. He thought, “Free food. Can’t complain”.

They arrived late for the seven-thirty evening mass. The Gloria had been sung and the Responsorial Psalms were already repeated. This was one of the few instances where Jericho praised traffic in his life. By then, he only needed to sit in that shrine for thirty minutes. He nearly slept through the archbishop’s sermon about repentance, acknowledging God as your savior, renouncing sin and Satan, and finally returning to the Lord. The old man told moving parables which nearly made Jericho cry out of boredom, and upon hearing the word “confession”. It’s the last thing he ever wants to do in his life. Not even his mother can cram him into that confessional box. It was just something he would never compromise.

"Remember, Man is dust, and unto dust you shall return," were the only things the archbishop said which made sense to him. Pondering on this further warranted his disposition. No one gets out of this life unscathed. Nothing remains pure. We’re all dirty human beings. There’s no point in confessing only to sin again. Nevertheless, this didn’t stop Jericho from falling in line to receive a cross of ash on his forehead.

“Turn away from sin and be faithful to the Gospel”, the archbishop proclaimed.

“It’s too late for that”, Jericho mumbled.

As the archbishop drew the cross on his forehead, Jericho looked straight into his eyes. Human to human. The old man examined his unyielding gaze, only to let it go. Somehow, Jericho knew the archbishop understood his severe stare. After this brief encounter, he slipped past the crowd and headed straight out of the shrine instead of returning to his seat. He preferred to wait outside the church door for his mom and his titas. The closing remarks were said and the recessional hymn was sung. Upon leaving, the old women started to problematize the next venue of their buffet frenzy.

As Jericho expected, they had a swanky dinner somewhere in Salcedo Village after the mass. Once done being the object of his titas’ musings and enjoying the sumptuous meal, he drove home with his mom. Although he was quite disturbed by the way that archbishop stared back into him at church that night, he easily forgot about it upon returning to his sleek office the following morning.

That Saturday, he went about his usual weekend routine. If his mom enjoys “church-hopping”, Jericho very much prefers “bar-hopping”. These bars all start with a capital G with establishments including Brix Nightclub, Che'lu, O Bar, Government and Divino. His sexual exploits consisted of two to three men on an ordinary weekend. One can only try to imagine how these escapades pan out during longer holidays.

On that particular evening, Jericho stood by the counter and ordered absinthe. Just as he was about to look for a cozy seat near two other men, an old gentleman from across the bar caught his eye. Jon, the bar tender, served his glass. “Your drink, sir. Compliments of Mr. Iñigo”, points to the old gentleman across the dim bar.

Jericho took his glass and went to greet Iñigo.

“Thanks, for the drink. I’m Jericho.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Jon said you’re Iñigo? Funny.”

“Why? What’s wrong with a hot name that means on fire?”

“No, your other name.”

“You remember...”

“Hello, Ignacio.” He fixes a quizzing stare. Ignacio smugly beams.

“So, where do you want to go?”

“To church.”

The Dark House of Light

2011-08-31T02:00:00.006+08:00

The tree covered the view
To windows on the top floor
As two lower windows opened
To see the silver lake. In broad
Daylight, this flowing mirror
Illuminated the brightness
Of the moon not in attendance.

A desolate dwelling dimly drawn
Notice the interminable dusk
Casted upon its white walls:
Discrete shadows, a singular lamp
Post, tranquil radiance striking
The eye, a strange harmony

Oblivious to the cerulean sky.
The residence enveloped by woods
Long thriving in isolation
Housing unseen creatures beneath
Wide branches, dark limbs, lofty roots
Inching deeper into the earth.

After Magritte

Angela's Haircut

2011-08-29T14:46:00.009+08:00

Gino, the eight year old cunning little rascal, took purple play dough and decided to prettify his sister’s locks one Sunday morning. His little sister, seven year old Angela, woke up in shock upon the sight of her sticky purple hair. She howled a terrifying shriek when her brother took a pair of scissors to “get rid of the mess”. He had snipped mounds of clay along with a year’s worth of hair growth. Surely, this wasn’t the first or last of his antics.

“Why so mean, big brother? What did I do to you?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to see what will happen.”

“You ruined my hair!”

“It’ll grow back, stupid. So grow up!”

Angela’s mom tried to remedy the hair problem by taking her to the barber that afternoon. The solution was a cute boy’s haircut—which was worse. Angela wouldn’t come out to play, much less talk to her big brother. She’d hide in her lola’s room and pretend to take naps in the summer afternoon. She’d get sick of watching boys and girls play langit lupa and agawan base from the window, but she still wouldn’t come out. Besides, she’s just a salimpusa. She thought the children won’t mind. They wouldn’t even notice she wasn’t around.

After a week, Gino tried to speak to her. Lola Zeny let him see his little sister only after promising not to pull off any more tricks. He had brought something for Angela.

“Will you ever come out?”

“No.”

“Here, I got you these”, Gino held a plastic bag.

“What?”

“Put them on. Come down and play.”

Gino was playing the third round of langit lupa with Jerome, Eric, Mico and Chris when Angela decided to come down. She was wearing her brother’s old shorts and red Iron Man shirt. When Gino saw her, he called out.

“Time first!”

“What’s wrong now, Gino? You have to stop the game when it’s your turn to be the taya,” said Chris.

“No, it’s not that. Someone came to join us.” Angela stepped to his brother’s side.

“Who’s that?”

“This is Angelo, my brother.”

Folie à Plusieurs

2011-08-29T01:41:00.002+08:00

My friend Michael just had to share this with me, and I just had to write about it. I cannot possibly dismiss this. It's interesting information you might actually appreciate.

