fish in a bowl

toussaint

2011-11-02T06:21:00.006+08:00

I had always associated this day with jovial get-togethers at the family mausoleum. Pleasantries, jokes, and fun memories of the deceased were exchanged amid laughter and bowls of ginatan (sweet coconut stew with lanka) and chicharon (crispy, deep fried pork rind). Large, fancy candles were burned nonstop, wafting the smell of wax into the air that was already suffused with the faint scent of flowers for the dead. My cousin and I would go from tomb to tomb collecting molten wax to form wax balls. By the end of the day, we would have created several chunks of wax the size of tennis balls.

More food would sometimes be given by the Chinese family whose mausoleum stood just in front of ours. Believing that food should be offered to the dead, they would cook more than they could consume and would give some of them to the families of neighboring tombs.

Part of the thrill of this day was to elbow our way through the slowly moving throng of families bearing candles and flowers for their dead kin. It had always been a slow and arduous ordeal, leaving us all smelling of candle smoke or, if we’re not too lucky, of grilled, sun-dried squid smoke (they loved selling this rubbery, jaw-breaking, foul-smelling delicacy in the cemeteries). It had always been worth the trek, though. I loved gazing at the other tombs—mausoleums that were way larger and more extravagant than ours or those cramped, inexpensive, tiny, tenement-style holes in the wall of the underprivileged, which we used to call “apartment tombs” when we were kids. Sadly, even in death, one is reminded of the grim reality of social classes.

Being the naughty kids that we were, my cousins and I would hunt for funny-sounding names on marble lapidaries and laugh out loud. We would also look for cracked tombs and peek inside, hoping to find discarded skulls or fractured hip bones. There was one time when we actually did find what seemed to be a leg bone. It gave us something to scare each other with the whole day.

Ironically, I’ve had fun memories of All Saints’ Day in the Philippines. The cemetery was like a curious playground for me as a kid and a fun venue for family reunions as an adult.

Today, however, I spent the day without the usual festive mood. I went all alone to Cimitière du Père Lachaise (Father Lachaise Cemetery) in the 20th arrondissement. Known as the graveyard of celebrities, this 44-hectare necropolis is arguably the most visited cemetery in the world. Some of its famous “residents” include Molière, Frédéric Chopin, Jim Morrison, Eugène Delacroix, Maria Callas, Oscar Wilde, Gioacchino Rossini, Gertrude Stein, and Edith Piaf. It’s not surprising, therefore, to find more tourists wandering through its labyrinthine alleys and passageways than somber families bringing chrysanthemums to their deceased loved ones.

In my previous visits there, I had noticed a discrete stretch of lawn set against the west wall of the cemetery. This is called the Jardin du Souvenir (Garden of Memories), undoubtedly created for those who wish to pay homage to their dead who had been buried somewhere else. This garden is always full of bouquets left by people to remember those who, in life, had given them the sweetest of memories. This was where I wanted to go to honor the memory of my father who had died in September last year.

Having entered the cemetery through the Porte des Amandiers, I had to walk all the way to the other end of the sprawling necropolis to reach the Jardin du Souvenir. Armed with a map of the ancient graveyard, I slowly made my way on the damp cobbled streets, past grandiose monuments in red, black, white, and pink marble; past moss-covered statues of weeping women shrouded in mourning veils; past elaborately carved Gothic mausoleums; past stone effigies of 18th century dignitaries reclining on top of their tombs; past bas-relief of suffering Jesuses and grieving Marys; past muddy side streets covered with dried oak leaves; past deeply buried memories that, although forgotten, still stood in all their elegance, as if defying time itself. Some of them had fresh flowers—mostly chrysanthemums, the traditional funeral flower here—arranged in low, wide pots or vases.

There were also neglected mausoleums with broken stained glass windows or cracked tombstones that revealed yawning holes going at least four feet below the ground. I stopped at some of them to peek inside, hoping to find human bones, like what my cousins and I used to do. But I found none.

I’m not sure what my father would have thought if he had known I went to a foreign cemetery to honor his memory on All Saints’ Day. He had always hated going to the graveyard on this day when he was still alive. He hated the smell of the sweaty crowd, the pushing and the shoving just to get to our mausoleum, the lack of parking space, the smell of burning incense and candles which he thought was suffocating, and the general idea of braving the city traffic just to visit putrefying corpses. “They’re already dead, what else can you do about that?” he used to say.

Despite his protestations, he would always end up going because he had to drive the whole family there. There was even a time when, after having wandered off into my friend’s family tomb, I heard his voice in the cemetery’s loudspeakers (they install such equipment on this day to page the parents of lost kids, which gives you a rough idea how thick the crowds can get on All Saints’ Day in the Philippines) angrily ordering me to go to the parking lot immediately because they’re all waiting for me and it was already time to go home. My friends made fun of me for months because of this incident.

Now, he’s one of those rotting corpses he had not wanted to visit. Whether he liked it or not, there would be flowers and candles in his tomb today. And, one of his sons would be paying homage to him in a 19th century cemetery thousands of miles away.

The weather was bleak as I made my way through crumbling tombstones. The sun had not shown itself the whole day, the sky was sagging with gray clouds and it was slightly drizzling. My toes were starting to stiffen and I could see my breath in the chilly air. The trees looked eerie without their leaves as we were already well into autumn. I stopped in the middle of the passage and hastily wrote a note for my father on a small piece of paper.

When I reached the Garden of Memories, I saw that there were more flowers there than usual. I was briefly reminded of the large, expensive funeral wreaths given by friends and relatives during my father’s wake. They were too many we couldn’t hold them all inside the small funeral chapel on the second floor. We had them lined in the corridor, on the steps of the stairs, and out onto the sidewalk.

I stood in front of the assemblage of flowers and thought about my father. It was not easy to hold back emotions. If I had been in front of his actual tomb with my family, it would’ve been different. The mood would have been light, delightful even. We would have recounted his funny antics and stupid bloopers. We would have all laughed and remembered him with fondness. We would have felt fortunate that we got to have a father like him, who, despite the harshness of life, never wavered in his commitment and dedication to us all.

But here, all alone in a strange cemetery in the dreariness of autumn, things were different. I longed for his gentle words when I was down. I longed for his hand on my back whenever I felt depressed, which somehow, made me feel things would be all right. I yearned for his booming, angry voice that never failed to reprimand me whenever I would wake up late. I yearned to see him doing stupid, funny things with almost crass audacity.

I put out the short note I had written and wedged it between the thickly packed bouquets of flowers. I had scribbled my gratitude and my love on that paper. I knew there was no way he would be able to read what I had written there. Rotting corpses don’t read sweet notes left by their sons. They’re too busy decomposing. That’s probably what my father would have told me. My gesture was more for myself than for him. I know that despite the passage of years, despite my geographical distance from his tomb, and even if, in life, he was not so crazy about visiting tombs, I will not forget. A son will never forget.

I turned around and slowly made my way toward the exit, suddenly feeling old. It was getting darker and colder. The lethargic sun would set without having even risen at all. I gave one last look at the tombstones before I went out. They all looked desolate. Cemeteries did not seem like playgrounds anymore.

not your ordinary choir

2011-09-24T09:29:00.002+08:00

To compare the University of Santo Tomas (UST) Singers to a typical glee club of the American high school variety is to do them injustice. Sure, they do have the staples of glee clubs: the glitz of costumes and fanfare of choreography—what with their gleaming pink ponchos, sequined Filipiniana dresses, and cheesy hand movements—but they’ve got something that most show choirs lack: vocal versatility.

This was amply showcased during their recent concert at the UNESCO Headquarters in Paris. From smoothly sliding contemporary motets to rousing Broadway anthems, they easily breezed through their repertoire, which prompted the audience to give them three standing ovations. Listen to one of their songs and you’ll know that this is definitely not an odd group of high school losers hoping for a slushy-free day on the school corridors. First, they are no longer in high school; they’re composed of University students, faculty, and alumni who are passionate about singing. Second, well, there’s just no point in comparing them to a run-of-the-mill show choir. Period.

Organized in celebration of the 400th founding anniversary of the UST, the concert was an auditory feast of fine choral music. As what Father Rolando de la Rosa, UST Rector, aptly said in his opening remarks, this group is the Philippine’s “gift to [a] world” which defines the word Filipina as househelp and Filipino as a brown biscuit. This clearly shows that Filipinos can do more than scrub toilets and satisfy snack urges.

Repertoire. The show was opened by Albert Hay Malotte’s iconic version of The Lord’s Prayer. Three other sacred songs (Manuel’s Alleluia, Calalang’s Jubilate Deo, and White’s O Magnum Mysterium) followed, each of which showing the range of the choir’s vocal prowess.

With Alleluia, they accentuated the piece’s lyrical quality with long, fluid lines. With Jubilate Deo, they jumped with crisp staccatos as if they were on pogo-sticks, and then finished it off with the ostinato of the male voices towards the end.

Prof. Fidel Gener Calalang Jr., the choir’s conductor, wrote this piece himself. Five other songs performed that night were arranged by him, too. There is, of course, a great advantage if the conductor himself arranges or writes the pieces that his own choir performs. Having prior knowledge of the strength of his group, he can tailor the piece to highlight what they can do best and mask what they can’t. Or, he can write a vocally demanding oeuvre and whip his choir into attaining a certain level of excellence in order to perform it.

But with a group like the UST Singers, there might be little need to bring out the whip, if at all (except perhaps if they intend to come up with S&M inspired costumes).

Their selections of international songs included a poignant rendition of Aznavour’s Une Vie d’Amour. The mispronounced French words notwithstanding, the song still resounded with romantic yearning.

Federizon’s eerie Gabaq-an ushered in the Filipino suite. This Visayan masterpiece started with creepy ululations of the women accompanied by little bells attached to their fingers, reminiscent of tribal fertility trinkets. The singing was as raw and throaty as the choreography was surreal and calculated. The song spoke about humanity’s cruelty towards nature.

Artist Lucio San Pedro’s lively arrangement of Sa Libis ng Nayon quickly followed. The choir members dispersed across the stage to recreate the atmosphere of a town fiesta.

This section was capped with Cayabyab’s Tuwing Umuulan at Kapiling Ka, a song that has had so many incarnations. Calalang’s arrangement for mixed voices was direct, clean, and true to the song’s original form.

The Broadway suite featured three songs from Stephen Flaherty’s musical Ragtime, one of which was the uplifting Wheels of a Dream sung by a tenor and a soprano and joined in by the choir in the chorus while Prof. Calalang pounded at the baby grand.

Since the audience wouldn’t stop applauding, three encores were performed including One Day More from Les Misérables which showed that many of the choir members can do solos.

Serious choral group. The UST Singers is not new to the international stage. They have won several awards all over the world since their creation in 1992. They also hold the distinction of being the only group to have won the Choir of the World Grand Prize-Luciano Pavarotti Trophy twice.

As with most experienced Philippine choirs, their repertoire spans the whole gamut of musical styles and genres. From the musical tapestries of renaissance pieces to the exuberance of Broadway choruses, they seem to be at ease with every style. Whatever the genre is, they sing with great vocal control reminiscent of the Philippine Madrigal Singers when it was still under the baton of National Artist Andrea Veneracion.

They also do not shy away from fully choreographing their livelier songs, something that may be met with raised eyebrows by the more serious and traditional choral groups that prefer very minimal movements and that deliberately avoid going down the route of show choirs (like New Directions, the group of losers from the Fox series Glee). The UST Singers, however, does not overdo it. Albeit some of the hand movements in the concert were predictable, their overall choreography was innovative.

With or without choreography, they remain to be a serious choral group that knows its stuff well. A little bit of showmanship will not do them harm. And it certainly does not mar their performance. A choir with that caliber is something a trumpety Rachel Berry can only dream of becoming a part of.

before summer ends

2011-08-27T21:37:00.004+08:00

In Paris, the last few days of summer do not go gentle into that good, somber dusk of autumn. It rages on with aplomb. It’s as if the ageing, dying sun, in its last attempt to make itself felt before the gloom of autumn sets in, heaves in a deep breath and exhales in full force whatever air is left in its lungs. With the temperature wildly swinging from the mildness of 15 degrees to the dizziness of 32, there is still enough zest left among Parisians to take to the streets and celebrate the season.

These days, if I could help it, I choose not to ride the subterranean Metro. There is so much to see on the streets on summer nights. Whenever I go out from my part-time job near the attention-seeking, suppository-shaped Eiffel Tower, I would cross the Seine through the Pont d’Iena and walk all the way up the Esplanade du Trocadero, from whose vantage point one can have a perfect view of the Tour Eiffel in all its vulgar, phallic glory.

On this esplanade, you can see boisterous tourists, hawkers of Chinese-made metal replicas of the Eiffel Tower, and professionally trained pickpockets milling about amid never-ending camera flashes. Most tourists pose in the most grotesque manner just to make the illusion on picture that they are holding the tower’s tip. Or that they’re leaning on it. Or that the tower is impaling them through their butt. If I only had the time, I’d stay on this esplanade the whole day and watch tourists do their otherworldly poses.

Here, too, I get to see street performers every night. Since this wide, open space is vast enough for several groups to perform simultaneously without disturbing each other, you’re bound to see a group that suits your taste. Among the regular performers here are a group of American Indians in ponchos and fancy feather headdresses playing the recorder, the flute, and a rattling thingy to pre-recorded background music. Hanging on their mic stands are colorful dream catchers in various sizes. On good nights, they perform what seem to be stylized, New Age-inspired renditions of native American Indian music. But most nights, they simply play standard pop songs like Celine Dione’s My heart will go on, Andrea Boccelli’s Time to say goodbye, and even the Christmas standard When the child is born.

In one corner, a band plays Latin music to which couples passionately dance, to the delight of amused onlookers.

In the middle of the courtyard, a group of hiphop dancers commands the biggest crowd. They do their routine break dance coupled with acrobatics while goading the audience to participate by clapping or waving their hands. Then, they pass a small container around for some loose change. “If you liked our performance, please give us money; if you didn’t, then just give us money,” they would say.

Last night, I saw a guy pushing an upright piano on a specially made cart with four heavy-duty wheels. He stopped in front of the Palais du Chaillot at the edge of the esplanade and nonchalantly unloaded the instrument as if it was just an ordinary wooden cabinet. Then, he lifted it from the side and set it on the ground. There was no way that thing could be a piano! It took six robust men to carry my own piano when it was moved out of our old house in Manila. Or maybe they’ve already found a way to use lighter material for the frames instead of massive iron, making the mammoth instrument more portable. Anyway, I didn’t pause to know what exactly he would do with it because I was itching to go home.

But tonight, upon reaching the steps of the Palais de Chaillot, after having crossed the esplanade, I saw the same guy playing the instrument with bravura. It was, indeed, a real piano. He had removed the wooden panel of its lower half to expose the front soundboard, the strings and the pedal mechanism, thus making it sound louder. (I’m still wondering why it was so light.)

A group of onlookers had gathered around him, filming or simply watching him. I stopped and marveled at how skilled he was on the keyboard. Wearing a leather jacket and faded jeans, he pounded on the keys with such fiery passion. He was wearing silver nail polish which vaguely glinted as he fingered the arpeggios and hammered the octaves. I could tell that he was merely improvising because the piece didn’t seem to be progressing methodically. In fact, at one point, I thought he would go on and on. He seemed to have perfected the technique in playing several virtuosic passages and then just combined them to form a sonata-sounding piece. But then again, I may be wrong. It might really have been a composed piece which he memorized. Whatever it was, it sounded good. And the audience erupted into rapturous applause when he finally ended.

I had wanted to speak with him after that but there were already some people who beat me to it. So I just threw in some change into a basket on the piano top, took a hard, long look at the impossibly light piano again, and then continued walking onto the cobbled streets, into the cool night that bore the dying wheezing of summer and first few breaths of autumn.

eulogy for a friend

2011-07-12T17:03:00.003+08:00

When I asked Ali about his skin cancer before the start of Cez's church wedding, he spoke lightly of it. It was as if he just contracted the flu. He said he would be starting chemotherapy sessions the month after that. I was not sure if he noticed it but I was worried, terribly worried. But the way he spoke about the matter somehow assured me that things would be all right, as things are wont to do whenever we over-worry about them. Our conversation was cut short because he had to take pictures of the wedding (he was the official photographer) and I had to play the piano for the wedding march. That was six months ago. I just learned thirty minutes ago that he would be buried this coming Thursday.

I was probably the very first person from his high school batchmates to have learned of his condition because his mom had informed my sister about it in December. It came as a shock, and, somehow, I got the impression that it was not something to be divulged, not right away.

However, I felt that this was something my high school friends should know, too. So, after having whored before Ali’s camera the whole night at the wedding, I told some of them about it. They had the right to know. And, I thought, should the inevitable happen, they would have had time to cherish the person while he was still alive. The inevitable did happen. And all we can cherish now are memories.

Years ago, when dreams still ran high and science investigatory projects were considered the pinnacle of our achievements, Ali was a constant companion. Not a lot of people may know it but we did become quite close especially during the last year of high school. We used to hang out a lot, together with Bonny. He used to go to our house, and, sitting side by side on the piano bench, we would play Blue Moon in four different variations—jazz, classical, pop, and just plain funky. He played primero and I secondo. He marveled at how effortlessly I would shift from classical to jazz in one bar. But when he himself learned the trick of musical improvisation, he got so adept at it he started doing it with practically every pop song.

After I had taught him the rudiments of reading notes, he got to play slightly more difficult pieces. He was a fast learner and his interest in the instrument never waned. Later on, he got good enough to play regularly in his church, Iglesia ni Cristo.

“Improvisation is not allowed there,” he told me once, after playing in church. “You have to strictly follow the music sheet.”

I don’t want to take the credit, though. I merely showed him the door and he entered it with gusto, like most of the other things he engaged in—photography being one of them.

At a time when text messaging was still unheard of, we would spend hours on the telephone mostly talking about his exploits with girls or those he merely fancied. There were instances when I actually fell asleep and he would wake me up by pressing a button on the phone, which made my earwax shoot out of my eardrums, that jerk!

During those phone calls, too, he got to bare his dreams, which, unfortunately, I don’t remember anymore. Only the more lurid parts of the conversations got stuck in my mind, as these regular talks were always punctuated with laughter, jokes, and general rubbish. Suffice it to say that I got the privilege of knowing the other side of him. He was always seen as a class clown with a big nose, someone who didn’t seem to take things seriously, who always made fun of things and found something funny in anything. In our regular phone calls, I realized that he was dead serious about many things in life.

Whenever we would visit Bonny, we would deliberately pause at his gate (even if it was wide open) and call Bonny’s name out loud in a sing-song manner, he doing the base part and I the tenor part. It was one of those things we did to amuse—or annoy, depending on the case—Bonny.

At Bonny’s place, we used to watch the 10th Anniversary concert of Les Miserables. He loved the musical so much that he read the thick, unabridged English translation of Victor Hugo’s original. He lent me this book and, somehow, I never got to finish reading it, preferring the abridged, simplified French version. This dilapidated book is still in my shelf at home.

His sister being a ballerina, he was able to procure complimentary tickets for me and Bonny for a performance of Romeo and Juliet at the main theater of the Cultural Center of the Philippines with none other than prima ballerina Lisa Macuja playing the lead. It was the very first ballet I had ever seen.

We shared a passion for music. The Phantom of the Opera, of course, was our favorite musical during that time because we had to do our own version of it for a school competition. I played the title role and he was one of the unforgettable, nameless extras trying to look good in the background. We fabulously lost the competition to a group that lip-synched the whole thing.

We used to sing Tong Tong tong pakitong kitong to the tune of Phantom of the Opera; again, he did the base part, I the tenor. We would sing it whenever we were bored. Or just to annoy whoever was within earshot.

He told me once that whenever he would hear Think of Me, he imagined his future wife to be that girl, to have that pristine voice singing with yearning and longing. I have yet to hear Maria Mariquit sing to know if, indeed, she sounds like Sarah Brightman. But even if she doesn’t, I’m sure Ali saw in her much more than what a fictional Christine Daeé can ever offer. And I have yet to see Karl Matthew, his baby who will never know how fun a dad Ali could have been.

Ten months ago, when Ali took touching pictures of my father’s funeral, I had no inkling that he would follow suit. Ten months ago, too, his mom told me how happy Ali had been when he got his new car. “He was like a boy,” she said. And in many ways, that’s how I, his high school classmate and friend, would remember him, like a boy with a happy heart and a big nose.

Life has a way of playing jokes on us. Or should I say, ‘improvising’ at the last minute. The joker sometimes leaves earlier, making the hall silent, desolate. The jests, the antics, the fun, however, would never ever die. They will linger as long as we need them.

Goodbye, Ali. It had been one hell of a ride.

sleep over

2011-06-30T06:39:00.002+08:00

The day was arid and the breeze balmy at the park. People were mostly lazing around on the lawn; the men shirtless and the women in their bikinis. Some half-naked children were cavorting in the fountain. My friend and I were slumped on a picnic mat, finishing leftover wine and potato chips. From a distance, we could see a very young couple petting and necking on a bench, both of them seemed like they hadn’t grown body hair in the right places yet.

“That’s the reason why I’m quite apprehensive about raising kids here, if ever I would have kids” she quipped. And then we guessed how old exactly they could be. Nine? Eleven? Definitely not more than twelve.

A few feet from us, a slew of sick-looking pigeons were feasting on Buddha-knows-what. They’re also having a picnic, my friend said with a faint smile. On normal days, she regards the creatures with disgust and calls them ‘flying rats.’

Life seemed less harrowing that afternoon, especially under the shade of a flimsily foliaged tree, which barely shaded us from the evening sun (for the sun sets around 10 p.m. here). Homesickness, apprehensions, and other afflictions were momentarily dissolved in the boiling air as we discussed life, politics, intolerance, plans, and other people’s lives.

By and by, her boyfriend arrived and we started playing UNO cards. When a guy from another group of picnickers signified his intention, quite absurdly, to join our game, he—my friend’s boyfriend—told him it was our last game and we were about to leave. And we did, slowly, for such sun-drenched nights discouraged haste. The plan was to have dinner at their apartment and then continue playing cards, or just hang out.

At the apartment, another bottle of wine was opened and we feasted on bread, stinky (but great-tasting) cheese, and ready-made pasta. After some sumptuous dessert bought from a local boulangerie, we had three or four games of bingo chess (which they called Puissance 4). Each time, he won. I made a mental note of his strategy. Next time—maybe, just maybe—I would defeat him.

Several games of UNO came after that. They both made fun of my colorblindness. Fortunately for me, the cards’ colors were pretty solid and unmistakable in my eyes.

“Or maybe he can’t read numbers, too!” he later commented when, in between laughs, I made a mistake with the numbers. If they could see my grades in Math when I was in school, they would probably be convinced that number-blindness, indeed, exists.

I was luckier with UNO this time. I won several games. And even if we were just three, we still managed to gang up on each other.

“It’s two Asians against a European,” she said. Later on, he retaliated: “This time, it’s two boys against one girl!”

When we got tired of UNO, we started playing Carcassone, a tile-based German board game named after a medieval French town. It involved building a terrain with castles, bridges, prairies, and abbeys, and then stationing followers—vassals, more like it—on them. They both tried to explain the game to me as we played.

“Can I kill your followers?” I asked.
“No, you can’t do that.”
“Can I raise an army to invade your castle?”
“Nope.”
“What if I wanted to?”
“Nothing of that sort. Your violent tendencies are showing!”

Since I was a neophyte, they were both kind to me and helped me build my fortified castles. By the time the game was done, I had the most extensive castles on the terrain, which of course, meant more points.

It was already midnight when we decided to stop. Since it was raining that night, he suggested that I spend the night there. Fearing that I would no longer get a bus ride home, I agreed.
He inflated an air bed, lent me some comfortable clothes, wedged earplugs into his ears, and then went to bed. She, on the other hand, decided to watch TV first. So I decided to stay up with her. We ended up just talking about scandals, gossip, pretentions, fathers, more gossip, table manners, life, and her school application. And then the night deepened. The balmy breeze gave way to a cool gentle wind. The aridness of the day had finally ended. Even in the absence of the stubborn sun, there was still no haste to go to rest.

But when I finally decided to sleep, I tormented their earplugged dreams with my divine snoring.

train

2011-06-22T08:16:00.003+08:00

After an exhilarating jog in the woods, I head to the train station to begin the anti-climactic trek back home. With endorphin-enhanced senses, I notice everything around me down to the minutest details.