Folie à deux (English pronunciation: /fɒˈli ə ˈduː/, from the French for "a madness shared by two") (or shared psychosis) is a[1] psychiatric syndrome in which symptoms of a delusional belief are transmitted from one individual to another. The same syndrome shared by more than two people may be called folie à trois, folie à quatre, folie en famille or even folie à plusieurs ("madness of many"). Recent psychiatric classifications refer to the syndrome as shared psychotic disorder (DSM-IV) (297.3) and induced delusional disorder (F.24) in the ICD-10, although the research literature largely uses the original name. The disorder was first conceptualized in 19th century French psychiatry.[2]

I am not surprised the French just had to coin a term for it. What with all the artists and writers that ended up in Paris back in the early 1900s, they were left with all that work to figure out how to glue these people's minds.

Forgive me, I am harsh. I'm not just talking about insane artists and writers. I mean everyone. I actually believe every individual has some sort of psychological disorder, some more intense than others. I believe any person will just have to lose it at some point. This is, after all, a mad world. It just takes 5 minutes of watching morning news to realize that. For others, I think their simple quirks just becomes a bit more apparent when they're under the public eye. Psychological instability is no exception. It will be glorified horrendously by media.

This could very well be more fatal than AIDS and various VD. We don't have to have unprotected sex to transmit beliefs. Although, I think doing so would heighten the delusion. In any case, up to what extent do we have to believe in the impossible to become a candidate for this syndrome? Does pursuing tumultuous, seemingly unrealistic goals qualify as impossible?

"You're not crazy. Crazy people don't know they're crazy."

Pulled back my hazy mind from frolicking Jupiter. Now, where was I? Right.

What cracks me up gets me by. I'm damn getting by.

Inside the Fiery Storm

2011-08-28T22:58:00.002+08:00

Coffee in the evening. Hard rain.

We're far from neutral
thinking: how
much
more
there is
to give? Seize.
We found it

is never
even. One
cigarette left.

Stirred. My furtive
embers persist
their burning.

Flash Content #08252011

2011-08-25T02:16:00.015+08:00

I knew there were nights when she wouldn’t sleep. I’d be up at 4:00am and she’d still be in front of that goddamn computer. Her music was always loud, day or night. It only gets quiet when she’s reading or finally tired from all the nonsense she engaged in. Sometimes, she’d be up just reading until sunrise. On rare nights, I recall watching her stealthily from outside her green room, plucking the guitar to sing a song by the Beatles. I don’t have a clue what other songs she was playing, but I looked forward to hearing her voice even in the late hours. Especially at late hours-- there’s a calm tenderness to her voice when she tries to sing herself to sleep.

When she was a lot younger, I’d find her sleeping soundly with the guitar right beside her. She used to sing all day on weekends. Her friends came over a lot to make loud music. It was bad music, but who cares? Those kids had fun then.

That summer, I barged into her room a couple of times. During those nights, I would catch her speakers on full blast. The neighbor’s dog was always whimpering. I never had enough sleep. I would tell her to keep it down. She would drive me out and shut the door on my face. She has always been inconsiderate. This was the usual scenario, until we both just lost it.

Anlakas-lakas! Matulo—

Huwag ka ngang pakialamera!

Punyeta! Bat ba ayaw mo sumunod?

Tang ina! Pabayaan mo nga ako!

She slammed the door. I hated her. I hate that she hates me.

That summer was different. Most nights, she didn't come home. There's this dead air in the house.

In Memoriam

2011-08-21T22:11:00.010+08:00

We lost great pillars in Philippine Literature this week. I have never met these women in person, and now I will never get a chance to meet them in this life-time. Just like every reader who came across their work and opened their eyes to the world (I read their works during my most impressionable phase), these inevitable events will always stir deep sadness. Despite all that, I think it's more important to magnify my gratefulness. I'm very grateful because they shared so much of their lives to writing. Like their beautiful poems and stories, I can only imagine that they lived such rich lives.

Thank you, Ma'am Kerima Polotan-Tuvera, for your poignant and socially relevant stories. I bought a copy of your book when I was 13 and grew fond of it. Sorry I wasn't able to take care of it well. Somebody stole my copy of your book when I was in college. I've been meaning to replace it since, but I guess I just got too busy. I'll get your book this week when I pass by UP Press. I will always remember how I read "The Virgin" with wide-eyed curiousity, and that short story titled "The Face of Virtue". Truly, virtue is more than just a word. I will never forget that. Little did I know you were already teaching me how to be a strong and self-reliant woman. Thank you, thank you.

Thank you, Ma'am Edith Tiempo, for sharing golden realizations in your life through your poems and stories. I came across your works back in college, but I was only able to do close readings of your poems this semester in Prof. J. Neil Garcia's class. I will never forget the poem "Bonsai" and how you told us that all love can be scaled down to a cupped hand's size. You are such an inspiration not just to writers, but to everyone who believes in living and loving with all your heart. Thank you for sharing your poems, your life, to the world.

It's strange how we all grieve when great writers pass away. It's as if we lost long-time friends. In this case, I feel like I lost literary mothers-- a fictionist, and a great poet.

Nevertheless, we shouldn't stop at grieving. Let's celebrate their beautiful lives. I know their well-crafted poems and stories will live on and continue to influence the youth just as it has touched mine. Again, I am truly grateful. Thank you.

May you both rest peacefully well.

CHASING ALONE: A TWO-MAN EXHIBIT

2011-08-19T19:55:00.005+08:00

by Jov Ortua Almero & Corin B. Arenas

In life, as in art, duality is always an inherent truth. This bipolarity of the human condition is one quintessential aspect of being and living: love and indifference, compassion and intolerance, hope and cynicism. But amidst these opposing natures, between noise and silence, chaos and order, consciousness and apathy, one can always find, conjure, or even invent a state of solitude, no matter how fleeting, and at times no matter how precarious.

Chasing Alone-- a two-man visual exhibit by Oliver Abe Ramos and Roman James Soleño attempts to capture solitary yearning in a fast-paced society where interference perpetually defocuses our perceptions. The title is a dichotomy in itself. Chasing Alone can be understood as “seeking solitude” and/or a “solitary quest”. Sadness, alienation, wistfulness, overt and subtle serenity, is the unifying affective theme apparent in their compositions. Sadness in dreaming. Alienation in wakefulness. And the beguiling facets of serenity.

Chasing Alone as Choice

Oliver Abe Ramos has a degree in Advertising and majored in Fine Arts. From a man’s perspective that has been endowed with enduring kin, his “Aloneness” is anchored on his preference to isolate his subjects from his own realities. Detachment from his subjects is a prerequisite to his creative process. When the human person is isolated, his senses are less clouded and sensibilities are not constrained. Hence, it allows consummation of experiences that eventually transcend into art defamiliarized.

Using red infused with dark hues, he depicts life in a dreamlike consciousness. His subjects possess enlivened qualities but with inert presence. The artist’s awareness of space is ubiquitous in his craft. Subjects blending seamlessly with space, he further magnifies somber moods and a forlorn atmosphere.

Chasing Alone as Struggle

Roman James Soleño started dabbling with the visual arts at an early age. Eventually, he broadened his creative vision and has arrived to a conceptual framework in approaching his medium.

At seventeen, with the offset of post-adolescent angst and idealistic responsiveness, his “Aloneness” is grounded on purposeful struggle. The motivation behind his art is to arouse a somehow radical reaction against the perceived realities he criticizes, or at least relate with his views. From abstractions like existence to illusions, and concretes like media to society, he struggles to communicate his insight of legitimacy that is oftentimes shunned.

With four paintings and one installation that tackles death, dreams/nightmares, abandonment, desolation, and disillusionment, he utilizes spatters and drips of vivid colors as a mode of deconstructing his vision of physical and spiritual destruction.

Aloneness

It’s hard to seek solitude, and it’s equally difficult when one ventures into a solitary quest.

However, in the awareness of our human need for solitude, we eventually find some form of tranquility and liberation from the inadequacies of the world outside. This is where our imagination and dreams are unbound, and through this visual display, it challenges us to reassess our versions of reality in relation to the ethereal aspects of the human condition.

“Chasing Alone” launched last August 6, 2011 and will run until September 6, 2011 at Sigwada Gallery located in 1921 Oroquieta St., Sta Cruz, Manila. For inquiries, you may contact Ms. Cecile O. Pagaduan at 0917-8075659, 743-5873, or email cil_pagaduan@yahoo.com.

Fairness

2011-08-16T22:05:00.006+08:00

The only unbearable thing is that nothing is unbearable.
-- Arthur Rimbaud

Total Eclipse (1995)
directed by Agnieszka Holland
based on Christopher Hampton's 1967 play

--

Eternity

It has been found again.
What? Eternity.
It is the sea fled away
With the sun.

Sentinel soul,
Let us whisper the confession
Of the night full of nothingness
And the day on fire.

From human approval,
From common urges
You must free yourself,
And fly off as you may.

For from you alone,
Satiny embers,
Duty breathes
Without anyone saying: at last.

There's no hope,
No enlightenment.
In the quest for knowledge,
Only torture is certain.

It has been found again.
What? Eternity.
It is the sea fled away
With the sun.

May 1872
--Arthur Rimbaud

Tranlsated by Baudelaire Jones and Oliver Bernard

In Semaphores

2011-08-14T14:34:00.002+08:00

When the lights are cutting out
And I come down in your room
Our daily compromise, it is written
In your signed armistice

For lovers in a rush, for lovers always
For lovers in a rush, keeping promises
For lovers in a rush, for lovers always.

An Open Letter to A

2011-08-13T04:18:00.002+08:00

Dear Sir A,

I do not know where to begin or exactly how to say these things to you after the catastrophe which is my midterm exam. I’m thinking of whether I should even communicate anything humanly. However, I figured all I have to do is just write everything down. It’s like what David Wagoner said, “Only begin, and the rest will follow”.

When you stepped in class this morning and asked us what had happened, I knew you were trying your best to be optimistic, to help uplift our spirits. When you said you were very disappointed, that’s when a part of me shuddered. You were even uttering words like “where did I go wrong?” Many students in class got a low mark, but I knew I had failed the moment I finished taking the exam. You gave my paper, I saw my score. I felt like vomiting and fainting, but all I could do was sit there and listen to you as you gave kind words of encouragement.

Maybe I lacked focus? There is simply no excuse. Results show that my efforts were simply not enough. I am not proud of delivering such menial exam grade. I am embarrassed of the fact that although I studied, this is the only result I can muster. I didn’t just let you down; it’s dire enough that I let myself down. I wish I had done so much more. This isn’t easy to let go unlike old high school tests which I didn’t even try to pass in my rebellious youth. It made me question my abilities, my intellect. Am I even cut out to be in this program?

It occurred to me that this failure brings forth a relevant learning experience, one that I’ve constantly avoided all these years. This is the very thing I’m afraid of and it kept me from doing what I’m most passionate about.

Before being admitted in the MA program, I decided to forego unnecessary commitments to pursue writing. After 3 years of working, I’ve come to terms with the truth that I must exhaust every means possible in order to actualize this calling. Now that I’ve encountered this obstacle, though it frustrated me, it made me realize that I have a lot to be thankful for. It’s just part of my pursuit for Telos, it must be earned. I am merely being refined. Upon realizing that, I was able to let go of my fears. By it, I believe I am also able to change my destiny because now I can confront this head on without hesitation.