On the platform, an overexcited (drunk?) guy sings to himself. He stands up and saunters toward the vendo machine and dances in front of it, his plaid boxers peeping from his low-rise jeans. A woman looks at him and frowns.

A few minutes after, the train arrives. I sit beside a girl who is curling her eyelashes. One sudden jerk of the train and she would end up accidently pulling out her lashes.

A couple is making out in the middle. The guy suddenly stops and playfully brushes the girl’s hair off her face. It gets in the way, he seems to say. The girl slaps him lightly on the cheek. More tongue action after that.

Girl beside me is now applying eyeshadow.

An old woman with gray hair and long, black skirt gives a speech in rapid French at the far end of the train. She’s too far for me to understand what she is saying. All I know is that she’s asking for some spare change. She quickly walks down the center aisle without pausing to see if anyone would actually give her anything.

An adolescent boy in a Justin Bieber hairdo comes in with his two friends. Since he is curly-haired, he only manages to look like Tina Turner.

The girl beside me finishes her makeover session with blush-on.

The train stops.

A teenage girl gets up and stands by the door. She lightly gyrates to the music on her iPod. Despite her bulging love handles, her hip movement is actually sexy. She’s the second dancing passenger I’ve seen in the span of ten minutes. It must be something in the air.

The train stops. The doors open. I get off, realizing that the commute back home is not really as anti-climactic as I’ve thought.

black bridal car

2011-06-18T19:04:00.005+08:00

It all started with a black bridal car festooned with flowers and cheesy crepe paper.

“Lucky for them, they found each other,” the fortyish woman sitting beside me at the bus station suddenly blurted out as the black car sped past us. I gave her a polite smile and went back to reading my book.

“Oh yes, it’s good for them. Me, I’ve been alone for years now,” she continued. “And I’m telling you, it’s hard, it’s really hard. I decided to call it quits with my boyfriend years ago because he had been coming home late from bars. I couldn’t help but think that he was cheating on me. I mean, who would come home at six in the morning from a bar? Did he think that I didn’t know that he hooked up with some girl there?”

“Yes, perhaps he was cheating on you,” I curtly commented and started reading my book again.

“Exactly! And what if he brought home AIDS with him? That would have been terrible. So I decided to end it. The relationship wouldn’t have amounted to anything anyway.”

“Good choice,” I simply said as I uncomfortably leafed through the pages of my book.

“You’ll never know what you’re going to get these days. I’d rather be safe than sorry,” she said, more to herself than to me. She went on to ruminate about relationships at this time and age, and how people should always be on guard.

By this time, I had already closed my book; the woman had all my attention now. I noticed that she was not so much into conversation as into prolonged monologues. During the rare moments that her pale blue eyes met mine, she sought confirmation and affirmation, not active dialog.

She was wearing an oversized white shirt with some colorful print in front. He baggy pants seemed haphazardly chosen and worn in haste. She had with her an empty shopping bag.

“And you know what else he did?” she continued while we both boarded the bus that had just arrived. “One night, he went out with my mother and they came back home after midnight. And then, that same night, he slowly crept out of bed and went to my mother’s room and locked the door behind him. What was I supposed to think?”

“How old exactly is your mom at that time?”

“Sixty,” she quipped. “But love knows no age.”

I asked her if she had talked to her mom about it. She said the sexagenarian replied that she was merely trying to live her own life. I have to agree. Everyone has the right to be happy. But sleeping with your daughter’s boyfriend might be going overboard.

“That’s why I decided to end everything. It’s no use staying with a guy like that, even if he was a prince.”

“A prince?”

Apparently, the guy was the distant cousin of the ruling monarch of Monaco. This was getting stranger by the minute. It was more than I expected from a normal morning bus ride.

Fortunately, before the conversation took more unexpectedly surreal twists, she said she had to get off at the next bus station.

“It was really nice talking to you,” she said. She gave me her name and her mobile number, which I wrote at the end page of my book. “Maybe we can meet up again to chat.”

I gave her an ambiguous smile. The bus pulled over by the station. And I watched her walk away. I slowly opened my book again, hoping not to see another black bridal car.

poetry

2011-06-16T05:58:00.006+08:00

Returning to an old addiction after three years of hiatus can be exhilarating, to say the least. Like a freshly detoxified drug junkie going back to sniffing cocaine, or like the president of Alcoholics Anonymous, who, after having shunned the liquid for a decade, suddenly finds comfort in quaffing glasses of brandy again, I am back to my old habit.

My addiction.

My elixir.

My home.

There is much to be said. But to start in the beginning is to go against the tide. I won’t go back. Let it all ebb in. I’ve tasted pain in the past year. And it left an agonizing aftertaste. I won’t dare stride back there again, especially nine months ago, when, bursting into a posh hospital room, I saw hordes of doctors and nurses still trying to revive my dead father. And then, two months after that, my aunt, my father’s only sibling, passed away, too. I had barely stashed away my mourning clothes when I found myself wearing them again.

Whatever haze these events have left hovering above me is still there. But life, as it is wont to do, will not stop and shed a tear for anyone. It prods on. And I, too, found myself prodding on. Laboring.

Walking in the dense woods the other day, amid heavy foliage nourished by the first few rays of the summer sun, I felt so alive. Thankful to be so, actually. I knew it wouldn’t last long so I had to cherish it. Be grateful for the air you breathe, my father used to say. There is poetry in everything. There is beauty wedged somewhere between the cracks of dusty cobblestones.

Last Sunday, for instance, I saw a fiftyish man dance with a backhoe to the lyricism of La Callas’s arias within the courtyard of a renaissance palace. The night sky was still bright with a sun that was so reluctant to set. And it was drizzling lightly. Gathered around in our umbrellas and plastic ponchos, we witnessed how the giant, normally uncouth backhoe seemed to have developed its own emotions as it interacted gracefully with the human dancer. That was sheer poetry.

There is poetry in my life, somewhere. And that is what I intend to bring out yet again. Three years of silence has not exactly dried up my inkwell. No amount of detoxification or rehabilitation will keep me away from my addiction. Would that nothing make me kick the habit again.

My name is Slim Whale. And I am a blogger.

eavesdropping

2008-09-18T19:52:00.003+08:00

I am in the front seat, beside the driver of a passenger jeep. To my left sits the driver's friend holding fliers of luxury condominiums. He eats peanuts from a tiny paper bag while admiring his acne scars in the side view mirror.

“Pare, don't you know that peanut is food for the brain?” he bellows in Tagalog to the driver. Without looking at him, the driver replies, “But you don't have a brain!”

The jeep turns right and a famous beer factory comes in full view. Cases of beer are being loaded into huge trucks parked within its premises. Acne Scar guy, again, shouts to the driver:
“Pare, look at those trucks! They're brimming with beer! Anak ng puta (Son of a whore), I'd love to have just one of those!”
“Oh, you're such a bore when you're drunk. You're always catatonic,” the driver says, making his best impression of Acne Scar guy's catatonic state. “I'm better than you when I'm drunk. I'm always happy.” Me too, I think. I mean, come on, what the heck is alcohol for if not to bring happiness to humankind? The gods created it to palliate the sufferings of the people.

I need a drink right away, I say to myself. It is obvious that Acne Scar guy also needs one. When the jeep speeds past a chain of shanties, vulcanizing shops, beauty parlors, and gas stations, he looks around and faces the driver again.
“Pare, there are always drinking sprees on this street, no?”
“We'll have ours, too, when Oktoberfest arrives. We will go to Ever,” the driver says.
“But that's not where they celebrate Oktoberfest!”
“Oh yes, stupid! It's celebrated everywhere, as long as you have beer.”

We stop at an intersection. Further ahead, the road rises up into a wide fly-over. Three girls wearing shorts approach the driver and thrust the sampaguita (fragrant Philippine flower) garlands they are selling. One of them, the eldest, who must be around fourteen years old, is wearing eyeliner and eyeshadow. The two younger girls, who are unbelievably pretty, resemble each other; sisters, no doubt. The girl with make-up smiles and holds out her empty hand without saying anything. The driver hands her some coins, payment for the garlands he has taken the other day.

“Buy this one too,” she demands.
“I've got no more dough,” the driver replies.
“You don't have to pay today. You can pay tomorrow, same arrangement.”
“No,” he is stern. He notices the youngest of the girls, who coyly holds up her flowers to him. “This girl's beautiful. Come here, pretty little thing!”
The girl approaches and automatically hands him a garland. The driver takes it and pays for it.
“Oh but take mine, too,” the girl with make-up says.
“No, I can only buy one today,” with that, the driver steps on the gas and the vehicle speeds up. I notice that the two pretty girls are barefoot as they walk away.
“Pare, those girls' mom must be very gorgeous, no?” I am relieved that Acne Scar guy hints at a desire for the mother, not for the kids.

The jeep traverses the flyover. Traffic is getting heavier. Acne Scar guy suddenly croaks out a line from some cheesy song. His voice is hoarse but loud and clear.
“You have a good singing voice, so full and rich,” the driver comments.
“Oh yes, pare! Wait till you hear me belt out 'Skylight Pigeon,'” and he shouts the first few bars of the song, as if sarcasm were a compliment. A minuscule piece of chewed peanut darts out of his mouth and lands on my right arm. I discreetly wipe it on my pants so as not to embarrass the singer. He notices it anyway. And he is not embarrassed.

I get off under a steel overpass painted in searing pink. The jeep zooms away, billows of smoke trailing behind it. I head toward the sidewalk, ruminating over the romance of public transportation in this country.

i died

2008-09-11T20:59:00.002+08:00

In a dream, I stand at the end of a long hall whose sides are lined with huge glass windows that let in the early afternoon sun. There are two rows of sewing machines. Humped over them are workers busily running cloths under their crude machines' rhythmically stabbing needles. I am wearing a dark suit without a tie and I watch them with apathy.

I see three bullets suddenly zoom from nowhere and hit me. I feel the bullets rend my clothes and lodge themselves into my flesh. They are neither hot nor painful, just icy. The speed with which this happens is almost cinematic. Like worms seeking comfort from some imagined persecution, the three bullets slowly inch their slimy bodies into my muscles. I feel every tissue tear and every ligament snap loose.

I fall on the concrete floor face first, dead. I know I am dead because my heart has stopped beating and my body has turned limp. I can feel my blood freeze inside my veins. I lay there for a while until my left forefinger starts twitching. A woman notices me, approaches me, and feels my pulse. “He's still breathing,” she shouts. There is a flurry of rustling skirts and slippers scraping against the polished floor as the workers rise from their boring task to attend to me. The scene slowly fades into darkness.

I limp out of the heavy sliding door of my deceased grandmother's ancient, crumbling house. I am supported on either side by two friends whose faces I don't recognize. They are in a mad rush to get me to the hospital. They are bawling commands left and right, urging everyone to make haste but I don't see anyone except the three of us.

I remain calm and disinterested, still not feeling the pain of the bullet wounds. We reach the garage and one of them opens the gate, which creaks at it swings. A 1940s cab pulls up. One of them says something about the car being too small for us. They bawl orders again but I don't understand them. We nevertheless get inside the car and cramp ourselves at the backseat like Jews on their way to a concentration camp. I feel tired. Just tired.

I remember seeing the road through the cab's windshield. The sun, somewhat milder now, lightly bathes the asphalted road with yellow light. It jars my vision.

And then I wake up.

let's beat street kids to death, they're not human!

2008-09-10T02:52:00.008+08:00

I was reading John Bayley to while away the time as I queued for my ticket at the train station. He was talking about his boredom as a bourgeois kid in a golf course somewhere in Littlestone, England in the 1930s. His hobby was to collect used golf balls and bury them in the sand like crocodile's eggs.

This childhood nostalgia was cut short when I heard a commotion. A few paces from where I was standing, a security guard lifted a long cane and brandished it in the air. A boy, a street kid, wearing a soiled, oversize blue shirt and a pair of blackened shorts, cowered on the ground beside him, refusing to stand up. I thought the guard merely wanted to scare him off the train station's premises because beggars weren't allowed there, but he grabbed his scrawny arm to make him stand and whacked him hard on the butt. The child pretended it didn't hurt. Not a sound came from him but the impact sent him sprawling on the floor. He covered his behind with his grimy hands.

The guard forcefully dragged him away and sent the cane whirring down again. I'm not sure which body part it hit because I turned away and looked at the violent scene again just in time to see the boy grimace in pain. Still, not a sound came from him. His face was again stern and resolute, the grimace having faded as soon as it appeared. The people who were impatiently queuing for their train tickets craned their necks to get a better look. Some women gasped. But most of them surveyed the incident with curiosity, if not with indifference.

The guard dragged the boy toward the stairs, beat him some more, this time more vigorously, and hurled him down the steps. The boy, of course, did not fall as he got hold of the railing and clung there like a cat under attack. The guard turned away and walked proudly back to the station. I heard some unintelligible cuss words from the boy and then something flew and hit the guard's nape. From afar, it just looked like an empty plastic bottle of water or something lighter. Infuriated, the guard turned and ran toward the stairs again, his stick and his truncheon ready to attack.

They exchanged curses and threats. He, no doubt, hit him again with his two weapons because I saw both his cane and his club rising and falling from behind the low concrete walls of the stairwell.

Having beaten down his enemy, the guard hurriedly went back to his post. He had the air of a soldier who had just done something patriotic for his country. Apparently, the boy wasn't ready to surrender. He ran up the stairs again and shouted in Tagalog: “You son of a whore! You can only do such things because you're a guard! You wait and see!” And he let loose more Tagalog expletives.

I got my ticket and walked with big strides toward the turnstiles. I had seen and heard more than I should. I stowed Bayley's book inside my bag, suddenly losing interest in reading about the travails of rich, English school boys.

crater

2008-09-08T03:34:00.002+08:00

I only felt solemn awe when we finally reached the summit of Mount Pinatubo. The sun had already sunk but its last rays were still emanating an eerie glow from behind the mountains, extremely faint but sufficient enough. It gave the whole place a misty but ghastly appearance, like a lurid dream you wouldn’t want to wake up from. The lake that had been formed inside the crater during its last eruption was hemmed in by rock mountains all around, creating a deep, irregularly shaped basin of still, pinkish gray waters. After drinking in the scene while the cold mountain air lashed at my cheeks, I hurriedly put out my camera and whored in front of it with Noelle, Eric, Glenna, and Allan before darkness finally sucked in the whole scenery into its underbelly.

I wasn’t so keen on joining them in this trip because I had just had my dental implant screwed into my skull. I was afraid that I might get so tired walking it would bleed, or worse, come off. However, after consulting with my implant dentist, I finally said yes at the last minute, causing Glenna to conclude that, in any trip, I always say I wouldn’t go but I push through on the eleventh hour. I’m glad I did. I have never camped yards away from the crater of an active volcano before. This was the first time.

It felt like we were hobbits on our way to Mordor to cast the ring into its fiery bowels. Around us was a vast expanse of rock and sand. Dust rose in billowing volumes. The sides of the mountain range seemed like they had been cleanly sliced off by some enormous knife, revealing the powdery filling within. In between these mountain ranges, we trekked through a wide desert-like path that, only a few years ago, was raging with lahar from the summit. I wondered if lahar could really be so powerful as to have this singular effect on something as huge as a mountain. I kept imagining chocolate encrusted marshmallows that had been cut in half, only, in this case, the chocolate was green and the marshmallow light gray.

Boulders as big as houses were strewn all around. A stream, which widened into a sprightly river and narrowed into a trickling brook at some parts, flowed along with us. A natural guide toward the crater, I suppose. Just follow the bouncing, gushing waters and you’ll get to the top. At some parts of the stream, we could see greenish brown deposits that were remnants of its volcanic origin, no doubt. It was a constant reminder that we were on our way to a volcano, not just any other mountain.

The way was fairly flat. We only climbed when we were quite near the crater; the path was a narrow strip of water-soaked boulders flanked by lush foliage. As Noelle said, it was a hike with “no assaults” at all. Despite Eric’s advice not to drink water during the climb (I forgot why exactly), I still gulped from my metal flask. I couldn’t help it. It energized me. Water was to me what lembas was to hobbits. Sorry for the constant allusion to Tolkien’s epic but that’s what I was reading at that time. Yeah, I know, it’s too late to jump into the Hobbit trilogy bandwagon.

There were still Aeta communities somewhere in the mountains for we bumped into some of them on the way. They had surveyed us with either boredom or curiosity. Here go the stupid tourists again with their cameras, they must’ve thought. There was a cave from whose aperture peered a family of Aetas. I’m not sure if they actually lived there or were just taking a respite from the beatings of the horrid sun. Allan later said that our guide pointed to a human skull half-covered by sand and said that it was an Aeta who had perished in lahar. The Aetas are short, dark-skinned indigenous people with strong white teeth and huge Afros. They were mountain dwellers and hunters until Mount Pinatubo erupted in the nineties, unleashing tons of lahar that ravaged mountains, houses, cattle, and people. They were said to have evacuated to some site which was under the care of the government. But like everything that is government-run, this settlement didn’t have anything that could sustain them so they had no choice but to go back to the mountain and start anew atop the bones of their kinsmen.

We paid for a military escort in full battle gear, something that was compulsory for all trekkers. This was obviously just a money-making scheme, according to our guide who was a native of the place. The military saw something they could possibly milk for some cash that’s why they demanded that they become part of it. I couldn’t understand what the heck they attempted to protect us from, not unless skeletons of wild animals that had resurrected from their sandy graves regularly prowled this area. Anyway, this gives you a rough idea what type of government we have in this part of the world. When the escort started getting friendly with us, chatting us up beside our tent and accepting offers of refreshments, I got really uneasy. I don’t trust men in uniform. That’s something you’ll learn if you live long enough in this country. Noelle, an erstwhile activist who had battled against riot police in many anti-government rallies, later commented that the soldier and his armalite also made her uncomfortable.

But that didn’t spoil the fun of course. Eventually, the guy went off to a tent which his ilk pitched, leaving us in peace as we serenely listened to soothing guitar music from Noelle’s ipod plugged to a tiny speaker. Tone it down, Glenna said, we might disturb the tent beside us. We did and the music became even more enchanting, a soft undercurrent eddying in and out of our hushed conversation. The air was chilly and the stars burned vigorously. Other groups had already set up camp near us. The darkness was just broken by flashlights and battery powered lamps glowing from within the tents. Eric, as usual, was in charge of cooking our food. With a black, tie-dyed sarong (a large rectangular piece of cloth) draped around me, I silently enjoyed the place. I never said this to any of my companions at that time lest I sound like some new age mystic, but I really felt at peace with myself and with nature at that moment. And to think that we were on the edge of a crater that could erupt any minute.

The next morning dawned hesitatingly. Sunlight brushed against the mountain tops at first and slowly crept down to the lake. Despite that, the water didn’t shimmer. It still appeared misty to me like watercolor washes in an impressionist painting. We went down the lake to wash our feet. The water was still icy. There were tiny bubbles in some parts which suggested that there were creatures in its depths, or vents, or, damn, was it starting to boil? For something that’s boiling, this was pretty cold. The other campers soon went down by the bank too. One foreigner took his shirt off and plunged into the lake. I wanted to do that but the water was so damn cold. And besides, we had been warned not to stay in the water for more than twenty minutes, otherwise its sulfur content or whatever substance it has, will burn our skin. Although at that time, I sort of didn’t care anymore what the elements could do to my skin. The dust and the sand had already wreaked enough havoc on our pores as our sturdy four-wheeler braved the roughness of the terrain during the first half of our trip the day before. It’s free face powder, Glenna commented.

The truck crossed shallow rivers and trenches, and braved sharp rocks, leaving a trail of disturbed lahar deposits swirling in its wake. The ride was an adventure in itself. There were times when I felt that the vehicle would topple over and send us rolling on the sand. But it never did. The tires were huge and strong, the driver experienced and determined. For a time, the drive seemed endless. We could see nothing but grayness and some greenery up on the cliffs. After about two hours (believe me, it felt more than that) we finally stopped at the foot a moss covered boulder where we met our other companions, the other group that was set to conquer the volcano’s summit, too. They were pretty organized. They formed a circle for a short briefing, to which I listened, and followed it by a prayer, about which I didn’t give a hoot.

They were fairly slow because it was a large group and some of them couldn’t walk fast so we decided to overtake them and walk ahead, thereby making us the very first group to reach the summit that day. It was exhilarating to arrive there without seeing tents that could mar the view. All I felt was awe. Solemn awe. Standing face to face with an enormous opening into the depths of the earth is not something I get to do every day, much less admire something that has caused so much anguish, pain, death, and suffering to hundreds of people. As the horizon slowly dimmed, the crater took on a somber, misty appearance, showing its most ghastly face at the last dying rays of the sun.

swollen

2007-09-27T08:45:00.000+08:00

Five days after I banged my forehead on a glass wall at the company party, I could still feel it slightly swollen. I was way too drunk to recognize who laughed at my booboo. I didn’t care, really. If it had happened to any of them, I would’ve guffawed more boisterously. All I knew was that I hit the damned glass wall too hard because when I turned, all of them were looking at me. And possibly laughing, too. I wasn’t sure. At any rate, it was a swell party that left my forehead swollen. Funny, but that’s exactly the image that flashes in my mind when I think about that party: swollen.

It started docilely like a prayer meeting as people arrived dressed in black, white, or both at the hall decorated with black and white balloons. Obviously, it’s a black and white party. But I love stating the obvious, so there. The chandeliers were deliberately not turned on. Only tiny downlights provided soft, sleepy incandescent glow to the whole place, which, at that time, seemed more like a fund-raising event in the country club of botoxed matrons. Anyone can look like a botox image model without booze. At that time, wine wasn’t overflowing yet, it was merely trickling, droplet after seductive droplet.

A chocolate fondue fountain was flowing by the entrance, which was flanked by two buffet tables laden with miso soup, sushi, sashimi, tempura, and some other Japanese mutations, blueberry cheesecake, some really tasty noodle thingie, and fish, I think, and some shit, hell, you can’t expect me to remember what the heck they served there. I puked them all out five hours later in the restroom at Starbucks, after having asked for directions from four unbelievably sober officemates at the other table, who, seeing that I was as bloated with booze as a lactating cow’s udder (wouldn’t it be nice if udders squirted tequila instead of milk?), coaxed me to speak French. The American goaded me to speak Tagalog. Freak show mode. But I digress. Where was I, oh yes, the party. At dinner, my wine glass magically filled itself up every time I emptied it. I made a mental note to remember who catered this party. If ever I would throw a party, I want my guests to do the backstroke in a pool of wine. Later on, somebody from HR passed around vodka in a funky bottle that looked like a dildo. I just gulped whatever was handed to me and continued to dance like a hippopotamus with a bad case of hernia. Did I mention I had colleagues who are part of bands that have regular gigs? There, now I did. So there, I danced, hernia and all, and I only have a vague recollection of who exactly I danced with. All I remember is that they were either in black or white. I dragged one of them up the stage where we danced some more, and yeah, there were cameras all around. I whored for the cam whenever I saw one. I borrowed a white, feathery halo from one of the organizers and wore it the whole night. Horns would’ve looked better on me but I don’t want to be a walking cliché. When everybody else was losing all their inhibitions, I decided to keep mine intact and pretended that I was holy. One wore a stuffed panda on her arm, one wore a white wig, and the big boss had a huge Afro. And I mean nest-of-a-fucking-ostrich huge! By this time, I had no idea what songs were being sung by the performers. All I knew was that I was dancing and camera-whoring. I grabbed the camera from a friend, went up the stage, and photographed the singer’s bare foot. I don’t know what else I took photos of. For a while I felt the place was bobbing up and down. That was the time when I was jumping. Or was I? Maybe everybody else was, except me. I gulped some more wine and downed the fresh glass of vodka given to me. Yup, the place was really moving. This was the swollen part of the event, I guess. From there on, it was pretty much downhill. Some people were already leaving to continue the party at some club. I caught the managers line-dancing onstage. I was too wasted to notice the other wasted people around. I hugged some coworkers goodbye and headed out to Starbucks to puke. At the coffeeshop, I was the only one who was that drunk so I shut up and dozed off as they took pictures of me, which are now plastered all over the Net. At some point, I remember having said that I would never drink wine again, ever! But of course, we say stupid, nonsensical things when we’re drunk. And that’s my standard line whenever I feel like puking. At least, I’ve learned my lesson. And I’ve learned it hard. Glass doors and alcohol don’t mix.

knots

2007-09-20T06:02:00.000+08:00

When strangers meet, they don’t normally talk about forever. The most they will do is go over the perfunctory hellos and how-do-you-dos with as much emotion as ritualized introductions allow. They don’t have an inkling that, later on, they will stain the sheets with sweat, saliva, and other fluids of passion, and by the time it happens, they will have tied more knots than they could ever hope to untie in one lifetime.

guava tree

2007-09-04T07:20:00.000+08:00

You won’t find me sitting on a tree branch and drinking in the breeze, soft against my skin. Those days are long past. Too far removed from what I have become. Like the last time I climbed down the guava tree in our backyard, never to climb it up again, not so much because I outgrew the tree as because the tree grew weary of my presence. You know too much for your own good, it said. Innocence is the prerequisite of childhood fantasy. And I was losing that, inch by inch. Was it not the point of education? To erode innocence and replace it with doubt? Or did I equate innocence with ignorance and antagonized the two?