I remember the first question in the exam. It asked us about the sublime—I wasn’t able to answer that correctly. I only remembered the answer minutes after passing my paper. The sublime has the power to unite contradictions. On the other hand, I was able to answer the question about Arete: that the human person must possess philosophical virtue and moral or practical wisdom to attain goodness. I believe these teachings are now permanently etched in the core of my being. I aim to tread the Golden Mean, to be the sublime that unites all contradictions, and propagate goodness. One day, I hope to embody all these when I become a teacher, as well as a worthy writer.

I write this not in defense of my mediocre grade or to convince you to give me a higher mark. It has nothing to do with that at all. If anything, I want to be graded fairly. I only wish to receive a grade which I deserve.

Consider this a letter from a student to her teacher, assuring him that he did not fall short. You are one of the most remarkable and dedicated instructors I have ever come across in my life. I say this not to flatter you, but to let you know that I have realized and learned so much from your class (and we’re just half-way through the semester). You get through your students, sir. None of us emerge from CL 121 with the same pair of eyes. We see things as they are, more clearly now.

Hindi po kayo nagkulang.

Respectfully yours,

Corin

Howl to get there?

2011-08-08T13:20:00.002+08:00

Howl (2010)
directed by Rob Epstein & Jeffrey Friedman

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness...
--Allen Ginsberg

I knew I should have made time to watch this a while back, but I think the timing is just splendid. Thank you, Allen Ginsberg for giving me the drive to move forward. Thank you James Franco for giving life to Allen.

I'm moving. Just moving.

The door of City Lights Bookstore
San Francisco, California

This is the publisher of one of the most celebrated poems in the 20th century, Howl. One day I'll be back in Frisco to read some of my poems at City Lights on open mic. Now, that's a plan.

Words

2011-08-03T00:42:00.004+08:00

There is a proper time and place for things,
Mother always says. Once, she scolded me.
I had been caught using bad words, words
I heard my older brother speak, our neighbor

Yell, and my playmates giggle to. Silence, to her,
Meant submission. She had turned to face
Me, looked into my clear wide eyes and fixed
Her sharp stern stare which cut my throat

Flawlessly, like a thousand knives. It wasn’t long
Before I’d taste my own salty tears and choke
Mutely. All that trouble because I misused my
Words. I wondered, what did I say? I must have

Been too young to comprehend. I did not
Know what they meant. And so, I learned
To temper my tongue. Hold back
If I feel I must. This is what is expected

Of you. Inevitably, growing older each year,
I kept hearing the same ghastly words. People
Misuse words daily. All their pointless chatter,
Those cheeky rumor mongerers, whispering

Back-stabbers, loud and obnoxious mockers, them
Simple liars. Now tell me, you know more than you
Should. I’m sure you’ve been one of them at some given
Time and place— whether you meant to hurt another

Or admit to tactlessness, doesn’t matter. Discovering
The true weight of words is by no means easy, know
Their meaning, and understand. It is another thing
To believe. One cannot undo what has been said.

It Ain't Me, Babe

2011-08-01T04:01:00.000+08:00

Wet Wet Wet Round# 4

2011-07-28T01:36:00.004+08:00

For the final round, Riley and Shirl went ahead so there's just three of us trying to fill-out the blank page. And so, this is how we concluded our Spazzio evening.

Below is a transcribed version of our drunken free writing activity.

The necessary form of release-- Eh, ano ngayon? This is NOT poetry!

You can also click on the audio to listen to this glorious garb of gibberish.

Round 4 07262011 Spazzio - JOV by Amber_Light

Round #4, 1st line by Cor – read by Jov

I’ve been creeping in crevices
beneath your head, where
is your soul? Not beneath
my heart but throughout my life which
is where I have expressed myself in
whole. Where do I get out?
The same crevices where
I crept in? Or do I
stay? Can I wait for
something? Always, you
and I will find something.
Anything. Enough that it
will suffice for the short
lives that we were meant
to live. And so I ask,
do you dare to stay?

Stay there? When you could
find other creeks and cracks in which
you could live a life so unexpectant.
You’ll never know what’ll come next.
Take the risk, enjoy the journey
on the path you walk. Live the
dream.
Live the dream. Even at
times they turn into night-
mares. The important thing
is, you wake up. Sooner
or later.
Wait just enough for the
change you need, want,
live for, to occur. Nobody
said you shouldn’t, you
have a choice. We must
live, it is not enough
to survive a menial
existence. All you have to do
is strive. Strive on that energy
a life support line… but what
if it runs out? You’ll never
know when it’ll strike until that
last moment. Then you’ll realize
that what you have lived was
more than just a life. It’s
a memory embedded in your
dead mind and living on in
the memory of others. You’re
a part of something more.
You’ve slowly helped the world
become what it is today.
Complete the uninspired.
Put a period to what is
hanging. Stop what lingers.
Live. But know when to
halt thy breath and
rest.

Cor, Shane, Jov

(Jov read, hoo-raaaah! Can't believe we did all this in one night. All this mental literary diarrhea on four pages. I felt so light coming home. Thank you (ala Natalie Portaman. lol.) Cheers to the night we felt alive.)

Spazzio July 26, 2011

Wet Wet Wet Round# 3

2011-07-28T01:07:00.005+08:00

Below is a transcribed version of our drunken free writing activity.
The necessary form of release-- Eh, ano ngayon? This is NOT poetry!

You can also click on the audio to listen to this glorious garb of gibberish.

Round 3 07262011 Spazzio - SHANE by Amber_Light

Round #3, 1st line by Riley – read by Shane

It is not the best nor the worst of times.
I never said I’d bring the flowers. And
please, don’t call me ‘Ishmael’. I am merely
black ink on a tide of salty volume.
This is not the ocean
either. Nor is this the mountains.
This is just space—with
all the textures, with all
the flavors. With all the
“ifs”. Vast and undefined,
like the soft lines of your
palms, the curb of your
brows, the air that we breathe.
There is solace in all things
unnamed. I love the uncertainty
and utterance you bring forth
amidst all this static. But who
knows if we’re not far from the end.
From what we have heard, we’re not
far away, with every day… now I pray.
I confess to all the wrong I have done
and at the same time hope to see
the morning sun. For us, life as
we know it might be coming to an
end. I trust myself enough that
I won’t bend. I still want to
cherish every moment, as much as
I have unnoticeably lived by Shakespeare’s
every sonnet. As much as I love to
live, even just to give. I’ve learn’t
to love everybody as if they were
my own kid.

Ah! I know. I am cigarettes. Yeah, cigarettes. Or that awkward moment when a guy knocks on the men’s room door when you’re taking a leak. Yeah. Yeah. That.

_________This is not text on top of a line.___

Leaking. Licking. Lacking.
After that what?
Bad wet fucking?
Again I start,
depth-devoid logic,
shallow reasoning.
Meta my fuckin’
arse, I’m stickin’.
To all this graphic, sporadic,
to cadence. I create my own
world, exist in my mind, em-
brace my human mecha-
nism, acknowledge frailty.
It is necessary to deal with such
things: our complacence,
the final thought which haunts
us before sleeping. But still I
dream. Dream of a time where
there were no problems only
imaginary completeness. Nor
a problem in the world, just
happiness. Just love.
If I were corporeal, even at least,
even if my ink were to sink, if I
were a whole, a shell to house my
memory, would it all change? Would
I sink or swim? Would my words dance
on the page or would they simply
bubble up the surface?

Riley, Jov, Cor, Shane

(Shane had to cuss by the time he read my part because my penmanship was growing harder by the hour to decipher. I'm sorry, dude. I blame it all on the Red Horse. Thanks for trying to read this though.)

Spazzio July 26, 2011

Wet Wet Wet Round# 2

2011-07-28T00:24:00.006+08:00

Below is a transcribed version of our drunken free writing activity.
The necessary form of release-- Eh, ano ngayon? This is NOT poetry!

You can also click on the audio to listen to this glorious garb of gibberish.

Round 2 07262011 Spazzio - COR by Amber_Light

Round #2, 1st line by Shane – read by Cor

I see a car at my feet.
Silently begging for scrap to eat
I give him a shroom and as
he swallows he starts to swoon.
reminds me of the world today.
Is this really why we live, just
to stay?

And then there’s this chef wanting
to optimize his time in cooking. A lot
of tasks, a lot of recipes. Given the dish
on the stove & the list of dishes
that are in line to be cooked, what
dish should be cooked next?

Sex.
Like orgasms mixed? Like
orgasms fakely fixed? I need
a good dish. I’m starving.
Foreplay is it? Like cutting
onions while you weep?
Wail in pleasure. Moan in great
Rapture for something new.
Unanticipated, unfamiliar,
UNSCATHED. Serve me
the purest dish you can muster
and I will consume it up to
the last piece. Make me
glad.
and the reward I shall grant
will be of the highest. Not
me, or my virginity. Something
more pure, but my whole true
love. For you to do with as
you wish. It may be something
as "malansa" as would be fish
but so full of flavor. It would
be more than what you could
ever wish.
Today was a rainy day
Many cats are playing
Many cocks are
Fighting.1

Fighting to get to the
same hour first. As if
the minutes don’t matter.
As if the seconds are
mere adjectives in a purple
prose—a purple prose that
doesn’t last. A feverish
one which inflicts. You may recover,
forget, feign robust enlightenment.
This I give you: clean air, space for
you to connect. But as you grow
older and connect, you learn. You
realize you’re lonely for more than just you
but others
too.

Shane, Shirl, Riley, Jov, Cor
________________________________
1 This is a footnote.
[[In the sense of conflict?]]

Spazzio July 26, 2011

Awfully Wet Wet Wet Tuesday

2011-07-27T23:15:00.007+08:00

We all ended up at Spazzio due to the frustratingly erratic stormy Tuesday of July 26, 2011.
x – classes
x – work
x – Cinemalaya
CHECK!!! – beer

And the afternoon’s winning lines were:

Deelaytful Riley on his play, Six Boys and a Slut
“And in the end, all the boys didn’t care that she didn’t come.”

Shirl opening up about her high school daze with Riley (as Riley feigns ignorance)
“Nagtanung ka kaya kung pwede mo ‘ko ligawan!”

Jov to Riley while waiting for SRO tickets to watch Cinemalaya films
“Papapasukin ba tayo sa Septick Tank?”

Cor dipping every pulutan in ultra-spicy soy chili-mansi sauce prepared by Shane
“I can’t feel my tongue. I can’t feel my tongue.” (Hala sige, saw-saw pa!)

Shane after coming from the men’s room, telling Cor and Jov
“Na-realize ko may sili pala sa batok ko. Tapos, nag-CR ako. May sili pa pala yung kamay ko.” xD

Below is a transcribed version of our drunken free writing activity.

The necessary form of release-- Eh, ano ngayon? This is NOT poetry!

You can also click on the audio to listen to this glorious garb of gibberish.

Round 1 07262011 Spazzio - RILEY by Amber_Light

Round# 1, 1st line by Jov – read by Riley

Today is like one bad wet fuck.
It’s slippery as hell, but every time
I think I’ll make it, I never come.
The cigarettes are never enough,
do you give a damn?
But all’s well ends well they say.
Even though I have not seen that
happy ending, I’m sure that short
slip will bring me into a state
of sudden realization. A realization
I’m not yet ready to see, a realization
that is full of pretention.