To put me to sleep, my grandmother used to sing an ancient folk tune that spoke of a huge moon and a woman yearning for her lover, while I thought about my playmates who were out in the sun, playing backyard football. My grandmother noticed that I wasn’t in the mood for a siesta. With a slap on my behind, she sent me off, murmuring some cusswords which I had yet to learn and enunciate properly. I felt guilty then. I wasted her time and her saliva. It was not easy to sing songs like that. And it was easy to feel guilty back then, when days were long and afternoons lazed around shamelessly.

It was so much fun to be a kid again and be capable of just one emotion at a time. Cry when you’re pissed. Jump when you’re happy. Hit the idiot next door when you’re mad. But everything is ambiguous now. Nothing is classifiable. No definitive answer to anything. Which is what I have always wanted, really. When my diffidence as a child was replaced by assertiveness as an adult, something slipped away so stealthily I hardly noticed it. Or had it been there in the first place? Much of the boy still lingered within, perhaps nursed by my artistic proclivities. It only came out when I felt like climbing the guava tree again, which had long been cut. On its site yawns an ugly hole on the ground which should have been the foundation of a new house my family wanted to construct there.

If I were a poet, I would’ve waxed poetic about all these and romanticized even the guavas that dangled in that tree. But I am not. And there is not much to sugar coat anyway. Childhood memories are intrinsically sweet, until reality grows like an incurable pimple and nothing is the same again. Beliefs get flushed down the toilet, emotions become more complex, songs no longer speak about a huge moon and a yearning woman but of an evil sun that whips the ground until it breaks and gushes forth black mud, thick and ugly like a child’s rhyme swelling epical with a convoluted plot and twisted characters, each desiring to bring down the other in a mad rush to get to the top and to feel some semblance of an emotion, like that feeling that one gets while one sits on a tree branch, feet dangling, face upturned—drinking the breeze that is soft against one’s young skin. But that tree exists only in one's memory.

music and rust

2007-08-23T19:28:00.000+08:00

“At least you made it sound like music,” I commented. My friend smiled. The French horn swelled like pus, and then receded, sucking back in every note as if it were a shy child. Only the piano accompanied the soprano onstage.

“The pianist's rhythm is wrong. That's not how I wrote it,” my friend said. He had arranged all the songs for this book and made them sound like they weren't disjointed Lego blocks. When he was commissioned to do this, all he had received were crudely transcribed melodies. He fixed the harmony, added accompaniment, and straightened up the rhythms. The final products sounded elegantly polished. There were parts for flute, piano, French horn, and a choir. He was not allowed to touch the words though, which grated against the glistening music. It was like having rust in your milk.

“Pretty didactic, no?” my friend murmured. His talent, apparently, goes beyond music, he can also make the most understated understatements. “I'm thinking of writing new lyrics for one of the melodies,” he added. He could probably present it to the 86-year-old composer/lyricist who, after having met him for the first time that afternoon (they had only communicated through email prior to that event), said that she would have more work for him. She has more songs that need to be arranged. She needs all the help she could get, no doubt about that.

After the event, the audience flowed out of the small auditorium toward the lobby where cocktails were served. I spotted some high profile personages in the academe and literature. The old composer/lyricist was herself a distinguished person when she was younger.

At the lobby, high-heeled matrons swarmed around us. Introductions were made and congratulations were thrown in. My friend meekly smiled as professors and school officials commended him for a job well done, vainly suppressing their astonishment at how young he is. “Are you still a student?” one of them asked. “No, ma'am,” my friend simply said. The lobby sagged with the weight of excited chitchat. Waiters scurried in and out, serving drinks and some finger foods. My friend was dragged back into the auditorium to be introduced to the composer/lyricist. The choir and the musicians beamed with every flattering phrase they received. Some stray camera flashbulbs punctuated the crowd like sequins of a fully-beaded ball gown. Guests started queuing by the buffet table as manufactured laughter ricocheted against the ceiling. I took some food and melted into the wall.

the blender within

2007-08-16T20:53:00.000+08:00

When words come out bland, I let my mind wander in some hard to reach corner of my being, hoping that it would find some gleaming phrases there. All it finds, however, are pieces of scrap metal strewn on the musty floor, rusting away but refusing to be thrown into the garbage bin. Some memories can be adamant like leeches. Or are they indeed memories? Or mere wads of thoughts that got stuck there after I have put off a major cleanup again for the umpteenth time? Cleaning up is a nasty business. How can I defragment a soul that frowns upon categorization? Everything is so mixed up in there I'm starting to think it has some sort of blender that eternally grinds down everything—memories, thoughts, ideas, emotions—to a mush, unrecognizable in its gooey viscosity. Now if you could find some words in that mess, lucky you. I can't. My mind should wander elsewhere.

the eyes of a father

2007-08-15T00:45:00.000+08:00

It was like the old times. My high school friend and I chatted animatedly about politics and business. Our conversation swung from being highly contemplative to mildly perky. He related his experiences when he supervised the construction of mobile phone towers in war-torn Mindanao (Southern Philippines), how the rebels in the boondocks demanded that his team of civil engineers pay revolutionary taxes to be allowed to continue their construction; how they were forced to hire gun-wielding rebels as workers; and how one of them actually discovered a murdered man on the site. There was even one instance when one of his colleagues, also an engineer who spoke Bisaya (local dialect widely spoken in Mindanao), overheard two armed boys talking:

“Can you shoot the guy working on top of that tower?”

“And what would I get if I did that?”

“I'll give you a pack of cigarettes”

The engineer, horrified at what he had heard, spoke to them in their own dialect and offered them one pack of Marlboro each in exchange for his colleague's life. The boys, fortunately, readily agreed and left.

I said he was lucky he didn't perish there. He had tried to blend in, he said. He had worn shorts and faded shirts at work so as not to attract undue attention to himself. That was just a minor inconvenience he had endured so that he could return in one piece to his wife and hyper-active little daughter in Manila.

We proceeded to speak about the economy, corruption in government (sorry for being redundant), businesses we could put up, and the unimplemented law that requires the demolition of buildings older than thirty years. He spoke in a quiet voice, still with his familiar lisp. He was more articulate than he had ever been. Despite his lack of sleep, his mind was still clear. Such conversations are best accompanied by clinks of beer bottles and punctuated by crisp laughter. This time, however, I was merely gulping water from a transparent plastic cup and he sipping coffee, our smiles were dry and somber for we were seated in front of the tiny coffin of his four-month old son. Wreaths of flowers, two mass cards, and an inflated Dalmatian dog swamped the white, gold-trimmed coffin, making it look grotesquely puny in their midst.

“Look at his eyes,” he said, pointing to a large picture of the boy on top of the coffin. “Those are the only parts of his body that weren't punctured by tubes at the hospital.” The boy's eyes stared back at us in all their innocence. They were big and bright but they didn't sparkle with dreams yet. They never had the chance to.

This was the only time I sort of missed my friend's corny jokes, for which he had been infamous way back in high school. We used to pull our collars up to our foreheads to conceal our faces, in mock shame over his horribly corny retorts. We even coined the adjective “belty” in his honor. This was in reference to the Circum Pacific Belt, the string of underwater trenches and volcanoes in Asia, which we were studying in geography class at that time. He undoubtedly oozed with the corniest lava there was.

“The doctors told us that 85 percent of those who have this condition survive. My son was part of the 15 percent who didn't. He put up a good fight, though. I knew he did.” He stared blankly at the coffin, a faint, sad smile twisted on his lips. I didn't really want to speak about his boy as I knew that he had told the story to every visitor at the wake ten million times already. It's hard enough to go through the experience once, it's horrible to relive it repeatedly in a narrative. But he didn't stop talking so I silently listened, my eyes involuntarily drawn to the ribbons pinned on the coffin's lid. There is consolation in giving shape to grief through words.

“We did some research on the net regarding his condition,” he continued. “In a way, we were prepared for whatever would happen. I'm not sure if our own research scared us more or prepared us further. All we knew was that we didn't want to give up. We won't just sit around and watch him slip away like that.”

He was unusually calm and composed, enunciating every word with clarity. Would that I have the same fortitude to face sorrow. It wasn't helpless resignation that I saw in his eyes. It was brave acceptance. The kind that one sees in the eyes of a soldier who knows he is about to die and yet pushes on, valiantly. A lost cause is only arrived at by cowards.

“At least my son won't experience how grim this world is.” After having spoken about the government, brain drain, and unemployment, we both agreed that the boy had died blissfully unaware of how ugly the world is. But he would also be regrettably incognizant of how his father stood by his side every single step of his painfully short life; how he clasped his tiny hands and whispered prayers into his ears; how he marveled at his (the boy's) bright eyes in those rare moments when he actually opened them at the hospital.

I was wrong. This was not like the old times. This was something else.

and then it comes thundering down

2007-08-09T02:17:00.000+08:00

The rainy season in Manila is both harsh and silky. With the first rumor of rain, decaying buildings leer and shanties yawn upwards to welcome the free shower. Tricycle tires unabashedly displace puddles of mud, splashing them against the Benzes and BMWs of the affluent or the pretentious.

Cusswords are exchanged on the street like pleasantries as holes the size of moon craters magically appear on asphalted roads, further screwing up the already screwed up traffic and inducing armpit sweat despite the cold weather. Half-naked boys with their soapy rags clamber up cars and frantically wipe their windshields until they become dirtier than they have originally been, and then they ask for some loose change.

Children cavort in the streets as only children can, dancing, shrieking, calling each other names in a language that is a cross between cherubic parlance and thuggish slang. It is like a pagan celebration, a paean to the rain god for relieving his bladder onto the parched earth.

The rain has its own language, too. It murmurs sweet drizzles that tickle galvanized roofs held in place only by huge rocks, pieces of hollow blocks, and spare tires. When its fickleness reaches its peak, it thunders and pounds and stomps with a deluge of malicious words that pour down and rid the gutters of cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and used condoms. It does not relent. Like a matron in the throes of menopausal lunacy, it charges on and on, lashing at everything on its way until what's left are tiny, crystal droplets on fresh leaves that trickle down if you so much as breathe on them. Clear water streaming down the gutter like a virgin brook. Fresh, pristine puddles that hold the luminous sky on their greasy surfaces. And crinkled, mucus-filled noses that release their wards in passionate and intense sneezes.

Ah yes, tomorrow will be another rainy day.

dead face

2007-08-05T05:35:00.000+08:00

I’ve been tossing and turning in bed and it’s already half past fucking four. Sunday mornings ought to be hazy and glittery as the hangover of the previous night starts to kick in. But no, I’m here, in my room, totally sober, trying to figure out ways on how I could doze off after counting three thousand, eight hundred sixty-four and a half sheep. I tried reading Harper Lee’s Pulitzer award winning novel but the letters just swam on the page like a bowl of dyslexic alphabet soup. So I got up to stare at my face in the mirror. I got scared with what I saw. Except for my shifty eyes under my bushy unibrow, I looked dead. This is how I would probably look inside my coffin—parched lips, dry skin, and glassy eyes (assuming that the mortician forgot to forcefully close my eyelids). I tried making faces but they all seemed as dull and lifeless as Jennifer Lopez’s acting. Now that’s really bad. Maybe I can become a Hollywood actor and contribute to the betterment of the human race by starring in B movies with plots only morons would applaud. That’s a good thought. But it doesn’t fare better than counting stupid sheep. Maybe I should try banging my head against the wall. But where’s the fun in that? If it were, say, my neighbor’s head, I would relish the experience, maybe even consider it divine. Or am I just envious of my cocaine-sniffing neighbor who is snoring his innards out while I’m still wide-awake, my face getting puffier every minute and looking more like a drug junkie than he ever could? And is the sky brightening up now or is it the hallucinatory effect of lack of sleep? I have to get back to bed. Now.

can the dawn be this bland?

2007-07-27T02:34:00.000+08:00

The jeep sped through so fast the trees lining the highway melted into one long greenish blur. The horizon was bleeding purple streaks. Several kilometers down, Manila was still twinkling with specs of white light against a background of black mud. The smog hovering above it made the city seem less carnal. Everything tends to look so calm from this vantage point. Even a lynch mob would look like a quiet throng of termites going about their normal routine when viewed from above. No excitement whatsoever. No passion. No histrionics. No drama.

The skies were slowly blushing pinks and purples as the sun agonizingly tore its way up, ever so slowly. Carbon monoxide perfumed the cool air with mystery and hate. The houses along the highway slip by like insignificant weeks. Weeks that are littered by unrealized dreams and shelved projects that eventually decay in my closet, weakly wagging their tails for attention. I have long stopped keeping track of events because it keeps me boxed. The memories of which keep on sauntering back like they wanted to hang out with me.

I cannot say that I am dejected nor can I claim that I am ecstatic, like this delicious dawn. This feeling doesn't even come close to ennui. Such ambivalence can eat up the soul. It is infinitely better to feel some strong emotion, any emotion, and wallow in it than feel the silence of undecided thoughts. The soothing calmness that comes before a tidal wave can be unnerving. It kills more ferociously than the wave ever could. I do have some minor distractions, pinches of excitement, and slight surprises. But as a whole, the days just breeze by and I float with them, disemboweled, an ordinary tree lining the highway, smugly content in melting away into a greenish blur against a horizon that has just spit out a young, clueless sun.

scales and arpeggios

2007-07-24T05:31:00.000+08:00

I had my first piano lesson last Sunday. And I never thought it would be that stressful. It was not because of the teacher. No, she wasn't Helga the Barbarian with thick-rimmed glasses, stiffly coiffed hair, ill-fitting dentures, and a long-sleeved blouse with ruffles on the cuffs. And she didn't have a stick to whack my fingers with. She was just wearing a tight-fitting shirt and an extremely short pair of shorts. Appropriately so. It was a blazing late afternoon. Dust particles lay suspended in the rays of the sun dilating through her apartment windows. None of these rays reached the bench upon which I was sitting. The upright grand was tucked in a tiny air-conditioned cubicle below the stairs. Inside that box, I labored hard to get those damn arpeggios right. And that was the source of all my stress.

My main problem was incorrect fingering, which she identified right away. She told me to work on legato passages and be sensitive to the emotion in a musical phrase. Every phrase, like in spoken language, starts with an uphill surge which climaxes into a passionate summit and then goes downhill again, which she called the “decay.” Now that's something I could really use.

Years ago, there was a piano teacher who came to our house to teach my nephews. I asked her if she could give me lessons, too. She willingly agreed but she wanted to hear me play first. So I sat and played Beethoven for her. After nervously listening to me, she said she couldn't possibly teach me because I played “too well” for her. She recommended another piano teacher, “the maestro”she called him, who could handle advanced students. Of course I never got to meet this maestro and my nephews never got to learn how to play.

Last Sunday was the first time I actually sat up for a lesson. It was comforting to know that my teacher knows what she's talking about. I had watched her play with an orchestra during her graduation recital. Her execution is clean, her notes distinct. I said to myself that if ever I would formally study the instrument, it would have to be under her. Her eyes lit up as she spoke about the pieces she would give me. She tossed some names: Bach, Mozart, Espino, Mendelssohn, and perhaps Chopin. She was already contemplating on making me play a full Haydn sonata. Just thinking about it overwhelms me. That afternoon, she made me play something from Hanon's Exercises for the Virtouso Pianist. She skipped the first 49 pieces and asked me to go straight to Exercise Number 50. This book only has sixty progressively difficult technical exercises. My poor fingers got confused with the alternating thirds, but I think I managed to pull it off. And then came the annoying scales. It was so confusing I felt like I was playing the piano for the first time. I can't believe I had studied complicated pieces on my own before and I can't even finger the scales right. She was patient enough to guide me through it, sometimes touching my hand, her rough palm grazing against the back of my hand; sometimes humming the melody which I needed to distinctly pluck out of the clutter of the arpeggio lines. If the room weren't heavily air conditioned, my armpits would've sweated a river. She asked me to study Daquin's Le Coucou as my homework. You have to follow the correct fingering, she said, otherwise you won't be able to play it well. We would also have some advanced Czerny exercises and more scales next time.

I excitedly went home that night and practiced until midnight, the prospect of playing a Haydn sonata titillating my ego.

sometimes i become a god

2007-07-20T04:42:00.000+08:00

I need alcohol.

When my brain throbs with pain, I know at once that my dendrites are supplicating to the gods for wine. The lambanog (native conconut wine) cocktail a colleague prepared last Friday finished off a long workweek with a bang. By the time the concoction ran out, fireworks were already shooting in my head and my bladder was discharging yellowish excesses by the bucket. I need that. Yet again. Especially now that my head pulsates like an sex organ yearning for fornication without a condom.

I'm not alcoholic. Far from it. Prior to the binge last Friday, I hadn't had anything to drink for a long time. I just love the sensation of getting drunk. Not crawling, bring-out-the-leather-whip-and-handcuffs drunk. Just moderately drunk. I'd like to keep things in moderation. Anything in excess deadens the mind. And mine has died a couple of times before. There's no need for repeated agonies. I'm compassionate like that. I let the worms I saw in my avocado yesterday inch away like free citizens, ready to infest another fruit or some leftover pizza in the garbage bin. I dared not kill them even though they decided to make their presence felt at the most opportune time, after I had already finished half of the damn fruit. It is their nature to burrow their slimy bodies into fruits and cause screams from the squeamish. What right have I to end their existence just because my mind has been conditioned to regard them as hideously revolting? Only gods can be that cruel. And I am no god. Not yet, anyway. I am a mere mortal whose brain longs for the promise of vodka.

Priests are so lucky they get to drink on the job and nobody gives a hoot about it. I haven't seen a Catholic priest in a mass for quite some time. A friend once lamented that she hadn't gone to church for a month. I said I haven't sat through a church service for over eleven years now. She, and the rest of my friends, laughed. They probably thought I was kidding. And I cannot blame them. In this country, to go against the grain is to get ostracized. Freak. Weird. Demonic. Heretic. I've been called several names before. None of them stuck. My complex spirit cannot be pigeonholed, nor can it be dampened by comments floating from the wastelands of parochialism. It can only be drenched by tequila until its filmy clothes cling onto its body like leeches. Imagine my bliss when I went to Europe and found out that everyone else, including those with stinky armpits, thought like I did! And they regularly had wine for dinner. Even the school canteen I usually ate at served Beaujolais, albeit not the best kind. I bet that's how heaven will be like, wine gushing forth from streams while naked people cavort in wild abandon by its banks. The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, of which I am an official member, describes heaven as having a huge beer volcano and a stripper factory. No wonder cherubims have paunches and archangels have dreamy eyes. But I don't dig beer that much. I was told wine doesn't give you a paunch. That's why I'm all for it. It merely chips off shame and drowns out logical thoughts until you're ready to take your pen and write sacred texts. But I go way beyond that when I am drunk. I become god incarnate, magnanimous and vengeful, silently surveying the mortals as they busy themselves in their inconsequential lives, mildly disturbed that they don't care being watched at all even as they go through the dull rituals of foreplay, each thinking of cheating on the other until their hearts beat in rhythm with the throbbing of their brains, their dendrites supplicating to me for just a drop of wine, which I willingly dispense like piss toward a yawning urinal. And then I'm left alone, with my own throbbing temples and supplicating dendrites, still in front of my computer wasting valuable time writing this stupid post.

I need alcohol.

cow dung, human feces, dog shit

2007-07-13T15:15:00.000+08:00

I sink deep into the couch, its faux leather notwithstanding. I instantly become drowsy. I only slept two hours this morning, half of which was spent chasing hopping clocks on stilts in a surreal dream. I’m not sure if I still have the strength to masticate the ham sandwich I have just ordered. I don’t eat pork and they don’t have salad. A ham sandwich with bits of wilting lettuce is the best compromise, which, by the way, is something that I seem to be doing more often as I grow old—compromising, not eating ham sandwiches. It’s a siphon that sucks out one’s essence until one becomes ordinarily bland and inane like a soap opera.

I bury my body deeper into the comforts of the black, cheap leather, which faintly smells of dried sweat and fossilized conversations over coffee. You suggest I formally take piano lessons. I’ve long been thinking of that. My brother issued post dated checks for that when I was a kid. I rejected them all, partly because of my arrogance (I studied solfège on my own at the age of 13 and played the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata at 15), partly because the damn checks couldn’t even cover half of the tuition. You suggest I contact your friend who is taking her master’s degree in Piano. I might just give it a try, like all the other things I have tried without actually knowing the grimy consequences. I need more of that, stuff that don’t give me a clear vision of what lies ahead. Risks can submerge my head into a well full of liquefied cow dung, human feces, and dog shit. Alluring. Sensuous. Nauseating. And in the process, I come out refreshed. The mind discards rust when challenged with something hideous and banal.

My teeth, braces and all, hurt at every bite of the sandwich. I should’ve settled for just a glass of iced tea, but even that cannot irrigate my arid throat. How come we’ve never visited this coffee shop before, I ask. You mention that you have just found out about it. This place is so shabby yet comfy, I comment. The paint peels off from the walls lined with tacky mirrors like it were some disproportionate motel room. The overhead speakers blare cheap music from a popular FM station with a crass DJ. The ordinariness of it all magnetizes me. I know I have hated the ordinary all my life, because I thought I wasn’t ordinary until I saw that I had the same appendages as everyone else and my spinal column does not support wings. Everyone is entitled to delusions of grandeur at least once in their lives. And vegetarians should also eat ham sandwiches when coffeeshops have run out of salads. I like this place, you say. You say something else but my mind drifts slowly into a filmy world of floating carcasses. I hear nothing but the last few discordant chords of the piped-in music.

the night my balls shot out of my mouth

2007-07-10T03:48:00.000+08:00

If I hadn't stayed up all night to watch four episodes of Rome and three of Heroes, we wouldn't be speeding along the highway like crazy, my father getting irritated as I egged him on to drive faster so I'd get to the office without another tardiness record. His normal driving speed is slightly faster than a hearse at a funeral procession. This was way above his personal speed limit.

I did want to sleep early last night. But the damn DVD player kept on playing and I couldn't stop it. I was helpless. Worthless piece of crap. Sleep, at that time, wouldn't have been restful anyway as my mind was swelling with thoughts of superhero exploits, wily political maneuverings of would-be Roman emperors, and bloody campaigns of ambitious generals. My sleep would be haunted by blood anyway. I might as well let the damn player do its thing and continue watching. I didn't want another nightmare like the one I had last Saturday morning, in which, I found myself in a crumbling church at midday. The priest was standing by the altar, motionless. A handful of people were also standing in between the pews, when, suddenly, the light of the sun was blotted out, completely plunging the ancient place into darkness. I instinctively ducked to take cover, I'm not sure from what exactly. When the light came back, I instructed the sacristan to check on the nails of the rickety, wooden stairs of the choir loft. The devil was there, I said. It had loosened one of the nails while the light was out, to weaken the foundations of this church (it doesn't make sense, I know, but dreams won't be dreams if they weren't absurd).

So the sacristan made his way toward the choir loft. But before he could even go near the wooden structure, a huge, black arm rose out of the pews and held him by the face. Its hand was so big it almost covered half his face. Seeing that he had been blocked thus, I hesitatingly advanced, my balls jiggling up my mouth, to check the stairs myself. To my great horror (by this time, my balls shot out of my mouth to hide somewhere else), I saw a fifteen-foot woman ducking in between two pews. Her long Sadako-inspired hair was covering her face and her massive arms were resting on the pews. For a complete minute, my heart stopped beating, undecided as to what exactly I should do, stay there and await my doom or run from this oversize woman who was having a bad hair day.
I woke up right after that. I stared at the ceiling, scared and breathless, wondering where the hell my balls went. As if on cue, my mobile phone rang. I almost smashed the freaking thing with my fist. God, I was so scared my intestines almost squeezed out of my rectum like that of a cat's after having been run over by a fire truck.