I want to shout out to the old dog,
jump off the trapeze, pull the
plug that connects love and death.
Dumb old dog, had his neck caught by the plug
during the plunge. Dumb
old dog doesn’t fall, he
just hangs. The way snagged
sparrows hang on cables, the way
the child hangs on the cliff
when the catcher in the rye
fails to save him. We hang on
strings that can get cut at
any moment. I like hanging-
out in the goddamn mall.

Can’t sleep can’t eat can’t talk can’t walk
Just think and drink and smoke and
shot. Go out at night never in the
day to spend all the cash I’ve worked
so hard to gain. I can’t clearly see
while I still live. The only reason
-- the love I give. For the depth
of my heart can run so deep. You
can sometimes see hell coz that
cliff is so steep. But from
hell when you look high above
you’ll always spot where I
safe keep your love. Whether
for me it means life of death
please think with your heart, and
not with your head.

I’ve been trying for so long to get your attention, trying
so hard hoping you’d accept me. But despite you close your door
for me. I’d still be here. I won’t fight. I’ll just stick around
coz I know we’ll soon be together, maybe next year,
the other year or the afterlife.

Alas, no. Oh, alas, oh no.
Alas, yes. Socks still wet,
hair still drips. Let me
start again, today is like
a bad fuck –
all wet. All sweat nothing
more nothing less.
All is lost, we all examine the
mess. Still that door will be there
where I will linger. Hang. Rest.
Ruminate. Because there is nothing
more.

Jov, Cor, Shane, Shirl, and Riley

***

I just listened to / read this madness we gave birth to. What a day. Frustrated much?

I will post the next 3 rounds of our free writing madness with its corresponding audio. It will be great to laugh over this years later. Thanks for making this terrible terrible day alright.

Cheers to more nights we'll feel alive!

Sailing

2011-07-23T16:55:00.005+08:00

As long as it floats my boat

July 20, 2011

I think I'll go home now
It's been the greatest day
Thank you for shedding life
To my fantasy

Throw me a wicked smile,
The one like yesterday
That threw me up and away
To the evergreen

Like a spiral staircase,
Down I go, losing every step
I sense an earthquake, I.L.U.
Don't even know how to say
When will it break? Today is gone
But tomorrow will be okay

I'll wait another day
I'll wait another day

Morning awakes me,
I need a special plan
This very simple task
I cannot overcome
Hundreds of streets I roamed
In search for a perfect line
But nothing I've found good enough
For a boy like you...

Like a spiral staircase,

Down I go, losing every step

I sense an earthquake, I.L.U.

Don't even know how to save

When will it break? Today is gone

But tomorrow will be okay

I'll wait another day

Why I can never let you go?
So strange, extraordinary
Why I can never tell you so?
I must be dumb
Why I can never let this go?
Can't stop this fun,
It must be done

I'll wait another day

I'll wait another day.

--Mojofly, "Another Day"

The Ceremony of Unfinished Verses

2011-07-19T00:20:00.020+08:00

I know, I know. I’m making myself sick again (as if I’m not sick enough) with all the late night bitter coffee and over-played tracks on my abused hard drive. As caffeine profusely over-takes my veins from the futility of thinning blood, I attempt to examine my disposition from a severely faded frame of being. I’m uttering gibberish, but that’s fine by me. At the end of the day, I’m writing this particular entry for myself, I believe, as a reminder of sorts. My twisted rationalization dictates, and I quite agree, that by making myself sicker, I may in due course remedy this ineffable disease— which is basically called the human condition. My human condition. I used to hover over the realization that I'm not exactly normal. I still sometimes wish I could just be like everyone else. But, I have chosen, and I know. I can never go back now. I will no longer tread the conventional road to existence.

So, what the hell am I gathering? Let me ask you: How does one try to salvage memories after loss? I don’t even understand why I feel the need to save memories. As if these memories will mean anything when I one day burst into flames and turn to ash.

Loss, premeditated or otherwise, the latter is the common misfortune. We can never really be prepared for something we always thought wouldn't change. Even people who deliberately try to lose something didn't foresee the need for it, until. O, well. Fuck Nietzsche and his eternal return bull-crap theory. I refuse to succumb to the probability that my life will continue to endure cataclysm, I am tired of having change as the only constant object there is to comfort me in this short seemingly imploding life of mine.

Below are strings of words. Incomplete verses. I have to write them down before this mad entity ceases to possess me, before these words escape me. They frighten me. They dishearten me. They make me feel alive. Though they do not mean anything coherent today, like in dreams, I will always know what they mean even when I read them again in the future, the world over, one day. Whatever the mind loses, the heart always houses. Forgetfulness is simply an illusion of lightness. Because to forget does not mean liberation; it doesn’t signify letting go.

It does not follow…

To move like water is a graceful blessing bestowed upon birth. Mastering this movement entails suffering, attempting to acquire it is a lifetime feat herald with desolation and wretchedness.

Our hands will always have their way: they dare to say what these muffled lips utter not.

The gecko on the ceiling intently stares at light’s milky fluorescence

It’s fond of movement and illuminated things, his head rushes

With blood, his world remains upside down. Meanwhile, darkness grows

Older. I drank coffee as the black ants swirled in caffeine suicide.

The 12:10 O’clock Prayer

You died sullenly

No source of life flowed

From your heart so selfish

And an ocean of pity opened up

To my whole world

O fountain of disdain,

Immeasurable divine heresy

Covers the whole world’s eyes

And empties our souls upon waking

O blood and water which flowed out

From the heart of discontent,

As a fountain of delusion for us,

Who will trust in you?