It was Michelle trying to wake me up for our lunch at Velasquez Park in Makati City. Lu, who is on summer break from her studies in Paris, would be there, and so would the rest of the gang. I scratched my balls to see if they were still in place, took off my clothes, and hit the shower, hoping I won't see a 20-foot transvestite wielding a knife there.

allow me to undress you

2007-07-07T00:53:00.000+08:00

I won first place in the French poetry writing contest of the Alliance Française de Manille last summer. It was in celebration of the Printemps des Poetes (Spring of Poets), an annual international event held in French-speaking countries around world. I don't know exactly why they brought the event here when we're clearly not a francophone country. The only French thing that is popular among the masses here is the French fries. And it's not even French. It's merely an American abomination.

In a simple but elegant event at the lobby of Alliance Française in Makati, I read my poem in front of foreign dignitaries in their designer coats and ties, artists in their faded jeans and shirts, and writers/university professors in their boring plaid shirts and slacks. And of course, my supportive friends were there, too: Michelle, Dax, Dionne, Joven, Jera, Bianco, Oliver, and Riva (thanks so much for coming, I hope you enjoyed the wine). Two long buffet tables held food prepared by the embassies of France, Egypt, Switzerland, Czech Republic, and Cambodia. Wine was overflowing at the bar and the air was thick with snatches of conversation in various languages.

Among those who read their poems were Gérard Chesnel, the French Ambassador to the Philippines; Virgilio S. Almario, National Artist for Literature; Gilles Vigneault, Secretary for Immigration at the Canadian Embassy; Geminio H. Abad, professor emeritus and fictionist at the University of the Philippines; Cesare A.X. Syjuco, multi-awarded multimedia artist; Alfred 'Krip' Yuson, writer and Palanca hall of fame awardee; Virginia R. Morena, playwright; Jaroslav Ludva, Czech Ambassador; Vim Nadera, UP professor and renowned performance poet; and Adrian Cristobal, a distinguished writer.

The program was opened by a kundiman (lyric Filipino love song sung in the classical style) duet by two opera singers. The woman, dressed in a splendid sequined Filipino gown, slowly descended from a long staircase while singing Minamahal Kita (I love you) in a milky soprano voice. The tenor waited onstage, singing his lines in response to the maiden's yearning. Such drama and pageantry can only be pulled off by the French.

In between songs, dances, and gulps of red wine, we read our poems. I have actually written this poem for Anouk, a blogger who interviewed me in this blog a long time ago. She asked me to write a four-line verse in French to woo her. Since the theme of the competition was Lettera Amorosa (Love Letters), I decided to submit it. I just added more lines. It luckily won. Because of my limited knowledge of the language, I tried to keep the poem simple so it sounded kind of amateurish. But what the heck, here it is. A rough English translation follows:

Permets-moi de te deshabiller

Je n’écris pas comme un écrivain très doué,
cueillant des mots lumineux au vent
et les échelonnant pour créer des poèmes
qui vivront après ma mort

Je ne pense pas comme un philosophe
dont âme vole avec les oiseaux perdus
et plonge dans la profondeur de l'océan,
en chassant la vérité qui n'éxiste plus

Je ne sais que je vis dans mon monde,
seule et isolé,
créant mes vérités, dechirant ma foi, bricolant mon idéologie

Mon cerveau raconte n’importe quoi.
Mes mots ne blessent que le vent mourant
Mais je peux te déshabiller et lire ton âme.

Allow me to me undress you

I don't write like a gifted poet,
plucking luminous words from the air
and stringing them to create poems
that will live long after my death

I don't think like a philosopher
whose soul flies with lost birds
and plunges into the depths of the ocean,
chasing a truth that no longer exists.

I only know how to live in my world,
alone and isolated,
creating my truths, destroying my faith, and making up my own ideology
My mind speaks nonsense
My words scathe nothing but the dying wind
But I can undress you and read your soul.

candlestick

2007-07-04T19:15:00.000+08:00

It's nice to wake up to the chirping of birds outside my window, whose casements are only flung wide open on weekends. On weekdays, my room is like a prison cell in a dungeon. Thick, foam-lined insulator panels board up my glass windows, which are further darkened by heavy drapes. Only needle-thin rays of the sun filter through the small openings left uncovered by the panels. I have been doing this since I learned that total darkness helps my body produce serotonin while I sleep. Since I sleep during the day, I trick my body into believing that it is still night time, thus the insulators and curtains.

That morning was a totally different affair. I slept with the window wide open the night before. It felt refreshing and liberating to wake up with a cool breeze blowing from the trees instead of the oppressive coldness of the airconditioning.

But I didn't actually sleep well. I kept on thinking of the antique candlestick I wanted to buy at the mall. I saw it last week, got smitten by it, but didn't buy it because I didn't have cash and the store did not accept credit cards, after having been duped by a woman who bought several items using a fake card.

It was made in the 1930s, the saleslady had said. She didn't sound too convincing but judging from the rust, the dirt, the material, the craftsmanship, and the style of the piece, I would say it was made way before the 1930s. Now I'm not into antiques and I know nothing about telling the age of a piece through its apparent dirt, let alone understand the intricacies of deliberately aging metal to make it look old, but I had a strange feeling this was old. Really old. It smelled like it.

It stands thirteen inches tall. Made of heavy metal (I don't know exactly what type), it boasts of an exquisite design which smacks of the regal symmetry of classicism. It has a concave base ornamented by four acanthus leaves whose upturned tips reach down to form four legs. This base supports a corinthian bud opening out to a ribbed pillar which tapers up toward another corinthian-inspired, urn-like structure ending with a basin that holds the candle.

I have this fascination for candle holders, especially the classic, antique, standard-fare-on-your-grandma's-altar type. I don't know why. I just love having them around. I told my colleague once that I was probably a medieval, Catholic monk in my past life. I love spooky Catholic iconography and I adore old candelabra. The first one I had bought was a simple affair. It was silver-plated but its style is quite modern. It has three arms of varying levels, which grow from a plain circular base. It still stands on top of my piano, now all black, the silver plating having faded long ago.

I had also bought another silver-plated, five-branch candelabra months ago and it has stood on our dinner table since, commanding undivided attention from those who see it. We usually light all its candles whenever we eat something with vinegar. Its five tapers effectively ward off huge flies (resident insects of tropical countries) which are naturally attracted to that sour condiment. We only have to put up with the heat. It's like having a burning bush at lunch.

The new candlestick now stands on the other side of my piano, looking impressive and imposing. It looks so heavy and massive that my mother thought it might scratch off the piano's gleaming surface. If somebody had tried to mug me the day I bought it, I could've easily whacked his head with it and he would've died on the spot. That's how heavy this thing is.

I kept on imagining that this piece had some history, that it was part of a crumbling colonial mansion which had seen gruesome murders. Before I went up to sleep that night, I looked back, half expecting the specter of a woman in her nightgown standing before the candle holder, trying to reclaim what is rightfully hers. Unfortunately, not every candlestick comes with that added attraction.

summary

2007-04-04T00:46:00.000+08:00

My friend, Riva, showed me her old planner at her condo during one of her parties. Stapled on its pages were show tickets, bus tickets, fliers, and other pieces of paper that trigger memories of her studies in London.

“Don't you find it strange that your life can be summarized by a small planner?” I asked her.
She said she wouldn't exactly put it that way. These pieces of paper represented memories. These were imprints of her past.

Why indeed did I not see it that way? I myself had been going crazy trying to leave imprints of my mad existence in small notebooks, on my laptop, and later on, in this blog. Hell, I even keep the ticket of my first visit to Fort Santiago way back in gradeschool. Have I, in my mad rush to get on with the drudgery of work, forgotten to leave some pieces of myself behind?

One look at this blog will tell you how much I've neglected my chronicling duties. This blog was almost on the verge of nonexistence. Oblivion does seem comforting at times, especially when intrusion into one's privacy has already gnawed away portions of one's personal space. But I have learned to thrive here. I have loved offering myself naked to the gods and demons and all the other boring creatures in between. I have stripped my clothes off in this blog, both figuratively and literally, to expose my soul. You have, so far, been seeing me in all my nakedness, excess hair and all. The sublime and the hideous have all been mixed up here like jello and mud, each enhancing the flavor of the other.

Will I stop summarzing my life within these pages? I don't think so. Not while my alcohol-marinated dendrytes are still functioning. Not while I still find cathartic pleasure (or masturbatory delight, if you will) in exhuming my thoughts and laying them down on paper. Not when so many events, both forgettable and blissful, are taking me into a cycle of ennui and excitement, turning, whirling, rolling my consciousness into the mildly sour folds of transcendence.

I am back.

you will see heaven, the angels, and god himself

2007-03-15T15:57:00.000+08:00

On the day my mother was discharged from the hospital, our whole family was relieved. The second ECG showed a healthy heart, except that it’s a bit enlarged, which has been her problem since the nineties. It’s a relief to know that it’s nothing serious. The 2D Echo performed that morning also didn’t show anything alarming, thank Vishnu. The official results will still have to be interpreted by Dr. Bautista, the cardiologist with pimples the size of cherries and with a bad case of halitosis. We’re all ecstatic that nothing is wrong with her.

Before we left the hospital, my elderly aunt, whom, I think is my father’s cousin (I’m not really sure), visited my mother, carrying with her three oranges as get-well soon gift. She’s a cancer survivor. Three months after her husband’s death, she got so depressed her cancel cells got activated. They said it was cancer of the nose or something like that; her nasal cavity had been badly affected. She was eager to describe her near-death experience in vivid detail.

To me, it seemed more like the hallucinatory effect of general anaesthesia, but what the heck, I had nothing else better to do so I sat up and listened.

She said she felt like she was breezed through something. “A tunnel, that’s a tunnel,” interjected my sister who pulled a chair by the hospital bed to listen attentively to my aunt.

Then she saw a troop of dancers in tattered robes, begging for some loose change. Somehow, she got transported to a place with an enormous well with a blazing fire inside.

“Oh that’s hell, you’ve seen hell,” said my sister, her nostrils dilating like my dog’s when it is in heat. She asked someone which direction she should take to get to heaven. She was told to go up a long staircase. The ascent was tiring. Eventually, she felt she was just being lifted higher because her weary feet were just too exhausted to go on.

“There’s an angel, you were being carried by an angel, have you seen it?” asked my sister.

She arrived in a breezy place of blue and immaculate white, which she thought was heaven. She saw kids of the same height and a man with keys, whom she believed was Saint Peter.

“Oh, you’re starting to mix it up with your own beliefs now,” commented my sister, who, being a born-again Christian isn’t exactly too euphoric about Catholic iconography.

A great book was opened and the man asked what her name was. Immediately after mentioning her name, the man flipped through the pages to look for it. As the man fingered through a page, he murmured: “St. Benedict, Joseph, and Mary…” My aunt’s name wasn’t there.
By this time, my sister's face was starting to sour.

And then, she saw a huge arched gate that opened out to a magnificent banquet hall. In the middle of the hall was a big statue of the Virgin Mary with flying thingies all around it.

“I think you’re hallucinating now. It must’ve been the anesthesia,” quipped my incredulous sister. (In this country, Protestants equate the veneration of Mary to pagan worship).

And then, after that, my aunt said the drug wore out and she found herself back to the operating room. But before that happened, she heard the song In His Time being played in the background. She has never heard this song before. She sang two lines to us and tears instantly raced down her plump cheeks.

My sister was quick to exploit the situation. “Do you know what that meant?” she asked. “God wants to save you. The fact that your name is not yet written in the book of life is proof enough that you need to accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior.” I quickly turned away, tucked myself in one corner of the hospital room, and tried to read John Bayley’s Elegy for Iris. The scene was getting more surreal than the hallucinations of a stoned rockstar has-been.

“Are you doing anything this afternoon? Why don’t you come with us. We can talk about your experience more.” When we got home, my aunt requested me to play Ballade Pour Adeline and Song for Anna on the piano. And then, I accompanied my father as he sang In His Time. The music had been cued. The lights were on. The stage couldn’t have been more perfect.

My sister got a bible and started the performance. “This will separate fact from hallucination. According to the book of Revelation chapter 3, verse 2 …”

It was too much for me. It’s time to do something worthwhile, I thought. So I went up my room, turned on my laptop, and surfed the net for porn.

luningning

2006-09-07T05:19:00.000+08:00

While walking with my friends on a frosted street in Malakoff, Plateau-de-Vanves, on our way to the Metro station, I said something to the effect that, in a few weeks, we would all fly back to Manila and all this would be over like it never happened. Lu, who was walking nearest me, smiled and said something like “we will surely be back, right? This won't be our last time here.” I don't remember having said anything. I just buried my freezing hands, leather gloves and all, deeper into my pockets. Damn, it was cold and my breath was starting to smell like stale croissant.

That was two years ago.

Now, Lu is (as of this writing) on her way back to France to take her master's degree at Science Politique, an elite school (les Parisiens call it grande école) in the heart of Paris. That day in Malakoff is a hazy illusion now, more like a scene from some sleazy movie on pirated DVD. And her comment then was something one would promptly forget about, like a passing fart. I never thought she was serious when she said she'd go back. This woman is really determined. She knows how to dream and she will try to reach it, no matter what.

Don't get me wrong. You might get the idea that she's some sort of wily woman who's into wheeling and dealing just to get what she wants. Far from it. She's just determined and hard-working. Period. Just don't make her heat up something in the microwave oven or you'll risk burning your whole house. Now don't get me into talking about how she watched her lasagna burn in the microwave in her hotel room and how she patiently looked at the thing as wisps of smoke shot out of the machine, all the while thinking that it was part of the cooking process. She spent weeks trying to scrub the black stains off the plate, fearing that she might be charged extra by the hotel if they found out. And, weeks after the incident, I could still smell burnt lasagna in her room when I went there to use her bathroom (there was no freaking hot water in our damn room).

Somehow, I always ended up sitting beside her on the plane and even on the train on our way back to Paris from Lourdes (where we spent the whole afternoon drinking wine just right across the world-famous grotto of the Virgin Mary). Mind you, she said she didn't hear me snore at all! Either she thought my snoring was the drone of the plane's engine or she snored louder than I did. During these long flights, we got to talk about a lot of things—philosophy, Philippine politics, the arts, life, our dreams (or on my part, lack thereof), plans, common friends (it turns out she knows one of the most infamous people in my office before), practically all sorts of stuff. She always had something smart to say about anything, and if she didn't, she'd invent something, like “that must've been the street where the barricade in Les Misérables was set up” or “this must've been the exact spot where Marie Antoinette stayed to have her fake mole attached,” or some stuff like that.

One time, while waiting for the mass to start inside the gothic Notre Dame, we got to talk about agnosticism, atheism, and the highly political nature of the Church hierarchy. While the ancient pipe organ blared lugubriously impassioned baroque music up on the choir loft, we sat at the back, a few pews away from the rest of the gang, who were psyching themselves up for a French mass. “It's quite ironic that we are talking about these stuff inside a cathedral,” I said. I won't reveal the nitty-gritty of what we actually discussed. Suffice it to say that her take on the issue was something I found very interesting.

While walking on the cobbled streets of Île de la Cité or traversing the deadened floor of the expansive Conciergerie, we wondered why we, as a people, were not able to produce such grand monuments that are celebrated all over the world. Such huge, adobe structures are ill-suited for our climate and culture, I said. We did build some amazing things, like the Rice Terraces, for example. But that's not as celebrated as these stone temples, she reasoned out. She was right. Maybe being a colonial lapdog for so long has something to do with it? Even the valorization of such monuments can be politicized like presidential appointments.

After ogling over Napoléon Bonaparte's well-preserved horse at Les Invalides, the gang already seemed too ill-disposed to continue sightseeing. One even suggested that we just go back to our hotel because we needed to rest. It was drizzling and the rain felt like cold syringe needles cross-stitching through our clothes. Despite that, I felt like I still had the energy to walk around and explore. I didn't really care if I had to do it alone (on several occasions, I had wandered the streets of Paris alone, and in the dead of night, at that). I'd rather get lost in the labyrinthine Metro tunnels than spend my time counting my calluses inside a hotel room. Lu, fortunately, was also thinking of the same thing. So she told the group that she'd rather walk around with me and make the most of her stay in the City of Lights. Upon hearing this, the group decided to stay with us, much to the chagrin of those whose feet were already aching. And so we walked toward the Grand Palais and Petit Palais, which were, unfortunately, both closed for restoration. There, between the dark façades of these two massive palaces, we hung around and thus was born our own bastardized language: Frangalogish. It's a combination of French, English, and Tagalog.

“Mon Dieu, how cute naman your parapluie, Puis-je borrow naman ça, kasi il pleut na eh.”

“Yeah, bien sûr, bakit naman non? Pero demain, il faut return it to moi na parce que je le need eh, ok lang ba, hein?”

“You're so gentil, mon friend! Je te dois big time, grabe!”

“So, are nous going to go aller à l'hôtel na maintenant? My balls are like freezing already comme un ice candy in the sari-sari magasin eh.”

“Good idée! Alors, allons-y na, baka mag-close pa the sortie sa Malakoff eh, super loin pa naman the other station in Porte-de-Vanves, merde. I don't want to marcher sa street na super froid to the bone, baka may crotte pa ng mga freaking chiens. Merde talaga!”

On that note, language purists held up elegant urns to puke their guts into.

Lu had already seen the movie Before Sunset, which had been shot on location in Paris. Naturally, she was excited to visit the places where Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy had their insightful verbal exchanges.
So one night, we, Lu, Dax, and I, went to Île-de-Saint-Louis, hoping to chance upon a familiar landmark from the movie. I had so much fun scouring the place that I forgot I was supposed to go to the Brogniart Palace to meet Elsa, the French girl I had met on my second day there. I don't remember what lame excuse I told her that night, but boy, she was really pissed! Good thing I had some presents for her. [Elsa, tu te souviens bien ce nuit? Je suis désolé j'ai manqué à te voir, c'était trop impolit et stupide. Merci pour m'avoir rencontré à Porte-de-Vanves malgré le temps. Ce qui m'a fait peur le plus c'était ton fureur! Héhé. Ne mets pas en colère à moi, s'il te plaît.]

I find Lu a great companion when we combed the galleries of the Louvre, Musée d'Orsay, Musée de l'Armée and all the other museums we visited there. She seemed to understand my tendency to drool over Gaugin, Van Gogh, Renoir, Monet, da Vinci, Raphael, Michelangelo, Rodin, et al. Perhaps because she, herself, drooled over them more than I did. It was such fun having her around because she shared my excitement over art and history.

Even in food, we seem to have the same line of thought. One time, the whole gang went to this crass French fastfood restaurant called Quick. Lu and I decided not to buy food there. We didn't go to Paris to sample stupid hamburgers and fries, for crying out loud! So the two of us went out and searched for a local boulangerie to buy freshly baked baguette to eat as the Parisians do. We both agreed we wouldn't spend our precious euros just for some American-inspired junk food. In Lourdes, only the two of us deliberately didn't bring any food. I only brought a bottle of wine. We told ourselves that we would just buy baguette there. Unfortunately, the place was like a ghost town every Sunday. Lu and I went around the whole town and found all the boulageries closed. Good thing the rest of them brought sandwiches and chocolates.

Two weeks ago, we had a send-off party for Lu at Red Box, Greenbelt. It was also for Tet, who is set to study in Perpignan, France this September. (This one's another remarkable woman. She was our very first French teacher who never made us feel that we were in the classroom. She made learning a foreign language fun and, believe it or not, exciting. Being younger than most of us, she was more like a friend during class.)

Last Saturday, we met again for dinner at Chili's, Greenbelt. We enjoy prolonged goodbyes like that. Afterwhich, we headed straight to Starbucks where we surreptitiously drank Jera's sake and a bottle Japanese peach wine, the latter was good; the former tasted like mouthwash. I told Lu she deserves whatever she has right now. She has dreamed fiercely and worked tirelessly for it. I'm sure she's destined for great things. You can see it in her eyes. She can be an ambassador or probably this country's representative to the UN. If not she can always take a job as a model in those idiotic videoke footages.

She's probably in Paris now, waiting for her class to start, perhaps still clutching a half-eaten French bread. As she used to say whenever we were looking at our Paris maps, “nous sommes ititch” [a bastardization of “nous sommes ici” which means “we are here”]. She's no longer 'ititch' (whatever the hell that word means). But who knows, we might actually find ourselves together again, talking about existentialism while munching baguette and drooling over some impressionist painting being sold on Parisian gutter.

ghost bands, seiko wallets, and bikini lines

2006-08-24T03:16:00.000+08:00

Glenna woke me up in the middle of the night. The first thing that crossed my mind was an accident, a fire. There must be a fire. But then, I remembered I was inside a tent pitched on the peak of a mountain and it had been raining all night. How could we have fire? Groggy, I pushed myself up from the sleeping bag which was spread out inside the wet tent. Glenna was holding up the tent flaps to reveal the star-studded night sky. The rain had stopped. Insects were chirping monotonously. The fog was gone. It had hovered around us while we were passing around the huge bottle of Red Horse Beer under the canopy which our guide had set up.

“Look at the sky,” Glenna was saying. For a moment, I forgot the damned, protruding root on which I had been lying all night. “Wow,” I simply said. The stars weren't as bright as they appear when you're on the beach but they were numerous enough, and marvelous, too, something that is not visible in Manila's nebulous skies. Eric, who was sleeping beside me, got up, too. A moment later, the three of us were outside the tent, trying to find where the hell Orion's belt was. Glenna was wrapped in her apple green blanket (which had provided us warmth while we were sleeping) and I was swathed with my black sarong and jacket. We had set up camp a few meters from the cliff. From this vantage point, we could see the moonlit treetops with white fog clinging on them like purified mucus.

Looming against the slightly luminous horizon was another peak, Mount Nabio, a quarrying site of expensive pink marble called “Tea Rose.” Mang Carling, our guide, had told us that it is being exported to China because the Chinese, superstitious as they are, believe it brings good luck.

“We've been running short on water since quarrying started,” he claimed. “Our water supply mainly comes from that mountain.” Mang Carling shook his head and looked at Mount Nabio whose sides had been lopped off, exposing the prized marble. One person's luck is another's misfortune, indeed.

I had thought the rain wouldn't stop. It had started a few minutes before we reached the summit, which was already after sunset.Glenna took a respite just before we reached the top. “You guys can go ahead,” she said. There was a slight drizzle and it was dark all around. I don't exactly know how the hell she planned to catch up with us.

Earlier, she was so exhausted she almost threw away my small box of chocolate cookies, which, at that time, was the only thing she was carrying, after having given her load to Mang Carling. As for me, I was tempted to just chuck the huge bottle of Red Horse Beer I had in my right hand. All I wanted was a swig of cold water from my canteen. Beer was of no value to me then.

Upon reaching the peak, we cooked rice, instant noodles, and heated the canned sisig. Actually, it was Eric who did most of the cooking. I merely watched or pretended to be helping out. I would've probably ruined our dinner if I had actually lent him a hand.

It was the most sumptuous meal I've ever had. Our exhaustion and the mountain's eerie coldness made everything seem delicious. Food that I would not even dare touch in less spartan circumstances were like gourmet dishes up there, mouth-watering and ten times more satisfying. None of us thought of bringing plates so we were forced to eat from the small cauldron. This is perhaps how soldiers feel, Allan later commented. Cooped up under a canopy tied to tree branches, we were more like stragglers waiting for the war to end.

The rain pelted down harshly after dinner. The fog got so thick we could only see hazy images of what lay beyond it. In this sorry plight, we started cracking age-old jokes about horny nuns, Boy Bastos (Lecherous Joe), and human excretions. I've heard most of these jokes a thousand times before but it was fun laughing at them again, especially in this campsite where a slight gust of wind splashed rainwater on our faces and the mud, onto which our wet feet were firmly planted, sent tickly little insects up our legs. Puddles of water were accummulating all around us. And our tents were slowly being flooded. None of us, though, felt the need to panic or freak out. We just stayed there under the canopy, watching the swaying trees as if they were part of a huge video wall.