O, lowly god
Lonely mighty one

You lonely immortal one

Have mercy on us

And the whole world,

Laments.

Lowly god

Lonely mighty one

Lonely immortal one

Have mercy on us

And the whole world,

Laments.

Lowly god

Lonely mighty one

Lonely immortal one

Have mercy on us

And the whole world,

Laments.

Give me reason, king of mercy

Deliver the dying

From eternal fright and misery

And I will trust in you.

Moving in Shadows

2011-07-14T05:45:00.003+08:00

I would sit for hours conversing with shadows
Not uttering a single word. And I would think of children
Playing with water gushing from a broken faucet

Soaking each other’s faces and wrinkling their little hands.
I could hear their laughter and see sunlight warm their bodies
On a summer afternoon. As I stare down the pavement, now

Thinking of rain, I see needles of water hitting dry ground,
A woman running for shelter, and how urgency is drawn
On her face. The expressions people display at certain times:

Delight, amusement, sudden turns for things unexpected.
Only now, I am alone. It is evening and I am left beside
A lamp post on the road, illuminating amber light. Still

In the company of darkness, I wonder with my own shadow. If I could
See without light, how would its face give the impression of being?
Can they only see with the dark, as I have always seen with the light?

October 2007

Years After You've Withered

2011-07-07T06:36:00.004+08:00

A Conversation with My Dead Dream Girl

XX: I apologize for deliberately losing you. All those years in the same hallway truly meant so much to me. We could have at least shared a cigarette?

XY: I remember the first time we spoke. We were alike in so many ways. Sadly, I shunned myself from bright elements like you.

XX: I was wrong. We failed to have this because we were so afraid of ourselves. Do you think that kind of likeness can save?

XY: I wish you could have stayed. I wish you knew your kind was never really alone.

For the love of Valium

2011-07-02T22:14:00.002+08:00

If I meet the maker of all the universe,
I'll ask him why we're here and what we're here for.

Random Patterns

2011-07-01T05:37:00.016+08:00

I choose the middle road between loneliness and freedom.
-- Vagabond (1985), directed by Agnès Varda
(a French film I failed to finish watching yesterday)

Submitting to routine isn’t every body’s cup of tea. For the past few months, I’ve put up with a freelance job which only required me to work at home. It was laid-back and I could pretty much dispose of time however I wished, for as long as I produced what these capitalists wanted. Now, I’m not so great at time management and I don’t always meet deadlines on the dot, but I found relief knowing that I didn’t have to venture toward the world outside. In short, aside from being too lethargic to come out, I’ve set certain restrictions for myself.

I wouldn’t come out of my lair unless I had to help my folks with errands or dine out. Being such a home-buddy and sticking to that agenda day in and day out made me feel a sense of stability. After the grave things I’ve seen (trust me, I’ve seen things) now that I’ve eased half-way into the year, I realized I’m not very fond of surprises. I remember writing about not being a fan of change years back, but I think to put it more specifically, it’s not the change I dread. I think it’s more about how uncertainty bleeds into our established systems. I find comfort in routine and the fact that applying this pattern guarantees I’ll know how my day will begin and conclude itself. It’s not a full-proof plan, but at least it’s the steadier choice. Plus, it’s easier to plan meetings with real friends—I appreciate this because I’m able to give them ample attention. It’s good to look forward to something that breaks routine every now and then so you have a pleasant highlight to your week. That way, I feel I’m not taking anything or anyone for granted.

I’ve had my share of excesses which include everything in the erratic blender: listless afternoons lost to chain smoking, eventful nights overflowing with alcohol (which I unfortunately forgot), surreal Saturdays with peculiar personalities, failing to come home and spending the night in an alternate universe, possible encounters with paranormal entities during the wee hours and other things I cannot possibly disclose, which is typical for most 20 something year olds of the golden age (a euphemism for a world which produced cynical organic machines trying to live decent lives).

So basically, yes, I have been avoiding that scattered kind of life. Now that education has been added to this routine picture of mine, things just got a little bit more challenging and interesting. I can be very impulsive when I choose to, but I guess discipline really does come with age. When our priorities change, our lifestyle comes along with it.

I’m bored to death sometimes. But hey, it doesn’t mean I’ll forget being young. After all, I’ve chosen to live a sort of anti-cookie-cutter-existence. What ever that means.

Emptying: the world is changing

2011-06-28T20:06:00.010+08:00

(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)(+)

06/28/2011 5:30pm

Location: UP Football field across Commonwealth Avenue

I've Thrown Away My Citalopram

2011-06-25T14:40:00.002+08:00

Constants

2011-06-20T16:08:00.005+08:00

Great loves die with our youth, but today the simplicity of love is alive.

-- Alula dela Cruz

Probable Futures

2011-06-15T21:53:00.008+08:00

1. Finish my master's degree in 3 years

2. Have my own car and actually drive it

3. Go to Vietnam

4. Go to Cambodia

5. Go to India

The Plan
Date: June 30, 2016
Time: 10:00am
Where: Lodhi Garden, New Delhi, India
What: We'll see about that.

6. Go to Europe

I cannot possibly forget this now that I've written it down (unless I delete this entry). It need not follow this order, I just have to remember the rest of the details for number 5. From now on, I'll be busy trying to get to do these things in 5 years. It will be weird reading this post again by then. I will be a lot older. I hope I don't disappoint myself when all that time has passed.

****

I want to be where I've never been before
I want to be there and then I'd understand
Know I'm right and do it right, could I get to be like that?
I'll know what I don't know, with nothing more to gain
Will I get better or stay the same?
I find I always move too slowly

And all the people who've seen it all before
And all the people who really understand
Know they're right, and have done it right,
Could I get to be like that?