Because I had just recovered from the flu, I wasn't too keen on joining them. I had thought that it would be so cold I would have fever again. I soon found out that I would be way too exhausted to worry about getting sick. And, of course, the exhiliration that followed after having reached the summit was enough to scare away my viral infection. All throughout the chilly night, we could hear the rushing waters of the river down below. Snaking its way all around the mountain, this river feeds the residential areas dotting the foot of Mount Manalmon. Before we finally left Biak-na-Bato, we enjoyed swimming in this river despite its brownish green color. A bamboo raft that was tethered near the bank served as our resting place (for the river was quite deep). I tried swimming across the river a couple of times, careful not to be carried off downstream by the current. Glenna and Noelle mostly stayed on the raft. From the snatches of conversations I overheard, they were talking about the former's tattoo, her motorcycling days, and Brazilian bare, which reminded me to have my head shaved as soon as I got back to Manila. (Don't ask me what my shaved head has to do with their bikini lines.)

Mount Manalmon in historic Biak-na-Bato was the mountain hideout of Filipino revolutionaries who fought against Spanish forces in the nineteenth century. It was also the site of the peace treaty between the Spanish and the Filipinos on August 9, 1897. It was Eric who combed the net to find this mountain. He had excitedly showed me pics of this place in his computer and then proceeded to discuss how we would get there. It seemed like a thrilling adventure. At least, it was relatively safer than our original destination, Mount Pinatubo which, I heard, was a bit difficult to climb, especially in this weather.

Mount Manalmon was comparatively easy to climb. In fact, Eric said that seasoned mountaineers won't even categorize it a Level 1 trek. It was just a fun trek, plain and simple. Everest conquerors Leo Oracion and Erwin 'Pastor' Ermata scaled this mountain in a record time of thirty minutes. To my reckoning, our little group of six (including our guide) took around an hour and a half to reach the top.

The narrow tracks were fringed with lush bushes and thick bamboos. Don't touch the bamboo's hairy part, Mang Carling had warned, it can make your skin itch. But the warning came too late. I think Noelle and Glenna had already touched it. Some parts of the track sloped steeply up, which was not really a problem for me. What I found really scary was the descent.

Having a slight acrophobia, I dreaded the way down. My knees were like jelo quivering on a frying pan as I precariously inched my way on the muddy path, sometimes planting both hands on the mud to support my body. It didn't help to see that some parts of the track opened out to a cliff on one side. I would've probably come tumbling down to my death if I had so much as lost my footing. Eric noticed my snail pace so he walked right in front of me and instructed me to hold on to his backpack for support in case I felt I needed it.

Mang Carling suggested that we take another route going down. It was less steep but we needed to cross the river with a strong current and pass through a cave. That sounded exciting so we all agreed. Through a path made up of sharp boulders, we crawled down to the riverbank. We were told to hold our bags up our heads as the water was chest high. And the current can carry you off if you stray away from the designated path. Like soldiers on their way to some jungle combat, we braved the waters and crossed the river.

Looming high on the other side was a humungous rock formation crowned by the entrance of the cave. Like one of those dark medieval fortresses perched beside a precipice, it looked formidable and daunting. But the actual ascent was quite easy despite the razor-sharp rocks. It has undoubtedly been climbed a thousand times before by those who came before us. Noelle even saw some graffiti on the rocks dating back to 1939.

Upon reaching the entrance of the cave, a yawning aperture with moss covered stalactites, we lingered for a while to admire the magnificence of the place. Mang Carling was quick to announce that it had been the cave of some birdie character in a birdie fantasy soap on local TV. I believe the soap was entitled Mulawin (sorry, I'm not really into local pop culture, it's nausea-inducing for me). True enough, when we entered the cave, there were still some long bunting-like décor hung around the place. The bastards didn't even care to clean up after their shoot. Like a true tourist guide, Mang Carling pointed out the bullet marks on the cave walls. Those were from the last war, he said. I wondered how many died within those walls. I can only hope that the birdie soap's production crew were among them.

At the other opening of the cave was a wooden placard marking the spot where a rock formation that uncannily looked like some Catholic saint was found in the nineteenth century. The rock, it claimed, is now in Rome, probably a curious museum artifact from a (still) fiercely Catholic country, if not an object of pious devotion. The other entrance of the cave opened out to an extremely slippery flight of steps with wooden crosses at regular intervals. “Stations of the cross,” one of the guys said. They looked more like tomb markers to me. Aside from its historical value, the cave, apparently, also has spiritual significance.

Most Philippine mountains, for that matter, have some sort of supernatural story attached to it. Natives still consider mountains to be the lair of spirits, Christian or otherwise. Animistic and pagan beliefs have somehow survived despite the hegemony of Catholicism. In fact, these beliefs have made Christianity more colorful in this part of the world. With its schizophrenic mix of superstitions, voodoo magic, amulet powers, self flagellation, and devotion to the obscurest saints, Catholicism in the Philippines is a perfect case for socio-cultural studies. Due to their mysterious air that provides a perfect backdrop to supernatural phenomona, mountains have become sites of spiritual and religious activities. They even have legends that usually explain how they got their names. Mount Manalmon is not exempt from this. Seeing our interest, Mang Carling eagerly regaled us with the legend of Mount Manalmon.

It got its name from the Tagalog word lamon (to devour). Legend has it that a hunter, after having shot a white deer (or a goat, I don't really remember), was suddenly sucked in by solid rock. He got buried up to his knees. His relatives were told that he could only be saved by pouring a concoction of lime and betelnut juice around his knees. A local healer told them to prepare this concoction in very precise proportions. Due to lack of betelnut juice, however, the man's relatives diluted the liquid with water. And so, when they poured it around the poor man, the rock got mad and completely devoured him alive. Thus, the name.

That night, we witnessed a supposedly “supernatural” occurrence. While busy discussing the travails of Boy Bastos and his horny cohorts, we heard a faint, thumping music. It sounded like it was coming from some distant, tawdry bar where pot-bellied old farts are given to boisterous, terribly off-key karaoke singing and wanton drinking. The sound lingered for quite a while and we promptly forgot about it.

The next day, Mang Carling, asked us if we had heard the music the night before. We all replied to the affirmative. “We call it bandang gala (wandering band),” he explained. “Every night, we hear their music. Sometimes it comes from the west, sometimes from the east, sometimes from there,” he pointed to a distant forested area where no human settlements are known to exist. “If you had listened closely, you would have noticed that the music is old-fashioned, quite unlike what you hear on the radio today,” he added.

“It sounded more like disco music to me,” Glenna said. Whatever it was, I was not convinced that it was some sort of ghost Beatles having a gig up and down the rugged terrain. It was hard enough to climb this mountain with backpacks, let alone with a drum set.

The real music that night came from our tent. Eric, Glenna, and I were lying on our back, our feet wrapped in plastic bags to keep them dry. I was dreaming of apple juice with celery and cabbage while that blasted root on my back was giving me high-grade scoliosis. Out of the blue, Glenna started a heartful rendition of an extremely popular 80s ditty:

“YC bikini briefs
for the man who packs a wallop
YC packs action
YC packs fashion
YC packs beauty in motion
YC is for you!
YC bikini briefs
YC bikini briefs
YC bikini briefs”

Then, I requested that we sing something that was closer to my heart:

“Seiko, seiko wallet
Ang wallet na maswerte
Balat nito ay genuine
International pa ang mga design...”

After that, we launched into an unforgettable interpretation of “Si Filimon, si Filimon.” I had wanted to sing Yakult's jingle (“Yan ang diwa ng Yakult, syang tunay na diwa ng Yakult”) but none of them knew the words. Now that's something that could shame even the best bandang gala (wandering band) Mount Manalmon had to offer.

I don't remember having slept that night, thanks to that fucking root. But of course, Glenna and Eric thought otherwise. When I told Glenna that I felt I hadn't slept at all, all I got was a crisp “Bwaka nang ina mo!” (roughly translated, that's “Fuck you!”). My snore, apparently, could be heard as far as Mount Nabio, the other peak.

That night ended with us fantasizing about Ace Water Spa's water jets massaging our bare skin. I guess you already know where we all trooped to as soon as we got back to Manila.

at the grocer's

2006-08-17T03:03:00.000+08:00

I went to the grocer's with my parents last Saturday. I'm not really the type of person who finds joy in this mundane activity, let alone do it with my parents. But let me explain how I ended up doing that.

I've had a fever for a week, with the added treat of some gooey phlegm scratching up and down my throat. I didn't exactly toss and turn in my undies in bed like what I did the last time I got sick. It's less dramatic this time. I didn't even stop working. I was only absent for a day, when the fever reached uncomfortable heights. That was just it.

My mother finally managed to drag me to see a doctor in this rundown private hospital downtown that reminded me of a butcher's shop. When I whined about the hospital's unplastered walls, grimy tiles, and ugly nurses, my mother retorted that we no longer live in Manila. If I wanted the best hospitals, I needed to travel all the way down the mountain. This medical facility was the best this city has to offer.

Since I was just an outpatient, we went straight to the emergency room whose appearance alone was enough to make me develop hemorrhoid. Or maybe that was the whole point. The place was designed to make you feel worse. The more sick you are, the thicker the owners' wallets become. It makes perfect sense, really.

While waiting for my turn inside the emergency room, I was approached by an intern who shoved a thermometer up my right armpit. The butcher, er, the doctor was prescribing some meds to a young mother and her whole brood. Apparently, they all got sick at the same time. Damn this season. And so I waited, rolling my eyes up the ceiling and down on the floor and up again, fighting the urge to scratch my armpit which was increasingly becoming itchy by the minute. I wonder how many armpits---both hairy and waxed---this mercury-filled tube had explored before the intern unceremoniously stuck it into my sorry armpit. I didn't even know they still use such crude medieval thermometers in hospitals these days. I know they have high-tech pointed thingies which they stick into your ears and then it registers your body temperature in less than two seconds. But anyway, I was sick. A few armpit hair lice from strangers wouldn't have mattered, really.

Pasted on the wall was a huge, computer-printed sign which said “This hospital is declared the most healthy [sic] in the whole province by the governor [sic].” I read it again. And again. And again. I was trying to figure out what it meant exactly but its grammatical structure made me sick all the more; it felt like a catheter was being forced up my nostril. The mercury in my thermometer must've gone up two notches higher. So I stopped trying to make mental semantic analysis. If I had stayed there two hours more, I would've had irreparable brain damage. Not that I don't have it yet.

There were three interns standing beside the doctor, intently watching her as she scribbled generic names for her patients. I wonder how many interns that hospital needs for a major operation, or better yet, how many people they need to screw a light bulb in place.

When it was already my turn, the doctor asked standard questions while filling out a form. She then suggested urinalysis and blood test. She gave me a piece of brown paper and sent me off to their laboratory, which looked a lot more presentable than the emergency room. It was as inviting as a jail warden's office. It wasn’t much but it was, at least, less sickening than the emergency room with its huge grammatically-challenged sign. After handing in my urine sample and extending my right hand for her to prick, I was advised to return after an hour for the results.

I immediately dragged my mother out of the place. Let's go somewhere less suffocating, I said, let's go to the grocer's, the wet market, the butcher's shop, any place that's far from this hospital.

That's how I ended up at the grocer's.

kinky omens, procrastination, and bathroom deodorizer

2006-06-27T14:38:00.000+08:00

Seen from my bedroom window, the overcast sky seems less ominous. It does not foretell disasters. It merely hints at kinky omens. The fragrance of a garishly colored candle on my bed stand reminds me of bathroom deodorizer. It also reminds me to head off to the bathroom and take a shower before I run late for work today. Traffic will probably be bad and street urchins will have a grand time dousing windshields with soaped water in exchange for a few coins. Vendors will have a brisk sale of umbrellas that won’t open after the third use. Expletives and cusswords will come flying like bees as motorists try to outdo each other in owning the road. And I, well, I will be saddled with thoughts of things I should’ve done but didn’t do. The allure of procrastination and the beauty of regret that hounds it. The office party I missed last Friday has nothing to do with this. Nor the LF anniversary party last Saturday, where, after having psyched myself to down at least a dozen beers, I ended up finishing only half a bottle because I had LBM. Having LBM at a party is a disaster worse than the Great Deluge. Worse, indeed, than how doomsayers interpret the overcast sky outside my window right now. But I’ll have a worse fate if I don’t prepare to go to work now. The road will be swarming with procrastinators rushing to get to their offices today. And believe me, it will not be a good sight.

It’s great to be back.

nightmare

2006-03-16T22:14:00.000+08:00

My greatest nightmare is to face a blank computer screen, my brain desiring so much to write something, but not finding the right words to articulate my thoughts. That’s exactly what has been happening to me lately. Like a bodybuilder whose muscles have bred ennui because of the same boring routine, I sit here, deliriously mad with ideas, not knowing how to etch them on my computer. Sure, I’ve had times when I simply rambled on aimlessly. But this time, it’s different. The mind yearns for intercourse, for rhythmic undulations of quivering bodies, for cautious explorations of crevices marinated in sweat, saliva, and other body fluids, and finally, for an ecstatic release, to squirt its creamy load in liberation, feeling the sudden mad rush of guilt, passion, love, pain, and ambivalence all shooting rapidly up the temples, into the dendrites, around the cranium, through a labyrinth of neurons, and then bursting out of the ears like dislodged ear wax. How can one contain something like this? How does one manage to live while harboring a raging monster inside, shackled, as it were, by the chains of inarticulateness? Would that my mind be as prolific as my butt which does not need any provocation to fart out its sentiments for the whole world to get a whiff of.

Time can be as tricky as a philandering lover. One moment, it makes you feel that you own your faculties, the next moment, it slams you with the realization that you are nothing but a pulpy blob, shaking stupidly like a slice of jello. Or it might fool you into believing that you have something to say, when in fact you are merely brewing mush, some ill-conceived, half-baked, better-left-unsaid ideas that you thought once glimmered with ingenuity. What is ingenuity, after all, but a rehashed idea of another repackaged to look more enticing to modern sensibilities? What can be said that has never been said before? Ideas are only exhumed from the bowels of putrefaction. With the mass of intellectual protons already swimming about in the air, it is too presumptuous to think that I can still contribute anything, that my unarticulated thoughts would push humanity onwards, heal our society, and guarantee world peace, I thank you. Those idiotic beauty queens wishing for world peace may have something more valuable to say. At least, they don’t mask their thoughts with pretentious language. That’s just that. No frills. No confusing rhetoric. No winding locutions. No blogs to eat up precious bandwidth. No ideas, just borrowed spiels from those who wore the crown before them. No shackled monsters. No thoughts. No gods. No empty computer screens to fill with nonsense. Just a tabula rasa.

Blank.

Empty.

Like this nightmare.

suicidal flies and armpit hair

2006-03-03T03:34:00.000+08:00

One scorching afternoon, when the vacuous air goaded drunk flies to fly right onto window panes to die, I took out my camera and started clicking away at every dusty corner of my room at the boarding house. I'm leaving it this coming April, after a year of enduring harsh sunlight dilating through its large windows everyday. I left my parents' ancestral house roughly two years ago, the very same night I had a quarrel with my brother who was ten years my senior. I raised hell over not finding my old books in their shelf. My dear brother said that he took the liberty of transferring all of them to my sister's house, which is thrice as big as our place, because he needed shelf space for some shit.

I was furious, of course. Books are my only treasures. Basic courtesy dictates that you, at least, inform the owner before you decide to move his stuff somewhere else like exiled political prisoners. Apparently, courtesy was (and still is) something my loving brother does not have much of.

That night ended with me spewing some cusswords and he charging into my room and holding me by the neck, demanding that I repeat the cusswords again in front of our mother (what the hell for? The cusswords were intended for him, not for my mother). If my mother hadn't intervened, we would've ended on the floor, punching and kicking each other. Pretty childish stuff, I know. But the problem between him and me springs from something deeper, something older. It dates back to the days when I was still a kid and he, a bully of a brother. Never mess up with your younger brother or he'll be scarred for life.

That same night, my parents brought me to our other house to spend the night there. A week after, I moved out and found a dormitory near my office. A year after that, I moved in to this boarding house. I've never slept in our ancestral house since then.

But this is not about our house, my brother, or my past hurts. I won't bore you with such shit. This is about the afternoon the drunk flies died on the window panes while I maniacally clicked on my camera. This boarding house stands in the kidney of gloomy Manila, along one of the smaller arteries that branch off from Taft Avenue. In this city where space is a luxury only the very rich can afford, this house's yard is immense. It nurtures four ancient mango trees that regularly shed dry leaves to cover the ground underneath. Every morning, an elderly woman comes out from one of the brown houses to sweep off the leaves.

The house itself, an old, crumbling, wood and stone structure typical of the architectural style of the seventies, is just one of the four identical houses in this yawning yard. Once you enter the gate, you'd feel like you've been thrown a few years back. Its suburban appeal resurrects your grand aunt's idyllic afternoon chats over suman (rice cake) and coconut juice. Too rustic and laid back for someone like me who was born and raised with the fragrance of carbon monoxide clinging on my skin. This place will make you forget that monstrous, smog-choked Taft Avenue lies just a block away.

The reception area of this boarding house is a spartan affair. The cushions reek of cat dung but the red floor is always gleaming, thanks to the ministrations of the maid who sleeps in a cupboard under the stairs (Harry Potter is not the only one who does that, mind you). This is where most of my housemates congregate to watch silly TV shows, especially the girls, who stay glued to the boob tube from sun up till sundown. When they get tired of watching TV, they stand by the front door and shamelessly pluck their armpit hairs with tweezers. I sometimes wonder what the heck did they need to rent a room for when it's so much more comfortable to be a couch potato or pluck one's armpit hair at home (not that I do that).

My room is on the second floor. It's a cool haven at night and a veritable furnace during the day. Next to it is the master's bedroom where our landlord stays with a friend who must've been his fraternity mate in college. Whenever my landlord comes home with a woman, the poor friend sleeps on the floor of the reception area, prey to various crawling and flying insects which are at their naughtiest in the dead of night.

From my window, I have a commanding view of the backyard where my housemates hang their shirts and undies to dry. Just across this yard is a Masonic temple which has intrigued me for so long. Having read books about the origin of Freemansonry, I am naturally curious as to what exactly goes on in that temple, something I wouldn't know unless I become a member. And that doesn't sound too appealing to me.

On Sunday mornings, I hear the twangy band music of an evangelical Christian church just across Taft. Since I usually wake up with a terrible hangover every Sunday, I mistake it as club music and sway mildly to its rhythm. When I start hearing phrases like “Praise Jesus” or “Glory be to God on high,” I get back to my senses and realize the ridiculousness of what I'm doing. And so I get back to bed and sleep three more hours to sober myself up.

Lest you think that all the music in this boarding house only comes from the weirdos next door, let me tell you that we also have some great sounds playing downstairs. During rare moments when the television is off (the girls are in their armpit-hair-plucking sessions, no doubt), the maid comes out of her cupboard under the stairs and plays her small transistor radio full blast. Her impeccable musical taste favors intellectually stimulating novelty songs that extol the virtues of jumbo hotdogs and pasta that goes up and down (god, are they still playing that?). She plays it so loud it would shame a jackhammer. I don't know if it's mere coincidence but she normally plays her radio while I'm in the bathroom. Oh, you can never know how heavenly the feeling is. The music actually aids peristalsis. Defecation has never been that divine.

Too bad I've got to leave this April. My new office is too far now. It's more practical to live at my parents' house. Maybe I would move out again soon. I don't know. I have no definite plans yet. It might be hard to find another place like this one—old, crumbling, and full of suicidal flies who die on windowpanes. Newer houses or apartment buildings lack character, fire, and women who pluck armpit hairs by the front door. But then, who knows? This world is more colorful than we think.

stacked up packages, part 2

2006-02-16T21:48:00.000+08:00

My dog Dorothy

That's me, horsing around with my niece and nephew while waiting for Christmas dinner

Clouds flirting with each other outside my bedroom window

stacked up packages

2006-02-16T20:05:00.000+08:00

It might not be the best time to relieve one's mind of piss, or of scum, or of dirt baggage accumulated through years of somnolence. I've always spoken of memories as packages neatly tied by paper strings and nicely stacked up in some dingy part of my brain. They're always there but I'm not so sure which box contains which memory. Fine dust only adds to the confusion. I sneeze if I so much as finger through its raspy surfaces. These memory packages, whatever they contain, still feel luscious on my skin, though. Luscious and confusing. Like ketchup in your orange juice. I do not know how to regard them sometimes. They are no longer part of the soul that birthed them. Stacked up boxes take on a life of its own, as they are wont to do.

Tonight might not be the right time to relieve my brain of memories. The second month of the year is only halfway through. It's not right to bring all the boxes out and clean them one by one like children who have just mucked about in the park. Rituals follow the caprices of the moon. No maddened lunar voice has told me to do the 'memory-cleaning' ritual yet.

Why would I want to claw at mounds of memories, both rancid and creamy, when I am quite busy creating one at the moment? I have my hands full. This moment is the life. That cheap white wine gulped from huge coffee mugs is the life. The now. Like getting lost in a labyrinth of slimy alleys, in the midst of illegal aliens with awful accents selling imitation goods, for which my friend and I haggled unsuccessfully. Like connecting with an old friend and checking out chicks at the other table in a crowded fast food joint, even as we pluck old remembrances from the air like ripe mangoes. Like horsing around with nephews and nieces while waiting for Christmas dinner to get cooked. Like goofing around with my dog, Dorothy, who incessantly runs around my feet or clambers up my lap to have her belly scratched. Like swapping stories with my aging mother while the late afternoon sun heaves forgotten mantras. Like hearing the crisp click of the door knob against the jamb of my new room. Like bringing individually wrapped pieces of cheap milk chocolate to the canteen, pretending they are orgasm-inducing Swiss chocolate. Like playing the first movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata at high noon, my fingers straining to breathe life to boring delicatissimo passages even as my mind yearns to play the third movement in the distant, possibly unrealizable future. Like touching your face while you are curled up in bed, breathing out the song of your dream, a sad song, really, that reminds me of your imminent departure for the States. Will you remember me when you're already there? Will the same memories we have so beautifully created here tide you over the way they would my soul?

Irrelevant questions.

In an irrelevant world, it is almost blasphemous to ask irrelevant questions like these. Memories do not always provide consolation to the weary, nor succor to the lost. They merely sit quietly in that forgotten corner, smug and comfortable with their nice paper strings and dusty surfaces.

I, too, sit in front of my window at the end of the day, contemplating on the gathering cirrus clouds as they flirt with each other in dizzying oranges, pinks, purples, and yellows. I untie the paper string and open a package and smile at what I see. I had been so busy creating memories that I didn't notice I had been happy during that time. It's funny that I don't notice that. Only when I look back can I say that I had been happy. Truly happy.

And I only have flirty, garish clouds with me now to witness that happiness.

my teacher's titties

2006-02-03T04:41:00.000+08:00

When I was in kindergarten, I remember having a blast peeking through my teacher's blouse to have a look at her titties. Before you conclude that I have been a maniac since I was five, let me tell you that it was nothing sexual for me. I didn't have a boner while watching her bosom jiggle as she bent over to pick up books and stuff. Besides, doing it with a woman 40 years my senior isn't exactly the kind of thing that would make my blood do the boogie up and down my penis shaft. It's like making out with your own mother. Oedipus Complex is just not for me. And it wasn't boob-envy either, if there ever is such a concept.

I just enjoyed looking at her breasts. That's all. The fact that it was taboo made the experience more exhilarating. It was like conquering the unconquerable.

She wasn't a bombshell or anything. Far from it. Aside from being fairly advanced in age, she was probably the worst teacher I've ever had. I was so afraid of her that I would rather pee in my shorts than ask for her permission to go to the bathroom. I used to cry a lot in the classroom, too. I was the type of kid who would wail hysterically if my father so much as left the parents' waiting area to go pee. I just couldn't stand the thought of being alone in a room full of strange kids herded by a terrible teacher who exposed her titties every time she bent over. And she didn't even wear a decent bra. It was yellowed and tattered at the edges.

She had this strange habit of dismissing her pupils' brilliant answers as sheer luck. I had no idea why she did that. All I knew was that I grew scared of her day after day. Being the only pupil who required a guardian to be always present during class, I, naturally, was already marked by this teacher. She had nothing but disdain for me and my behavior. She sneered at me most of the time, which caused me to clam up even more, and, of course, gawk at her titties longer.
Strange how kids have such dirty thoughts. Or was it dirty at all, considering the lack of sexual intent? It probably was my way of getting back at her. Surely, having some pupil ogle at your titties is a small price to pay for traumatizing kids who peed in their shorts. Since she was my very first teacher, she became the epitome of what a teacher should be. I had the impression that all teachers were monsters who were always ready to growl at you and then show you their titties. This made me become an introvert all throughout gradeschool.

Things might have been different if she hadn't been like that. If she had only worn a blouse that wasn't too loose, or a bra that could actually conceal what it promises to conceal, then I wouldn't have probably turned out the way I did (a horny bastard, that is). Of course, it's much too simplistic to blame everything on my teacher's boobs. That's totally unfair to mammary glands in general. At any rate, I sort of enjoyed seeing her ancient bosom (yes, go ahead, you can cringe now). I just wish she had already outgrown her old habits. Otherwise, we would eventually have kids who would associate titties with gall bladder problems.

Sexiest Filipino Bloggers

2006-01-31T23:45:00.000+08:00

What do you know! I went out of circulation for a few months and when I came back, I discovered that I've landed in a cool list like this! How cool is that? Thanks so much, Basang Panaginip, for including me in the list. Now, wait for necrophiliacs to swarm your blog.

Perhaps I can start selling my naked pics now. Get your copies while supplies last. All major credit cards accepted. Email me for your orders.

drink while you work

2006-01-27T03:27:00.000+08:00

Contrary to what some of you might have surmised, I am not closing down this blog. No way. And I didn't die of cancer of the toenails or anything as dramatic as that. I'm very much alive, thank you very much. Work just got in the way. You know how it goes: you quit your job, find a new one, go through all that adjustment shit and you get so busy you finally forget about the stuff that once kept you alive. Well, I didn't actually forget it. I just, sort of, like, well, yeah OK, maybe I did forget about it. I've been so engrossed with the new job that I didn't, couldn't possibly keep log of my exploits, much less keep my lanky body in bed for more than five hours every night—or morning (god, my circadian rhythm is so screwed up already I don't know if it is day or night).

After two months of silence, I'm coming back from my hibernation. Not wiser, not better. Just a bit less sober. I should have my blood tested for alcohol content. Or rather, I should have my alcohol tested for blood content.

I won't be coming up with any Coehlhean crap about my long absence. No words of wisdom either. I was just, well, absent. And in my absence, I didn't write anything. And that's that. End of story.

I've acquired some new habits, though. Like drinking beer while having breakfast, which, one time caused me to accidentally sprinkle brown sugar instead of pepper into my bowl of lugaw (rice porridge). The damned thing looked so much like pepper, for crying out loud. They should label their condiments properly or else some customer would one day sue them for condiment misrepresentation or something. Stupid restaurant.

There were also times when I would sip red wine while at work. Believe me, in my line of work, having a little alcohol in your system helps you do your job better. And management's lenient on this. When our CEO came over from our main office in Europe last December to see how operations were running here, he walked around the place carrying a beer and sporting a dorky Santa hat. Shortly after, all administrative personnel, including our big boss, followed suit. They all started wearing Santa hats everyday until our Christmas break. One look at them and I knew that this is THE company!

Just imagine the reaction of applicants, all dressed to the nines for their interviews, as they enter our office and are greeted with two huge plastic King Kong fists that growl when punched and a stuffed Mickey Mouse with his right hand in his briefs, fondling his crotch.
The fridge in the pantry is teeming with bottles of beer, Sol de Chile, Absolut vodka, flavored lambanog (local wine that kicks ass) and, on lucky days, even Jägermeister. Even the carpet is stained with dried up wine (and Buddha knows what else), remnants of wild office parties whose highlights were animated discussions on sexual perversities.

With a very young workforce (our CEO's only 31 years old and our country manager is two years younger than I am), the company is understandably given to drunken celebrations at the least provocation.

What's good about it is that these people know how to draw the line. Business is still business. The company may seem one whole big party but when the work shift starts grinding, everyone means business. In fact, one employee, who was hired two weeks after I had gotten in, has just recently been fired because of poor performance. Which caused paranoia levels to soar, especially among new recruits like me.

On that fateful day, the clueless guy reported for work only to find that his schedule for the day had already been wiped clean. Then the manager called him to the conference room to give him the axe. He requested if he could stay for a few hours just so he could clear his desk but the boss said it would not be a wise idea. He had to leave immediately. Minutes after he went out of the execution, er, conference room, his proximity ID was already deactivated and could no longer be read by the door scanner. Thus, he had to stand there and wait for another employee to tap her ID onto the proximity scanner and open the electromagnetic locks for him. When he finally got to his workstation, he just took his stuff and left. No weepy farewells.

That's a bit harsh, I know. But it's part of the contract. That's why I'm thinking of other options now, just in case I get axed, too. I don't really mind getting fired. But I've started to love this job already. I may not have found friends here yet (I'm a natural snob) but I do love it here. It's such a small company and everyone does not seem to have egos at all. Everyone has their own eccentricities and nobody seems to give a hoot about it. For a weirdo like me, that's quite an ideal workplace.

Also, the big bosses sneer at hierarchical shit. They all make you feel that you are at the same level with them. But once you screw up, well, you pretty much know where your ass will end up.
So, while I try to adjust to this new job, I'm always on my toes, always on the lookout for the looming axe. But I'll just enjoy this while it lasts. I can't see the fun in getting anxious over something that might not even happen at all. I'd just surf the waves and see where the tides will bring me.

This blog is now officially alive again. I just don't when the next entry will be.

Thanks for all your greetings, comments, messages, and violent reactions. I've missed you all. God, I'm starting to sound like some phoney actor receiving an Oscar.

This crappy post will do for now.

Ciao!

20 random facts about me

2005-11-17T17:44:00.000+08:00

Everything’s a blur right now. I started working part-time for the new company three weeks ago. My resignation takes effect next week, 21 November. That means I’m juggling two jobs at the moment, and it’s kinda dizzying. My former boss is sending hints that she might extend my stay here so I could finish my commitments before I finally leave them. Dionne is suggesting that I just file a terminal leave for at least a month before I actually leave. I might do just that. I made it clear, though, that I will do my work only during the weekend, at home. My boss seems to be open to the idea. I don’t want to leave any backlog on my trail.

This is the reason why I haven’t been doing my usual round of blog-hopping these days. That’s also why I didn't notice that Tasha tagged me. So here I am, making up for it.

20 random facts about me:

1. Sometimes, I don’t use a nail cutter to trim my toenails; I tear them off with my bare hands. Bliss. Try it.
2. Give me tofu any time of the day and I’d gobble it up like a hungry crocodile.
3. For our Halloween seventies costume party at my new office, I bought a dirty shirt in an ukay-ukay shop (store that sells used clothes) and wore it that same night, without having it washed.
4. My most embarrassing moment was done on national TV. And it was not a moment at all. The damn TV plug was aired everyday for six months straight. I never told a living soul about it. But, much to my irritation, all my friends knew about it in no time. Those who don’t watch TV at all learned of this stupid plug through word of mouth. It was my fault, really. I thought, since it was a fairly unpopular television station, none of my friends would be able to see me goofing around.
5. I don’t gain weight even if I eat tons of food everyday. Yes, hate me.
6. My ultimate dream is to become a porn star. Oh, but you already know that. Proceed to Number 7.
7. The more you persuade me to do something; the more I will not do it. If you’re stubborn, I can be ten times more stubborn than you are.
8. Pop culture gives me hernia.
9. I take pride in being different (read: weird) from everyone else. My worst nightmare is to become just a face in the crowd.
10. Simple is not a word that describes me.
11. I’m allergic to drastic temperature changes. I develop red spots that last for at least five minutes whenever I feel cold or hot.
12. I used to be part of a communist group.
13. I was into marksmanship in college. For one semester, I trained with a rifle and pistol org but when they started power tripping, I left. I won’t let anyone trample on my dignity.
14. Swimming gives me a natural high.
15. When I was a kid, I dreamed of becoming a world-renowned concert pianist, an Olympic swimmer, and a famous writer. Obviously, I never got to become any of these.
16. I can’t swim without my trusty goggles.
17. I still dream of playing a Rachmaninoff piano concerto.
18. I’ve kept a journal since I was ten.
19. I can down four litters of water in one sitting. And I’m not kidding.
20. I don’t have stage fright.

If you have ten fingers, you’re tagged.

digging another hole

2005-11-11T19:46:00.000+08:00

Like a wide-eyed virgin, I started working for this institute three years ago. From television scripts measured in minutes, grouchy TV directors who throw tantrums, and location shoots in the best and worst sites of the country, I shifted gears to accommodate tripartism, globalization, international labor conventions, and economic issues into my staple diet. I knew I sashayed into something totally alien when I found myself draining the blood out of my writing to make it look like a corpse that has just been embalmed, like what nice technical writing should be.

The work was not as bland as I had imagined, though. If my stint as a media practitioner involved risking life and limb, this job had its fair share of attractions too. I learned to enjoy working while incensed chants of an irate mob outside the office calmed my nerves every afternoon. Last song syndrome, for me, included catchy leftist songs and tacky slogans sweetly borne by the air from the mob that jammed the street down below. During lucky days, I got to see abstract works of art on our office walls, left by rallyists who had hurled cans of red paint at us.

The office bustles with life at lunchtime, when manangs with plastic-wrapped food go up and shout “Lunch” like true-blooded Divisoria divas. That’s the clarion call for my colleagues to stop anything they’re doing and congregate on the corridor like convicts claiming their rationed grub. It’s sheer joy to watch various characters streaming out of their cubicles to check out the food with the same curiosity hagglers rummage through used underwear in a flea market. These were the same characters that I worked with during research projects that required us to comb the whole country and jump from one island to another. I got to interview a lot of people—from rosy-cheeked child laborers up in the chilly Cordilliera Mountains to dignified ministers in the posh presidential palace of Indonesia. Honestly, I prefer the candor of the former.

During peak seasons, work came in truckloads. Articles for publication, speeches for some idiotic hotshot, PowerPoint presentations that needed some tweaking, books that required meticulous lay-out in Pagemaker, Senate bills that had to be commented on, and all the usual shit. One time—that was when my fever chased the mercury out of the thermometer—I was asked to co-write a speech for the highest official of the Republic. It was nothing much, really. I was just assigned to write a portion of it; the rest would be written by two other people. I was told to complete it in an hour. So, with my neurons broiling and my hands shaking, I feverishly pounded on my keyboard to produce whatever shit my wrung-up mind was still capable of producing. My boss was checking on me every five minutes, and that’s not an exaggeration. The Palace was already badgering us to submit it immediately. I think I came up with just two pages of crap that my boss edited in a jiffy and hurriedly emailed to the Palace to be further butchered and mangled and twisted according to Her Excellency’s whims. I spent the whole day in bed the following day, languishing in bad-tempered reveries. I was never asked to write a speech for her again.

Lean seasons gave us more leeway to enjoy the finer things in life. An elderly masseuse, who was as regular as our old, horny Xerox guy, would come strolling about, peddling her services. Shiatsu or Thai? Efficascent oil or Ilog Maria essences? One by one, my co-workers would book her. And then the whole office would swell with the fragrance of an old, dying matriarch in comatose.

Management favored harmony of work and family responsibilities, a concept that made the whole office a veritable nursery with whining babies and running kids. It’s not unusual to hear a scandalous wail or a shriek of delight while you’re writing something about the impact of trade liberalization on Philippine economy. Times like that, you wish you were writing something on overpopulation and the best way to control couples’ horniness so they would stop making damn babies that would wail like lunatic assholes at the workplace.

Don’t get me wrong. I love kids, especially those that can already talk. I just can’t stand infants and toddlers. There was this boy at the office, the son of a co-worker, who constantly visited my cubicle to chat about his latest videogame. He would hang around my workstation and sometimes play with my plastic action figures of Shrek and the Dragon. I didn’t mind it, really. Because, as I said, I enjoy being with kids. But one time, when I had to finish editing some articles, he decided to hang out longer and watch my picture-album screen saver. He saw a picture of me standing in front of the Notre Dame de Paris.

“What church is that?” he asked.

“That’s Quiapo Church,” I replied, without looking up from the article I was working on.

“Oh, I see. How about that? What place is this?” he was referring to some park in Europe.

“That’s the Quiapo Park.”

“Oh, and this one looks really nice. Where is this?”

“That’s the other side of the Quiapo church.”

“How about this tall tower? Where is this?”

“That’s the Quiapo Tower.”

“You’re pulling my leg. How come you are wearing a thick jacket and mufflers here? I don’t think Quiapo is this cold!”

“Well, it must’ve been cold as hell when I went there.”

Exasperated by my standard Quiapo answers, he left me alone, probably thinking that Quiapo was a wintry place with grand palaces and courtyards filled with friendly pigeons.

But these kids are minor distractions compared to the accounting and administrative guys. They have the exceptional talent of chatting among themselves and making it appear like they’re haranguing ten thousand people in an open-air stadium. They upgrade a couple of decibels higher during birthday parties, when the standard pancit (sautéed Chinese noodles with vegetables and bits of chicken), pan de sal (little pieces of breakfast buns), and Coke litter the conference room table.

Which brings me to our crazy Christmas parties that required everyone to come in costume. We’ve dressed up as ethnic tribespeople and Animé characters. One Christmas, we even had a bedroom party in which one co-worker showed up with rollers on her hair, night cream plastered on her face, and a big teddy bear in her arms. These parties, with their wanton craziness and brazen crassness, did provide me with respite from the drab looks of my little blue cubicle beside the ancient air-conditioning unit that freezes my balls into some spermatic black hole. I have worked zealously, lazily, and haphazardly. At times I felt that I was already a captive of this cubicle. Other times, it seemed like I was the master of it. Even as I hear unabashed gossiping floating around like smog, I still felt that I belonged here. That I dug a hole here, safe and secure. This was my office. And for three years, this has been my life.

A contract with another company now bears my signature. Another blue cubicle is waiting to ensnare me like a wide-eyed virgin. With shovel in hand, I’m all set to dig yet another hole.

you can’t eat here but you may litter

2005-11-07T14:54:00.000+08:00

With my hotdog waffle and cup of iced tea, I sleepily trudged up the MRT Taft train station one beautiful Saturday morning. “What A Wonderful World” was on repeat mode in my head. Everything was abloom with early morning crispness. With a nice day like that and a nice badminton game ahead, nothing could probably ruin my mood. Or so I thought.

At the train station’s entrance, the guard barred me. The song in my head screeched to a halt like some bootleg CD. Louis Armstrong swallowed a gramophone and choked to death. The guard said food was not allowed inside. He instructed me to stand in a corner and finish my breakfast first. Like a domesticated iguana, I politely complied even though I was already running late for my badminton game. When I saw that the queue in front of the ticket booth was getting kilometric, I asked the guard if I could just finish my food while lining up for my ticket so as not to waste time. He emphatically said no with a thick northern accent. So I shut up even if I knew that the order was illogical. The queue was just four feet away from where I was eating my lousy breakfast, and technically, I was already within train station’s premises. It wouldn’t have made a difference if I finished my food in that corner or in line. Besides, I know how to take care of my trash after eating.

Then I noticed the booths selling food and beverages across the ticket booth. I asked him why they allow food stalls inside but prohibit people from eating there. He said those are take-out foods. You’re not supposed to eat them there. I can’t imagine hurrying passengers taking their sweet time to stop and buy take-out delicacies on their way out of or to the platform. Besides, if they buy food there, they won’t be allowed to enter the platform at all, unless they finish them in one corner, like what I was doing. Having food stalls inside the station encourages passengers to eat there especially during peak hours when lines run longer than an orangutan’s armpit hairs. Why not prohibit food stalls too if they’re really serious with their NO EATING regulation?

“I honestly think that your rule is senseless,” I told the guard. He just pretended he didn’t hear me. So I also pretended that I was enjoying my breakfast. After gobbling up my waffle, I lined up for my ticket. When I was about to go through the turnstiles, another guard, once again, stopped me.

“You can’t bring your trash inside,” he said, referring to my breakfast debris, which I was still holding because there was no trashcan in sight.

“I’m going to throw these into the trash bin inside the bathroom because there’s obviously none here,” I reasoned out, keeping my asshole-self in check.

“Yes there is,” and he motioned toward a corner near one of the food stalls. I knew there was no trashcan there but, to humor the idiot, I still went to check it out. A few seconds after, I returned to the idiot and told him there really was no trashcan there, not unless he meant the floor. To my great horror, he actually meant the freaking floor!

“Leave it there,” he instructed.

“Where?”

“There, on the floor.”

My jaw dropped half a mile down and my tongue rolled out like a red carpet. Did that creature just say what I thought he did? I don’t even throw candy wrappers on the street and then here’s this bozo telling me to leave my used cup, large plastic bag, and soiled paper napkin on the floor! I thought the whole point of forbidding me to eat within station premises was to prevent me from littering. I was visibly appalled but the moronic guard did not seem to notice. Since I didn’t have time to create a scene scandalous enough to attract the attention of train station managers who would ask me what was wrong and try to comfort me as I rant and lecture about pollution of the environment and disruption of train station ecosystem, I grudgingly complied and murmured ‘stupid’ while thinking about drafting a strongly worded letter to the management of the MRT.

don't fuss about me when i'm dead

2005-11-01T16:39:00.000+08:00

Two years ago, I was interviewed through email by Mr. & Ms. Magazine about my views on death and dying. The answers I wrote were published in a two-page article entitled Morbid Thoughts, or some other predictable title, in their Halloween issue. I essentially talked about how I wanted my wake to turn out. I wanted everything to be all black—black candles (no garish light bulbs please), black wooden coffin, black curtains with no frills, and black pedestal. I also wrote that I hated to have any religious iconography or symbols near my coffin. If they had to put something in the middle as decor, it should be my watercolor painting of a nude, crucified male figure with a looming hooded shadow of a demonic executioner at the back (this painting, by the way, now welcomes cobwebs and dust in a forgotten corner of an unused room in our old house). I clearly stated that it had nothing to do with religion or Christ. It was my critique on how society crucifies and humiliates people who do not conform to its shitty version of truth.

I wanted the wake’s piped-in music to be that of Secret Garden’s, the Norwegian New Age group who composed and popularized You Raise Me Up before Josh Groban mangled it. No eulogies. No sappy tributes. Anyone who would start eulogizing me should be stabbed and buried two days before my actual interment. I’d rather that they recount all my foibles, idiosyncrasies, stupidities, and silly anecdotes. I wanted laughter during my wake. Lots of it. I also wanted to lie in state without any clothes on, but thought it too gruesome because it would expose the undertakers’ stitches. But if it’s really laughter I wanted, then I guess lying there in the nude is really the way to go.

The tomb should look like a classical mausoleum complete with statues of Greek or Roman gods in wrathful or sensuous poses. I wanted my angels to be the bulols or the anitos or any of the tribal deities of the Philippines. If they couldn’t do enough research to recreate these tribal gods, I’d settle for the quirky creatures of mythology’s netherworld. I only wanted black or red marble to be used. And I wanted the masonry to look massive and intimidating.

These all seem too pretentious, pompous, and absurd now. I have already said that I want my corpse to be donated to a medical school to be put to good use. That’s better than rotting away in some dark grave, if you would ask me.

But really, I wouldn’t give a hoot about what they would do with my body after I die. As far as I’m concerned, that body, that thing that used to be me, will be nothing but parched flesh, dried up blood, and excess hair. There’s nothing to it, really. They could just wrap me up in some stinky bed sheet and throw me into the river for all I care. It doesn't make any difference, as long as the bed sheet is black, of course.

hiatus

2005-10-25T15:14:00.000+08:00

The fish jumped out of his bowl to try swimming in the ocean. He’ll be back soon.

I hope you could wait.

the fish bowl will be broken someday

2005-10-17T01:32:00.000+08:00

Tagged by Randell.

Here are the rules of this tag.

1. Delve into your blog archive.

2. Find your 23rd post (or closest to).

3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).

4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions. Ponder it for meaning, subtext or hidden agendas.

5. Tag five people to do the same.

Here's the fifth line of my 23rd post:

"The water was pristine; the falls was splendid"

Water. My favorite element. My world. My life. Even the name of this blog involves a great deal of water. Fish in a Bowl. Water delicately framed by glass to form an artificial world where a fish can be viewed as it swims stupidly around. Although bound and restrained by glass walls, that water is nevertheless pristine. It smells of grass blades that daintily hold dew drops on its edges, swaying with the wind but never letting go of their crystal wards. Diamonds on green knives. It speaks of fruity metaphors trapped in velvet-lined boxes, ready to be opened for adoration. It calls to mind the sanctity of holy water held by stone angels in front of cathedrals, seducing the pious to dip his filthy fingers into it to signal the start of repetitive prayers and agonized wailings as gods in their garish satin and gold vestments idly watch. Absolution or damnation. It mimics the sensuous trickling of sweat beads that navigate the contours of breasts swollen with desire. Lust and love. It is the spit that a child leaves on grandma’s cheek after a long, wet, goodbye kiss. Possibly the last kiss grandma would ever get before she dies. Sweetness and death.

Imagine the water suddenly bursting free from the confines of the bowl and cascading out to freedom. Imagine a thousand fish bowls suddenly giving in to the pressure of the little bodies of water they held prisoners for years. Imagine them all pouring wildly out. Gushing. Roaring. Ravishing anything that blocks their way. An army of fish-bowl waters charging in full speed toward unseen enemies. Powerful. Strong. Torrential. That is my falls. A falls is nothing but an outpouring of a desire to be free. It draws its power from years of shackles and prison bars, of suppressed anger and stunted dreams, of yearnings razed even before it started to blossom. When pristine water finally finds the guts to break its fish bowl, only then can it become a falls, potent and splendid. And it will no longer smell of dew on grass blades or sweat on fiery skin. It will smell of rivers gone berserk and oceans devouring the hapless.

If you found any sense in this shit, consider yourself tagged.

defragmentation

2005-10-13T15:08:00.000+08:00

When so many thoughts are tussling in my head and I can’t even begin to decipher what each of them really means, I sit and pause and reflect like a monk with a shaved head. It might be futile to find meaning in the universe and ponder on some feel-good Coelhoen conspiracy shit that only Oprah would excitedly jump up and down for. Neither do I feel like waxing philosophical about my existence. I’ve long abandoned ontological and metaphysical inquiries on sober days. I reserve them for drinking sprees, when the mind is made more brilliant by alcohol and the tongue finds eloquence in sisig. Hell, everybody thinks he’s Nietzsche when drunk. I sit and reflect just to make sense of what my neurons are trying to say, lulling my body to catatonia in between defragmenting my brain cells and discarding unused memories that are caked with three feet of dust and grime in one of the dank crevices of my brain. I have no need of memories and thoughts that resurrect rancid blood and stale semen. I need some change, dynamic change.

Having been reminded of mortality, I snatched a floating thought about epitaphs, specifically my epitaph. How do I want people to remember me when I’m gone? For someone who lives his life regardless of what others may say, I find such a thought irrelevant. So, yeah, I guess I will just discard that one. Mad thought. Who the hell cares about what they’d write on my tombstone? They can engrave moron or butthead there for all I care. I will have had more important things to attend to by that time, like thinking about what species of worms I will allow into my body to hasten my decomposition. I should just think of happy corpse thoughts. Cadaver business. Putrefaction catalysts.

I might not even be buried at all. I’m seriously toying with the idea of donating my body to science. I mean, what’s the point of having a grand send-off complete with elegant hearse and shit when you’ll just end up a pile of stinking, decaying biological waste? I might as well find good use for my body when I’m dead. Just imagine how titillating it is to be stripped naked, ogled at, and tinkered with by medical students in some sterilized laboratory. Oh, yes, that’s good, slice me with a scalpel, yeah, spank me with surgical stainless steel tools, fuck my left ventricle with a spatula, vacuum my blood and cut up my liver, oh, watch my blood squirt, yeah. It’s like a cadaver’s total sexual fantasy. Even in death, it’s nice to be the center of some mad, bloody orgy. Now that’s a happy corpse thought. I’d adopt that. Proceed to next thought.

During my initiation rites into some Society years ago, I was given a brooch engraved with the group’s insignia and three Greek letters representing the Society’s name. I was also made to recite our motto in Greek and then in English—“Let the love of learning rule humanity.” After my stint in the real world—which sucks big time, by the way—I feel I’ve betrayed that motto.

Coming in and out of graduate school, changing courses but never finishing any, and getting Incompletes in major MA subjects don’t exactly embody some noble motto on learning. After imploring my college dean to take me back in after a year of Absence Without Leave (AWOL), I stayed for one dull semester and then went AWOL again. I don’t know how else I would beg for them to readmit me. I’ve run out of sappy stories and pathetic histrionics.