I'll know what I don't know, it's harder everyday
Can't lift a finger, can't hurt a fly
I've found I always move too slowly
One thing's for certain, I'm insecure

I never knew till someone told me that
If that's all you will be, you'll be a waste of time
You've dreamed a thousand dreams,
None seem to stick in your mind
Two points for honesty, it must make you
Sad to know that nobody cares at all.
They never care at all.

-- Guster, "Two Points for Honesty"

As if we haven't deluded ourselves enough

2011-06-13T22:00:00.008+08:00

Since that faithful day in college history class, I never really knew how to treat June 12 as a legitimate Philippine independence day. I'm no historian, I was just a history student for at least 3 semesters in college, 4 years in high school and 7 years in grade school. And no, I don't think I know much about the meaning of freedom either.

We Filipinos need to know more about our past. It's a sad fact that a lot of events which concerned the welfare of our nation wasn't written on text books. I recommend this informative piece (please click on the link). If you want to educate yourself a little bit more about your roots, I'm sure you will take the time.

Hold Still

2011-06-13T13:17:00.009+08:00

"Vanity, my favorite sin."
-- Al Pacino, The Devil's Advocate

self-portrait

My relationship with glass and mirrors

and the things our eyes aren't meant to see clearly

Counting

2011-06-09T21:56:00.006+08:00

Numbers are useless, yet many have counted
the numerous ways people say their goodbyes.

How many of it we've seen: a slow hand waving
where before that was an embrace, a slow release,

a peck on the cheek, or simply, a pat on the back.
Certainly, more useless counting follows during the wait

for their return. Perhaps this was how patience was
discovered: when a man long yearned for a friend to arrive.

Once, I crossed a road on a summer’s night. The numbers
went about meaningless, and yet to count the stars

knowing the great distance of home, to gather
understanding of the plight back, made perfect sense.

Over the Gate
February 2011

On the Necessity of Sadness

2011-06-09T12:35:00.008+08:00

Let me tell you about longing.
Let me presume that I have something
new to say about it, that this room,
naked, its walls pining for clocks,
has something new to say
about absence. Somewhere
the crunch of an apple, fading
sunflowers on a quilt, a window
looking out to a landscape
with a single tree. And you
sitting under it. Let go,
said you to me in a dream,
but by the time the wind
carried your voice to me,
I was already walking through
the yawning door, towards
the small, necessary sadnesses
of waking. I wish
I could hold you now,
but that is a line that has
no place in a poem, like the swollen
sheen of the moon tonight,
or the word absence, or you,
or longing. Let me tell you about
longing. In a distant country
two lovers are on a bench, and pigeons,
unafraid, are perching beside them.
She places a hand on his knee
and says, say to me
the truest thing you can.
I am closing my eyes now.
You are far away.

-- Mikael de Lara Co

Crossing

2011-06-06T23:57:00.006+08:00

I emptied my pockets to surrender
all sharp and flammable belongings
before admitting to have this fear
of flying: more particularly, of the fall.

Never mind the pain from the fiery disaster
that might become of my trip. I've fallen
in dreams during restless sleep, and in them
I relied heavily on force fields which knew
of frailty and when to stop such madness.

But my baggage is checked in. Like so many
passengers waiting, we took turns glancing
at planes landing and taking off. We were
figuring out which emerging heads arrived
home, or have come only as visitors.

Then perhaps, I will doze my flight away
knowing too well that I will dread waking
from the same frightful sleep. To find it
chance upon me-- when there is no more
means to fall, need for nets. Just another side.

Written 02/14/2010
Revised 6/6/2011

It's a Draw

2011-06-03T20:15:00.007+08:00

"Insist on nothing else but a new start.
Admire the danger of it"

-- Jacob Walse-Dominguez, in the absence of proof

This Side
April 2011

Persistence of Memory

2011-06-01T18:46:00.001+08:00

Time Goes Away

He took me to the hillside
He liked to take me there
He took me every Saturday
He put flowers in my hair

And we laughed like my mother said she once did
With my father on his birthday
When they went swimming
And he took her hand into his
And he told her that he loved her
His words held meaning

How do we make these moments last?
How do we get them to stay?
When everything passes and time goes away

He took me to the theater
He liked to take me there
He took me every Sunday
We did our talking there

And we laughed like my mother said she once did
With her sister on her birthday when she was seventeen
They took her car out for a spin
Along the ocean with the top down
And life held meaning

How do we make these moments last?
How do we get them to stay?
When everything passes and time goes away

-- Rosie Thomas

Anxiety

2011-06-01T15:27:00.003+08:00

It's difficult to disclose personal information when:

1. your friends are busy

2. your friends are far away

3. they can't catch up so they can't understand

4. you just want to be alone all the time, you don't want to be anywhere else

5. you buried a body in the basement (yup, you definitely have a problem)

I wonder if these are the reasons why people seek psychiatric help and turn to anti-depressants and other "calming" drugs to make them feel better. Lack of friends? Or, lack of trust? I think everyone has some form of psychological disorder, we develop defense mechanisms and just learn to cope with it over time. Some become assholes, others become hypocrites. Some try really hard to do the right things and are still misunderstood. Well, it just sounds like every day life to me.

"I don't want to be here."

I guess the percentage who fail to handle their own minds either admit that they need help or are forced by their family/friends to get professional help. Which brings me to my next question:

What happens when they don't get help?

Last Night

2011-05-30T22:27:00.003+08:00

Patrick: Why haven't you told him?

Joanna: You're right. I think once you know something like that, you can't... unlearn it.

Last Night (2010)
Directed by Massy Tadjedin