Just recently, at the office, I signified interest in this eLearning scholarship on trade matters and international economy. Just a few hours of online discussions and research per week for one whole year and I’d get a handsome certificate of completion. I don’t know if I could sustain interest in a topic as remote to me as the South Pole. But that’s better than pickling my brain. Or is it? Hell, I don’t know. But what the heck, I’d still go through it if only to know how much self-inflicted torture I am capable of enduring.

I’m still studying German and French but find them utterly useless in my life right now. Unless I decide to move to Europe in the near future, which seems like a swell thought. Unrealistic, but swell. I got rejected in the MA scholarship I applied for in the Netherlands because my office favored an older, more qualified employee. There goes my ‘learning rules humanity’ motto. But, come to think of it, isn’t what I’ve been doing—reading books on my own, living life with a keen eye, drawing wisdom from the people I meet—aren’t they all part of learning? Is it obligatory that I go back to school and slave away under the rigors of academic convention? Can I not learn boxed-in archaic knowledge on my own and engage in intellectual masturbation with the Internet? Or is it just the voice of a failure that is me sour-graping because I wasn’t able to achieve what society thinks I should’ve achieved at this point? Maybe. Maybe not. Bad thought. Discard.

What’s a school junkie to do now but wait for god’s spare weed to fall off like manna from heaven? Which brings me back to my good old college days. I should’ve tried smoking weed back in college, when my friends rolled out woven mats on a grassy patch of land beside the Faculty Center and started puffing their way to nirvana in broad daylight. But I guess that’s just not my thing. I can get a natural high on other less destructive vices and become a demigod in my own delusions. A demigod that tries so hard to inch back to Olympus after having been evicted unceremoniously.

What if gods and deities did not drown with the sinking of Atlantis? What if they survived Vesuvius’ eruption in ancient Pompeii? What if they still thrive in some virtual Olympus, still fighting and hurling lightnings and lusting and feasting with grand passions of Herculean proportions? What if they still hold sway over everything we do and we just don’t know it? What if I am indeed a demigod and I am unconsciously controlling the destiny of lesser beings? What if we are all lesser creatures being manipulated by a god or gods? Some crappy version of the Matrix? What if gods exist and are actually walking among us, silently taking down notes like Quality Control Engineers intending to improve on their next batch of creations? Mad thought. But plausible.

One can’t discount the possibility of the impossible. If the President can conjure votes out of thin air and still sincerely believe that she has the mandate of the people, then why can’t we believe that there may be things we haven’t grasped yet? Or at least, give it a thought. Things that reason frowns upon but intuition favors. Things that are not part of our realm of experience but are nevertheless extant. I’m not about to propose that we wholeheartedly embrace theism like a bunch of idiotic fundamentalist maniacs. Far from it. I’m driving at something deeper, something more profound than the existence of supernatural beings. Something like the concept of parallel universes, of bent time, of warped realities, of a whole new system of physics and metaphysics. Jostein Gardner’s insinuation that this whole universe and everything that happens in it are just in somebody else’s brain may not be too far-fetched. We have, after all, invented religions and other myths positing similar concepts. Or, are these concepts just offshoots of our failure to comprehend what we perceive? Attempts to make sense of the baffling mysteries this world is so pregnant with? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I’m drunk. These thoughts are labeled ‘for drinking sprees’ only. Defragment. Hell, maybe I am really drunk. I am Nietzsche. I am Foucault. I am Kant. Or Cunt. Whatever. Please pass the sisig.

Defragmentation done. Would you like to clean up your Temporary Internet Folder now?

Yeah, fuck off, Einstein. Or come and drink with me. Or, yeah, whatever.

sisig

marshmallow nuns, choirs, stolen babies, and cocks

2005-10-11T19:45:00.000+08:00

Driving with friends from Pasig to Makati on a Sunday afternoon, the sky overcast and wrung dry of emotions. My bladder shrieking in agony. Sitting over coffee mixes invented by an increasingly commercialist society while listening to an old friend tell the story of his gastro-intestinal disturbance that has reached up to his respiratory tracts. Might be asthma, the doctor said. My doctor-friend, sipping her black coffee beside me, rambles on about some medical shit that I couldn’t make heads or tails of. Realizing I’m the only one in the table who hasn’t seen The Phantom of the Opera on Broadway yet (the stage musical, not the melodramatic movie version). Nope, seeing the Paris Opera House doesn’t count. The old friend with gastro-intestinal shit has seen Aida too.

Relief after peeing. Driving back to Pasig to pick up another old friend. Chitchat on jobs and job hunting. Life and fucking. Babies and husbands and wives. “My baby is so cute,” she blurts out. “You should seriously check if it were really yours. There must’ve been a mix-up at the delivery room,” I reply. An old hag suddenly materializing out of nowhere, demanding that we back off the car so as not to block her sidewalk kiosk of crude oil. Crude behavior. Polite response. Do the elderly have the right to become bitches? It comes with age, perhaps?

Hitting shuttlecocks which my doctor-friend simply calls ‘cocks.’ “Now where the hell did our good cocks go?” Struggling to re-learn a game I haven’t played for centuries. Trying to cheat in vain. Trying hard to find the right moves to execute that damn smash. Still couldn’t do it. Maybe I should stick to swimming. Or eating. Losing. Winning. Losing again. And again. The talent to cheat needs to be sharpened regularly like a pencil. Thinking of joining Dionne and the rest of the gang next Saturday. 'Should play and practice without my bitchy friends yelling “Idiot!” or “Stupid!” or other Tagalog unprintable expletives every time I miss the freaking cock. Missed again. Damn cock. Next time, I’d just play with my own cock. Sweat. Drenched shirt clinging on my slender body. Reddened torso. My allergy to temperature change kicks in again.

Receiving a post card from Paris from a French friend who's finishing her memoire (that's thesis to us, Americanized neo-colonials). Rooftops and chimneys of immeubles résidentiel, très français. Suddenly missing al fresco cafés with blazing heaters under large beach umbrellas. Narrow, cobbled streets. Warm winter gloves and Russian seatmate with bad breath. Ésperant que je peux y rentrer.

Choral recital in a Conservatory headed by a nun who, according to a student, looks more like a blob of marshmallow that grew arms and fingers. Just arms and fingers. Wobbling marshmallow nun that smiles a lot. And plays the piano too. Talented marshmallow. Swelling chorus that hinted at something grander. Unsure altos and brassy tenors. Good singers, nevertheless. Or good choirmaster? Bad French accent. Chuck the French song if you couldn’t pronounce it right, for Buddha’s sake. Renaissance polyphony, acceptable. Sacred music, passable. Negro spirituals, needs more soul, more body, more Negro-ness (with apologies to African Americans for such a politically incorrect term). Enjoyed it immensely, though. Congratulating my friend, the choir master, for a job well done. No, don’t give me your huge, yellow balloon. It’s their gift to you. Marshmallow thinks she's the pope and starts smiling to everyone.

Listening to Jekyll and Hyde CD, which the old friend with gastro-intestinal shit has burned for me. Realizing that its attempt at epical melodic progressions is too tacky. An attempt, that’s what it is. Formulaic and bland. Good songs, individually, but lacks cohesion as a whole. No recurrent themes. Cheap swells. Horribly pop treatment. Pastiche of musical influences from various periods. Lack of identity? It can be improved. There is promise. Great promise. I’d still want to see it staged here. Picking on it but still playing it. Singing This is the Moment with Dr. Jekyll. A song popularly bastardized by a local singer who won in a local singing competition on local TV.

Arm muscles ache terribly. Too much badminton. Too much pretense on the court, smashing that freaking cock. Damn. 'Can’t play with my own cock now.

Updating one's blog is a bitch. Realizing it’s far too taxing to dwell on details. Typing continuously without much thought. Forgetting self-censorship or self-editing. Ending this lousy post with a period.

open up my brain and lick my dendrites

2005-10-06T15:46:00.000+08:00

When blogging is already as ancient as Glenn Close and nobody writes anymore because everyone has found nobler things to do like staying up late at night to watch re-runs of Britney Spears’ concerts; when people already think that nothing’s wrong with canonizing George W. Bush; when all teachers are catatonic and all students shove cocaine suppositories up their asses for breakfast; when mothers contemplate on drowning their infants for having a mole on the left cheek instead of on the right; when the neighborhood cat fornicates with a paralyzed armadillo; when all computer systems in the world crash and everyone thinks it’s god punishing the perverts; when Bill Gates becomes a beggar; when Michael Jackson turns black again and starts jacking off over Captain Hook instead of Peter Pan; when the Philippines is already a superpower and makes the entire planet its empire and imposes Corruption as a universal diplomatic policy; when I write stupid, senseless sentences such as these (and nauseating alliterative phrases like that), you would know that I’m bored.

I need some serious brain surgery.

what we know

2005-10-03T16:15:00.000+08:00

I painted this back in 2001. It hangs inside my office cubicle but nobody takes notice of it. I entitled it What We Know, to symbolize the little piece of knowledge humans have against the vastness of uncharted and possibly unknowable information, realities, and truths in the universe. It’s my stand against absolutism, my critique against those who have a predilection to generalize, to peddle absolute truths without knowing that what they actually see is just a fraction of an infinite sky; their knowledge as tiny as a quark against a heaving, evolving mammoth organism. We merely see things through this tiny window, and perhaps it is not humanly possible to see more than that, not in one lifetime, not even in one millennium.

When I showed this to my French teacher during our bring-a-picture-and-describe-it day in French class way, way back, he asked in French why I chose to paint a gothic window like those found in churches. I said I had no particular reason for choosing it. He then posited another explanation. The window, he said, can represent the Church or organized religion that blocks reality/truth and allows only a portion of it to be seen by the people. I never thought of it that way before. I must say his interpretation holds water.

What do you see?

forgotten skill

2005-10-03T13:11:00.000+08:00

Forgotten skills. Ink on paper. Pens and ruled pad. The uncertain scratching of the pen’s tip on white paper produces sensuous friction. It soothes the nerves. It brings liberation like a day-old itch that has just been scratched. I haven’t written in the old-fashioned way for quite some time. And I miss it. I saw it done here once and I thought I would give it a try to see if I could still write with a pen. I yearn for forgotten habits and lost skills.

and then the factory starts grinding

2005-09-28T12:33:00.000+08:00

It feels good to be in the thick of things again. It helps to have, of course, people who are willing to help, like our librarian who suddenly found a higher calling in collating photocopied executive summaries and filing them in neat folders, euphemistically called participants’ kits. You painstakingly badger paper presenters for their respective papers’ summaries or Powerpoint presentations, reproduce them, compile them in a folder, and then distribute them to participants so they could have one more addition to their ever-expanding collection of unread photocopied thingies. Maybe we should put a large sign on the cover: “Note: this can also be read.”

Amid the flurry of calling up paper reactors and researchers, our most trusted clerk decided to file a two-week sex leave because her seaman boyfriend just docked here. Now he's docked somewhere deeper and danker. She didn’t leave me hanging, though. She made sure the nitty-gritty of clerical shit had already been ironed out before she darted toward the brine-drenched arms of her beau. Even the reclusive creature in our Data Bank, who is usually holed up in between musty shelves that irritatingly smell like stale sweat, got out and did some faxing and coordinating for me. She still required that the task be spelled out to her in detail, but what the heck, at least, she’s out of her burrow now, and made herself useful to the human race.

I paused to munch on my tuna sandwich and to chat with a visiting friend, Gail. In between bites, I managed to squeeze in a photo shoot featuring Adie’s barely-there boobs and butt. I wanted to do “before” and “after” shots but I needed to rush back to work. Only the “before” shots were taken. Besides, I don’t think Adie brought enough rolled up socks for the “after” pictures. They wouldn’t have fitted in her bra anyway.

Back to work. Phone call here. Document there. Lay-out design on Adobe Pagemaker. Last minute printing and photocopying of stuff. And we’re all set. The roundtable discussion will be held this afternoon. It will last for approximately five hours. Great. Five hours of sleep. That’s not bad at all.

I love to puke after drinking

2005-09-26T16:40:00.000+08:00

I almost forgot the relief that comes with puking one’s innards out after some heavy drinking. The last time I really vomited was months ago, when I downed barrels of tequila (or was it rhum?) mixed with Vishnu knows what. Intoxication makes bartenders of anyone, and it makes any mixture, however odd, taste sublime. That was also the time when I, in drunken stupor, proposed to woo one of my high school friends while Alona was cleaning up puddles of vomit on the floor and Cez was on all fours, claiming that she’s washing clothes. This whole bacchanalian exercise was caught on video, which I haven’t seen yet. I don’t know who the hell has a copy of it. They’d just probably show it during my funeral or something and have a good laugh at how goofy I had been when I was still alive. Yes, make fun of me, you assholes!

This time, though, what made me puke the morning after was just some cheap beer at a tacky joint with a confused and overworked videoke machine. Don calls it Hell. But Hell does not sell five bottles of beer for just a hundred bucks. That’s more like Heaven’s thing, if you would ask me.

Beer has never made me puke before, especially not that kind, which tastes just a bit better than water. This tells a lot about the deterioration of my drinking prowess. I should start flexing my liver muscles again so it can load up as much alcohol as it used to and perhaps gear up for more discussions on philosophies and beliefs; sex and lust; betrayals and trysts—stuff that drinking sessions are so rife with. I got home at six the next morning, reeking of beer-soaked morning reveries. A few hours after, I was face to face with the toilet bowl, unloading my angst with steady bursts of mush and digestive juices. And then came relief.

what's in my closet

2005-09-22T12:47:00.000+08:00

Tagged by nelz...

THREE RANDOM FACTS ABOUT MY CLOSET:

1) It doesn’t have a door, only curtains. Damn landlord hasn’t fixed it yet, and I sort of forgot I still have some major complaining and ranting to do. Now I remember…

2) It has around thirty unused hangers from the laundry shop.

3) I should start calling it ‘hanger pantry’ from now on.

THREE ITEMS I'VE NEVER WORN BUT STILL HAVEN'T TOSSED:

1) Thong underwear. Don’t ask me how it found its way into my closet. Technically, I’ve worn it once, just to play out my S&M fantasies, and man, I swear, they’re little torturing devices disguised as kinky underwear! I felt like an elephant with hernia. I wonder why Bench keeps on marketing thongs for men. They just don’t work, not unless you’re contemplating a career as a go go boy. It just makes your crack itch and make you feel like you want to take a crap all the time and when you go to the bathroom and sit on the toilet, you find out that all you want to do is scratch your damned anus until it falls off and why the hell do I talk too much when all this tag was asking for was a list of useless stuff in my closet?

2) My digital camera. How the fuck can you wear a digital camera?

3) Thick, loose, hip-hop shirts I’ve used when I was in college

THREE THINGS I WILL NEVER GET RID OF NO MATTER HOW UGLY THEY GET:

1) are we still talking about my closet here? Can I mention my books? There I just did.

2) low rise undewear. they work well with my low rise jeans

3) my sleeveless shirts. I can wear them to bed whenever I can’t sleep in the nude.

THREE ITEMS THAT PEOPLE WOULDN'T EXPECT TO FIND IN MY CLOSET:

1) A huge paper bag of plastic bags. They will come in handy one of these days.

2) A mesh, neon yellow vest lined with green reflector on its edges, the type that traffic policemen wear at night. I found this in the UKAY-UKAY (garage sale) we organized to raise funds for the surgery of a friend with renal disease. I thought I could use it if I ever decide to go biking at night.

3) A corpse. ‘Can’t wait for it to decompose.

THREE ITEMS THAT MADE ME GO, OH LORD WHAT WAS I THINKING?

1) muscle shirts. Yes, I do feel I’m irresistably sexy. Fuck off and invent your own delusions!

2) leather and whip. I should buy these one of these days…

3) chastity belt. (who am I fooling?)

THREE THINGS THAT I HAVE A SURPRISING NUMBER OF:

1) tank tops for all seasons. If I’d have my way, I’d go to the office wearing nothing but sando, beach shorts, and sandals.

2) white socks

3) black socks

THREE DOMINANT COLORS IN MY CLOSET:

1) blue

2) green

3) er, just those two. I’m slightly color blind. I can’t recognize too many hues.

THREE PEOPLE I WILL TAG:

1) you
2) you
3) you

nice and polite me

2005-09-20T09:04:00.000+08:00

Early Saturday morning, I went to my cousin’s house to serve as one of the sponsors in her daughter, Micah’s, christening rites. I was the first one to arrive, which prompted my cousin to conclude that I have finally learned to be on time. If she could only see my time card at the office.

The pastor requested that all godparents say their prayers for the kid, one by one. I wanted to tell them that I should be exempt from this exercise because I don’t exactly pray. I opened my mouth and went “ahhhh” and then they sort of assumed that I was just shy and needed cajoling. They said there was no reason to be shy; the ceremony would be less formal and more meaningful if godparents would pray for the kid, too. Oh shit, not again.

The pastor started out with the usual exhortation that the child should be trained according to the ways of the Lord. The christening—they called it dedication—was more of a pledge of commitment of the parents and godparents to lead the child toward God’s path. The little speech sat well with the guests’ sensibilities as they all punctuated it with mild applause and words of affirmation. Pretty perfunctorily, I should say. I felt like an alien in the midst of a cult ritual.

When it was my time to “pray,” I said: “I would rather say my wish for her. Micah, when you grow up, I hope that you would approach everything with a critical eye and an open mind. Never ever let anyone, or any institution for that matter, dictate to you what you should do and how you should live your life. I can’t promise that life would be easy. But when the difficult times come, I assure you that you will never be alone.” The baby just stared at me with wide eyes and twitched its arm slightly. I felt stupid for talking to her like that. I should’ve just said “coo coo, cutie-cutie baby-chukie pie! You wanna go pooh pooh to escape this farce?” I think she could’ve related to it more.

Later, during lunch, one of the godparents approached me and said, “Ah so you’re Sol’s youngest brother! No wonder you look familiar. We’ve been praying for you. So that you would find the truth!” With emphasis on find.

What a nice introductory spiel to start a lasting friendship.

“Which church do you go to? Or do you ever go to church?” she added. I swear, she must’ve taken a crash course on How to Piss Off People You Just Met.

“No, I only go to church on special occasions,” I replied.

“Special occasions? So God is just ‘for special occasions?’”

You have to be either stoned or plain dumb not to notice the derision in her voice. Since it was a beautiful morning, I decided to be nice. It was not the proper venue to be acerbic to some tactless bitch. So I politely turned away, rolled my eyes, and helped myself to some veggies on the buffet table. I doubt if she would understand me even if i had tried to explain my views. Besides, I don’t need to explain myself to anyone. So I let her think what she wanted as I silently pigged out on chopsuey.

------------

That night, after class, Erica, her sister, her friend, and I watched the gala performance of McVie’s play Bayan Bayanan at the Ateneo. Thanks, McVie, for having us as guests. Sorry we couldn’t stay for the cocktails.

i touched my chest again

2005-09-14T12:47:00.000+08:00

Memories and friends grow on your skin like a sweeping bas-relief. I have mine cleanly carved on my chest. I might not see it as often as I want to but it’s just there, silently waiting. Erica made me caress my chest again. Painful and sweet. Remembrance squishes me to a pulp and resurrects who I was years ago, back when my job hasn’t forged prison bars yet; when I used to swish into the dialectics of life and art; when I used to get drunk with the craziness that only theater people can elegantly get away with. It was both cerebral and visceral. Thanks, Erica, for bringing back the memories. Yes, we can start weeping again.

"Bound Faith"

Model: Erica

Photographed by Nelz Agustin

it slips away, slowly

2005-09-12T13:38:00.000+08:00

Your kiss now speaks of dried up memories, of mummified dreams we once swirled on our palms, arid and syrupy like your parched lips. That kiss used to give me something better than ambivalence. I don’t remember what exactly. But it had been there before, always leaving a tickly haze in my mouth. Now your kiss leaves nothing but entangled cobwebs on my gums like bland cotton candy that refuses to melt. The residue of betrayal blackens the teeth, they say. I wonder if it would also cause my braces to rust, the way your heart rusted two months ago. I prefer lust than rust. But even that is no longer there, having left the moment you confessed you had thought of leaving me. I don’t want tears to moisten your scorched lips and make them supple again. Tears well up from somewhere less noble, somewhere too shallow for pain to wade in. I brew blood and sulphur in a deeper, more intimate place, beyond the reach of tears. Oh but you can’t see it. Not when your kisses merely take me to the bliss of minor distractions. I won’t ask you about love and its absence again. I would rather scratch off my scabs and let the wounds bleed copiously. It amounts to the same thing.

I see memories flying with dry leaves, conniving with the wind to take them farther than my imagination could ever fathom. They will be preserved there, wherever that is. And I would be preserved, too, as I kiss you and imagine my memories of your love intact in some place I cannot visit.

pictures

2005-09-12T11:21:00.000+08:00

i added pics to the post below. go check them out.

brazen self-promotion, yes.

what were you like ages ago?

2005-09-09T19:01:00.000+08:00

I got tagged by Dionne.

20 Years Ago
It was full of beginnings without endings. What I had been 20 years ago is so remote that it might have been a different person altogether. I just transferred from a private, Catholic exclusive school for boys to a public grade school. They all saw me as an oddity, which made me more aloof and lonely. I was a shy and quiet boy then, just starting to make sense of school life. This is when I started bringing home medals every school year. They must’ve thought that I was a geek who had nothing in mind but my studies. Naturally, nerds don’t attract a lot of friends. Everyone knew me but they were wary of making friends with me lest they turn out to be as boringly geeky as I was. But really, all I had in mind was hide-and-seek and backyard ball games. I only got to play—and I mean really play—with kids from our own compound. They didn’t have much of a choice, my family owned the whole compound, including their houses, so if they didn’t make friends with me, they pretty much knew where they’d end up in. That’s how pathetic I was.

15 Years Ago
By this time, everyone in school already knew me. I had made a name for myself by winning inter-school competitions. I even bagged the top prize in this writing competition participated in by all public and private grade schools all over Manila. It was the first time my school actually won in a contest as huge as that. I graduated at the top of my batch.

Now, I feel like a loser talking about all these. All I ever wanted was to have a handful of friends to hang out, swap ghost stories, and play football or tumbang patis with. It feels sick to reminisce your childhood and see nothing but medals and stupid contests. I mean, honestly, would you enthusiastically recount how you won some stupid essay-writing contest in grade school to your grandchildren? That’s so lame. Medals get rusty and grimy, and they don’t tell interesting stories.

This was also the time I met a pervert who sexually molested me and left me scarred for life. Read the details here.

10 Years Ago
High school was wacky. I felt normal and loved as everyone else. Nobody thought I was a geek because there were worthier geeks above me. All of my classmates were either valedictorian or salutatorian in their respective grade schools. I still won inter-school competitions but the pressure was no longer that great. I never topped in my class, I was always in the middle, just an average, procrastinating student enjoying his life. But I still graduated with honors. Right about this time, I discovered I had the rare talent for gluttony.

Then came college. This was a totally different ball game. I learned to thrash institutions, question authorities, challenge god, and shatter my own beliefs. With Nietzsche mumbling aphorisms into my ears, I set out to explore life. This has changed me forever. I sailed on with my existential angst and agnostic beliefs and never turned back.

I was actually inside a thing like that!
5 Years Ago
My job at this time took me to places I never thought I’d be in, like riding a helicopter and getting inside a powerful Tunnel Boring Machine while it hollowed the bowels of the Sierra Madre Mountain range to create a tunnel that would pipe in water into the Angat-Umiray dam. We were probably the last human beings to ever set foot in that tunnel before it was flooded by water. I also got to chase whale sharks in the deeper parts of the Palawan seas. Wearing nothing but my trunks and a pair of goggles, I jumped into waters more than 150 feet deep and tried swimming with the whale sharks that were playing near the surface. But of course, I never got to touch them because they swam a lot faster than I ever could.

3 Years Ago
I started in my present job. Being confined in a cubicle and writing shit as boring as term papers made me a little stoic. There were occasional trips in other parts of the country and abroad but they were all work-related and were not as adventure-filled as my previous trips.

That's my virgin hippo look.

Loitering at the back of the Notre Dame de Paris

Last Year
Museum and church-hopping in Paris and Rome. For the first time in my entire life, I lost my wallet to a thief! Damn those Italian pickpockets. Don’t ever assume that everyone near the Vatican is holy. There’s a lot of assholes prowling the narrow streets of that ancient city. I lost all my IDs, ATM cards, Parisian train card, and almost 200 euros. What’s worse, when I flew back to Paris, I had to jump over the turnstiles at the train station because I had no money. Lo and behold, there were French police checking if the passengers had their carte orange. And they fined me 40 euros (or was it 60? Hell, I can’t remember). Good thing I had my friends with me who generously chipped in. Qu’est-ce que m’aurait arrivé sans vous, mes amis?

I also met Elsa in Paris. Being a Parisian, she was a perfect tour guide. We spent a couple of nights walking along the chilly Seine, the cobbled streets near the Louvre, and around the Madeleine while she spoke to me in rapid French about the historical or artistic significance of each place we went to. She was patient enough to listen to my broken French and cheery enough to thaw the frosty air. I’d never forget how we peeped through the glass walls of the famous Maxim’s, a posh restaurant where you need to wear a coat and tie to be able to get in. I don’t see the point of dining in a fancy restaurant and looking like one of the waiters, really. One time, she brought me to this dark, candle-lit bar whose walls were painted with murals of a bisexual orgy. We spent the whole night drinking beer, talking about life, and figuring out what language the customers on the other table were using. I had a swell time with her. (Elsa, quand je rentre à Paris, je t’appellerai encore. Je ne veux que me promener à Paris avec toi ! Tu me manques. Je suis désolé que je te rate toujours à YM.)

This Year
Aside from going to Hundred Islands, Quezon Pahiyas Fest, and Cavite, this is such a boring year.

Yesterday
Late for work again, as usual. ‘Went to German class after office.

Last Night
Leafed through “The Second Messiah,” a book positing a theory on the real origins of the controversial Shroud of Turin.

Today
Writing this post, what else? I’ll go to Glorietta afterwards to catch a movie.

my little blue cubicle, a veritable prison cell.

Tomorrow
Will organize a roundtable discussion. Life is getting predictable.

Next Year
I don’t know. Get a new job? It depends really on how sucky this year turns out to be.

5-10 Years From Now
Fly to Pluto and never return.

I think you’re old enough to tag yourself. I don’t have to do it for you.

plastic creatures

2005-09-06T15:23:00.000+08:00

Boredom. Shrek and the dragon are on my desk. Plastic beings on particleboard terrain. I am their god, omniscient and wrathful. I tried placing them really close to each other once to see if they would fuck. They never did. Stupid, frigid, plastic creatures. Even my divine will is subservient to theirs. They desire—oh they do—passionately. And why should I forbid them to?

A few inches from where they stand is the desk’s edge from where they could fall off and lose one of their plastic limbs. And their omniscient god might not be there to pick them up as he is busy obeying the whims of a higher god who, in turn is busy kissing the ass of an even higher god who is probably filing her nails up in her posh office at the topmost floor. The hierarchy of ass-kissing can be confusing like mutant coffee blends. If Shrek and the dragon knew that I don’t give a hoot about them, can their plastic neurons still convince their plastic hearts that I am full of love and compassion? Would they think less of me if they knew that I also have less magnanimous gods to serve? Would they revolt if they found out that I tried to initiate a mating season for them, without their knowledge? But I love both of them, like a master loves his slaves.

It is a god’s prerogative to dispense love like that, as much as it is a tyrant’s entitlement to warp history, defiling the sacred and valorizing the iniquitous. I, too, am a plastic creature in a bigger particleboard terrain. But I do know what my gods have done and are doing. And I will not fall for some cheaply engineered trick to mate with another plastic creature. I live my life guided by my passions, consciously avoiding the edge of the desk lest I plummet down the abyss, knowing fully well that my gods will do nothing but stare and mutter “oh there goes another one.” I wish I didn’t know.

Ignorance can sometimes conjure wonders. Bliss, as they say, comes with it. And solace, too. Ignorance makes you look forward to a glowing future, however nebulous, however implausible. Ignorance, like faith, promises troves of dreams fluffier than your pillows. But once you believe, you get shackled to the whims of the gods. Then they pull the strings and start the puppet show to the shrieks of a rowdy mob demanding carnal entertainment. You get used to the charade and start believing that the show’s thin plot is your life.

Jester’s hats.

Luscious Frills.

Painted smiles.

Satin dominoes.

On the other hand, those who are cognizant of the grim truth have grown morose and brooding, but unshackled. Free to obey the dictates of their hearts. Free from the grip of hollow institutions. For they know that institutions stand for nothing but the interests of their founders. Beliefs are spread not necessarily because of the noble goals they preach. So they trod on with scabby feet, nursing their troubles with reason. That can be hard. That is why some vainly wish they could cling again to the solace that empty rituals bring.

I am part of that pack now. I am way past the point of no return. There are times when I do miss being in the comfort zone of a puppet show in which every scene is contrived and sure. But I cannot stand having shackles on my feet and hands. My outlook is a lot clearer now, grim and raw, yes, but clearer. Life can be grim and raw, too. At times, I even think that the abyss at the edge of the desk holds things more concrete than fluffy dreams. I will get there. In time.

And then the plastic creatures on my desk will rejoice at the loss of their omniscient and wrathful god.

the sanctity of a virgin hippo

2005-09-05T11:49:00.000+08:00

It was one of those rare occasions when my family actually managed to persuade me to sit through a Sunday service. It was my aunt’s birthday. We had been invited by her congregation to do this birthday tribute thing during their church service. Since I haven’t seen her in months, I agreed.

I settled on the last pew at the back, trying to look like a meek, saintly parishioner like the rest of the flock. With an idiotic grin plastered on my face, I shooed away obscene thoughts and switched on my holy mode. I had gotten the the-holy-ghost-spanked-my-ass look down pat ages ago. But I’m getting rusty at it now, having no occasion to practice it in. If I remember it right, it’s something akin to looking as serene as a virgin hippo while suppressing a stiffy. It’s great to play holy once in a while, which is probably the only thing a lot of churchgoers are good at.

No sooner had I put on my best hippo face than tirades against sinners and decadent bastards came shooting from the pulpit like disgruntled fireworks. For a while, I thought the pastor was directly speaking to me. How about telling me something I don’t know yet? I’ve been told countless times that I’m gonna burn in hell with fire and brimstone and all that shit. And then good old Lucifer (or Lucy, depending on his mood), dressed in a satin teddy and Winnie-The-Pooh slippers and with a pound of mudpack smeared on his face, would just watch while quaffing vodka from a cup fashioned from Hitler’s skull and, gasp, he won’t even offer me a sip! Now that’s scary. Imagine an eternity without vodka—that’s torture only Job can endure. I should make friends with the devil now to ensure my endless supply of booze in hell. Oh, but I digress, I’m supposed to look holy. Suppress the stiffy; hold back the shit. Virgin hippo look.

The pastor was now mouthing something about faithless but highly educated people being fools and about how screwed up this society is because we are now more accepting of homosexuals, pre-marital sex, and progressive thoughts; and about how worldly the world has become (duh?) and about the Bible being an indubitable source of all wisdom and Catholics being idol-worshipping pagans; and so many other unprintable assertions. The pulpit is perhaps the only place I know from which bigotry can emanate unchallenged. That diatribe was something only people like Pat Robertson would be delighted to hear. Or was that Pat’s avatar talking? I heard his dildo-wielding spawns are walking the earth, clandestinely making their way to Venezuela to murder its president by butt-fucking him nonstop with high-powered vibrators the size of Bush’s missiles. Could one of the spawns have found its way here, and somehow took on the body of this pastor to spread Mr. Robertson’s gospel? Creepy. This world is really fucked up big time.

Spawn or no spawn, I found myself checking my pocket calendar just to be sure if it was still 2005 and not 1105. Sitting through that sermon and thinking about Pat Robertson’s dildo gang made me feel like we slid back to the Middle Ages. That may not be such a bad thing—if they already had vodka back then. Which reminds me, I should give Lucy boy a call. Now where did I put that bitch’s number?

bulging tummy and peeping nipples

2005-08-26T22:58:00.000+08:00

I feel like a fish with a paunch. After a hefty lunch of greens, fish fillet, and potatoes, all my blood is swishing merrily around my stomach, gyrating to the syncopated rhythm of my villi’s feverish mush-sucking. I feel like there’s no blood left in my brain cells. They’re all enjoying the rave party down there in my midsection. That is also another way of saying that this post will most probably be crappy. Let that serve as a caveat for you. Hey, don’t blame me. Blame my brain cells. Or my damn, party-crazed blood.

I pigged out at our office's ceremonial contract signing held in some hotel. I wasn’t supposed to be there but my boss called to have a soft copy of the contract sent there pronto. Since all our delivery boys were out, I had no choice but to rush to the hotel myself despite the menace of a typhoon hanging by a thin thread above me. When I got there and savored the gush of fulfillment that came with my first stint as a delivery boy, I told my boss I would return to the office and do some important stuff like sit in front of my computer and pretend to work. The boss said no, stay for the buffet lunch, you’re here anyway. That’s how I got to pig out big time, ladling tons of potato salad, fresh lettuce, baked potatoes, greased veggies, fish fillet, and rice until my plate looked like a dish of gourmet slops. Not being satisfied with just one helping, I again took another empty plate and filled it to capacity.

Why did I choose to wear a body-fit shirt today, of all days? Now, in order to hide my bloated tummy, I have to spend the rest of the day trying to expand my chest until my nipples tear through the fabric. Which reminds me, I’ve got to bench-press more vigorously tonight; and of course, do some serious crunches too. I must prepare for another ‘gobble up’ session this evening. I’ve cornered a sizeable amount of lunch debris from the hotel (I didn’t get that through wheeling and dealing with the waiters, mind you. My office organized and paid for the event so we get to take home whatever’s left of the food). And I’m going to feast on them at the boarding house later. That’s what I do, I binge and then hit the gym or the pool or the badminton court to sweat it all out. At least, that’s better than facing the toilet bowl and inducing myself to puke my hairy balls out like some bulimic supermodel.

And so, as I write this post and pretend it’s part of my job description, I only have my eyes set on gluttony tonight. Small food packs wrapped in tin foil lay on my desk, seducing me to dig in and indulge. Later, bitches, can’t you see I still have work to do? Ok, perhaps a tiny bite won’t hurt. Oh, what the heck, I’ll go eat again. My tummy can’t get any bigger than this and my nipples will surely enjoy a tear on my shirt.

the rite of the wretched

2005-08-19T12:33:00.000+08:00

In a strange dream, I find myself walking amid the ruins of an ancient cathedral. The vaulted ceiling has long caved in, leaving a yawning hole that sucks in the harsh heavens. I cannot tell if it is day or night, but everything seems to have the sheen of dusk and the lust of dawn. The tainted walls still stand looking like a confused chessboard with gothic apertures where stained glass once held court. Scattered on the cracked granite floor are shards of colored glass, decapitated heads of stone gods, grimy vestments, empty reliquaries, and brass candelabras. So that’s how they look when stripped of sanctity, forsaken by the gods they used to symbolize. Like an archbishop on his way to the high altar, I wade through this mass of desecrated objects while sniffing the rotting air. Floating near the walls, spirits of dead cardinals scorn me. With my frosty eyes, I order them to return to their sarcophagi and mind their own decomposition. You have had your time to corrupt the masses. It’s time for eternal repose now, or perpetual damnation.

Up on the altar, I see numerous headless gods smug in their own niches. They loom large and regal like buffoons. Upon their feet is the long, marble table where sacerdotal cult masters once transubstantiated wafers into flesh of the Tortured One. Around the table is a pack of maimed, toothless, and stinking paupers. Some are dressed in tattered brown robes, some have slung tainted curtains on their bony frames, and some are totally naked. I understand at once that this is the rite of the stinking, the damned, and the wretched. The sweet revenge of the despised is to claim the high altar of their masters and recreate the ritual all over again, according to the Gospel of their own Torment.

They all pause and regard me with vicious eyes. One of them leers and sticks out her lesioned tongue to me. A couple stops from their dull fornication and look at me blankly. A naked man motions me to come forward with his dagger.

I walk toward them, unflinching. I suddenly realize that I, too, am naked. With my flesh quivering and my genitals dangling limply with every step, I come forward, letting them ogle at or deride my nakedness. Somehow, I know exactly what I’m there for. And I know exactly what to do.

Without saying a word, I climb on top of the marble table and lay there. They congregate around me like a pack of wolves salivating on their prey. I hear a surreal chant from one of them. It is hard to tell which one. At the end of the chant, the naked man raises his dagger and says an incantation in a strange language. I close my eyes.

Then I wake up.

And I realize that it is not a dream at all.

keyboard hits the ceiling

2005-08-17T11:52:00.000+08:00

When the keyboard flew and hit the ceiling, I threw my hands in glee and promised never to write about pain again. It sears the windows and singes the bed sheets. It does not smell nice at all. Like an effusion of stinking pus, it bursts wildly from my skin and oozes out with precision onto the tiled floor, plugging every crack and licking every crevice. Then it creeps up the walls and meticulously plasters its surface with a generous amount of goo. When it solidifies, I usually lay a rug over it and, protected by the rug, I tread ever so lightly onto its hardened surface. At once, carnality is made sacred. The banal is elevated to the sublime. It quietly sends tingling messages through the rug, through the pores of my feet, and into my veins. Borne by my fierce blood, these messages seep into my innards and slumber there like kids tucked in their beds. Then I dance the wild dance of ambivalent longing to the song of a muted banjo, careful not to wake up the little deposits of goo in my system. It is not my habit to disturb pain when it rests within me. I let it be and we celebrate together.

So, on that night when the keyboard flew and hit the ceiling, I simply swung my hands cheerily in the air like a nutcase catching flies for dinner. Rationality, with its hands akimbo, sneered down at me and demanded that I rant and rave and tear my hair off in despair. I said I couldn’t because I’m totally bald, not unless he meant my pubic hair. Besides, I love swimming with pain. We do dolphin kicks and tumble turns together. After that, it gives me a kickboard. Something to practice your strokes with, it says, this will buoy you up and make you numb most of the time. I accept the gift and smirk. Pain touches my cheek lightly and roars hideously with mirth.

A curious relationship we have, pain and I. I know whenever it’s coming. I know which door it would come from. And I prepare for its arrival with a repellent heart and an indifferent face. Even when it suddenly throws tantrums like making the keyboard fly and smash into the ceiling and crash like a million dice thrown to spell one’s fate, I remain composed. I just throw my hands up in the air and laugh at its folly. Which was exactly what I did on that balmy night the keyboard collided with my ceiling. I tried catching the keys as they rained down on me but managed to catch only one, that which bore the letter “N.” For a while, I thought of stringing all the keys like beads to make a blasphemous rosary, but I thought it was too obscene. The keys just lay on the floor with their letters smiling, taunting me to play with them once again. But no, I have promised never to write about pain again. The smell of burnt fabric sickens me. And I cannot afford to have another plaster of goo on my walls. The keys, injured though they were, offered to articulate my thoughts for me. I said “Do as you please, this is a free world. Even broken keyboards have rights.”

That was how this post was written.

'till next week

2005-08-15T14:49:00.000+08:00

Cool people hang out with their friends. Attached people hang out with their partners. I hang out with my aging parents. I had a grand time with them yesterday afternoon. After going to Antipolo to attend to some important matter, we drove to Megamall to chill out and to finally have my father’s first album recorded. He’s been telling me he wanted to try out Karaoke King, a little booth where you go in, do an approximation of singing, and come out with your very own CD complete with a tacky inlay bearing your pic. Apparently, he’s not satisfied with just a cassette recording of his voice accompanied only by my piano. It just had to be in CD form and it had to sound like a real album. If Search for a Star had a category for senior citizens, my father would surely join it. In fact, if I remember it right, he did join one singing contest for antediluvian folks in a now-defunct TV show, and he bagged the first prize. He can be flaunty like that.

Being a doting son, I accompanied my showbizy father, with my mother in tow, to his first ever studio recording. He was more excited than a boy about to go on his first fuck.

“Do you have songs for ancient guys?” I asked the Karaoke King guy in Tagalog. He said they had a handful—some standards, remakes, and their re-arranged but unreleased versions. After leafing through their dog-eared songbook, we finally chose one Perry Como and four Frank Sinatra ditties. After that, my father set off on his recording stint.

The technician turned on the loudspeakers so that people within the vicinity would hear the recording. A few passers-by stopped and curiously peeked through the glass walls of the booth— some smiled; others looked amazed. I couldn’t tell if it was my father’s smooth crooning that got them or the fact that the booth contained a shabby-looking 70-year-old guy enjoying himself like a teeny-bopper. Probably both. I caught myself smiling proudly for being my father’s son.
My mother and I waited pleasantly, occasionally giggling, especially when my father messed up the lyrics of Sinatra’s My Way. I didn’t know hanging out with one’s folks was this fun. Or maybe I just miss them so much because I only get to see them weekends.

After getting the CD, my father gave the technician a lecture on how sucky the local music industry has become, preferring debonair singers who can’t sing rather than old but talented guys like him. I briefly imagined septuagenarians dancing and singing on Sunday variety shows on TV and cringed at the thought of seeing my father among them.

I walked them toward the other end of the mall where they had parked. I didn’t have to, really, but I just wanted to spend some more time with them before I head back to my boarding house.

At the exit, I said goodbye. My father lightly touched my godless back and gave me his standard “God bless you so on and so forth” parting message. I watched them turn around and walk away, my mother holding on to my father’s arm. They wobbled their way through the crowd and lost their faces there, becoming just an odd, old couple on their way home.

I had a great time with you, guys. 'Till next weekend.

lists, lists...

2005-08-12T16:54:00.000+08:00

Swimbud tagged me. I didn’t know it would be this hard to come up with lists of seven this or seven that. Anyhow, I survived it. There’s nothing to it, really. It’s just like finally getting your constipated shit out. Relief. That is good.

So here’s my shit.

Seven things I can do:
1) In one sitting, I can devour seven cups of rice, three different dishes (just veggies and fish, no red meat please), a basket of fruits, cakes, desserts, and drink three liters of water. I can do this thrice a day, everyday, without gaining a single pound. And I am not exaggerating.
2) swim at least 20 laps in an Olympic-size pool without stopping
3) fall asleep five minutes after resting my back on anything
4) fuck up my life and get out of the mess unscathed
5) speak French and a little German
6) walk long distance without getting tired
7) write in a flowing, elegant hand reminiscent of seventeenth-century calligraphy

5 CDs in your player:
1. Jonathan Larsen’s Rent
2. a collection of French songs by French artists
3. Les Misérables, 10th anniversary concert
4. Aida
5. Secret Garden

Seven things that scare me:
1) earthworms
2) murderers
3) hold-uppers
4) muggers
5) not finding meaning in life
7) myself

5 things I can't do (but tried):
1. be on time
2. project a friendly face to people I hate
3. wake up early
4. gain weight
5. lick my own ass

Seven things I like the most:
1) traveling abroad
2) drinking kiwi or mango shake with yogurt
3) lying on my belly while reading books
5) luscious red wine
6) tofu
7) sleeping in the nude

5 movies I’ve seen recently:
1. Sandalang House (at the digital Film Fest in Megamall)
2. The Machinist
3. White Chicks (on DVD)
4. Dance with Me (also on DVD. I wonder why J-Lo keeps on getting movie offers even if a piece of driftwood can show a wider range of emotions than she ever could. It must be the boobs.)
5. Fantastic Four (yes, I’ve seen that crap. Now shoot me.)

Seven important things in my room:
1) my diaries
2) books
3) computer
4) toys I played with as a kid
5) pictures I painted/drew
6) fluffy pillows
7) electric fan (I still live in the Paleolithic era)

5 nice things that happened to me lately:
1. had dinner with Adie and Ramil in an Italian Restaurant in Glorietta
2. a friend gave me a pencil case
3. I trimmed my toenails.
4. Just leave it at that. The rest are not so nice.
5.

Seven random thoughts on things:
1) If it’s too slippery and you can’t seem to get a good grasp, then don’t hang on. Learn to let go, stupid!
2) I wonder what my booger thinks whenever I pick it out of my nose and stick it under my table
3) Belief in a supernatural being does not necessarily translate to maturity. I wrote this in one of my egroups, in reaction to a friend’s insinuations about spirituality being the offshoot of maturity.
4) I feel like eating a bowl of yogurt with chunks of mangoes
5) We all get crucified and impaled and humiliated in front of a drooling pack of hypocrites for harboring unpopular views.
6) I don’t know what to do with my life.
7) I’m not weird. You are.

I’m supposed to pass this to five old friends and seven new ones. But since I’m no good at following rules (who the heck made these rules anyway) and I don’t want my inbox to be jammed with more than its normal dose of hate mails, I’ll just tag the following people. Ok, don’t panic, keep calm. Just send your death threats after making your own list. Or just forget that I tagged you.

1. Weng
2. Dionne and Joven
3. Tet
4. Marc
5. Yobeenoh
6. Sunset Eyes
7. Rmacapobre
8. muddy nights
9. Jen
10. All right, enough. That will do. Tired of copying and pasting links.

Transience, you should send me a gift for not tagging you, again!

a special caller

2005-08-09T12:20:00.000+08:00

A friend emailed me about contentment and taking risks. He said something about my life being so pregnant with exciting things. So much seems to be happening to me. I was mildly jolted. Can I really be projecting such a buoyant façade?

I told him that my life is far from what he has imagined. The crust belies the muck inside, nice and warm, sweetly twirling with bits of undigested steak.

Ennui always tugs at the fringes of my psyche, threatening to invade it if I won’t graciously let it in. Most of the time I do, albeit with reluctance. I offer it tea and cake and a platter of muck. Taste my soul, I would always say. And it would flash a wan smile as it slurps in my muck.

Conversations are always wry and bland.

"Would you like to talk to my liver instead?"

"No, thank you, I’d rather stay here and keep myself comfy."

"Suit yourself then."

That’s the part when we would both stare at the ceiling and scratch our balls until they bleed. And then it would scurry out without warning (Ennui, not my balls), leaving purple footprints on my floor. With repugnance and longing, I look out of the window and wait for its next visit.

Yes, so many exciting things happen in my life.

delirium

2005-08-06T14:04:00.000+08:00

I was almost delirious with fever for four days. If hell were real, I guess I had a taste of it last Tuesday, when the fever was at its scare-the-mercury-out-of-the-thermometer highest. I told my boss that I would be more useful in bed than in my cubicle. (bed as in sick bed, you perverts!) Which is another way of saying that I’m sick and tired of work. Good thing she was in a good mood and she readily allowed me to leave the office early. She probably thought that having a subordinate suddenly dropping on the floor, frothing in the mouth while convulsing and twisting and shouting “Yeah, hooded motherfucker with a skull head and a scythe thingie, take me, oh yes, take me and let me be your boy toy!” would be such an obscene sight to behold. Not that I would allow myself to die in such an overly mawkish, soap-opera-ish way. Not me. When it’s time for me to kick the bucket, I would die in style. I won’t allow anyone to say “Oh, look at that poor shit, he died like a true-blooded fucktard should.” When I die, I would inspire awe, wonder, dignity, and perhaps even eroticism. Of course you would have to kill me first to find out what I’m talking about.

So what happened from the time I went home from the office until today? I pretty much spent my time sleeping. Oh and what a shitty experience that was. It was so hot in my room I had to strip down to my underwear. It felt like a Freddie Kruger nightmare—not my underwear; I meant my condition. Merry imps danced the rumba inside my head. Every time I closed my eyes, weird thoughts wheezed through my subconscious; disjointed ideas shot through like idiotic Bush-inspired war jets; and unintelligible philosophies tap-danced on my cranium. It was kinda like this post, the only difference was that this time, every idea, every thought sent pain signals to my poor, woozy brain. What did I do to deserve to see imps with large hairy hands and small, three-toed feet and faces as surreal as Michael Jackson’s cavorting to Britney Spear’s latest crap? Oh, deities of the netherworld! Oh gods of Olympus, destroy me now and cut the “make him crazy” part short! I can’t take it anymore!

But of course, those assholes on Mount Olympus didn’t cut it short, otherwise they wouldn’t be called gods. So I had to take matters into my own hands. There’s no use writhing and thrashing in bed in my undies like a porn actor. On the third day, despite my heavy head, I dressed up, popped in some paracetamol, and did my best impression of a walking corpse. I figured it was the best time to do a long overdue transaction with my bank in the mall. I might just get them to approve my request just by showing my sallow face, sunken eyes and all. Can they really turn away a poor, dying guy?

Well apparently, they could. That’s what banks are for. After letting me wait for an hour, they told me that my request was subject for approval by the freaking manager and that the freaking manager will call me but don’t call us blah blah. What was that, a job interview?

And so, like a decaying carcass taking a promenade, I strolled out of the bank and into the mall, thinking if I should just go home or drop dead in one corner to get some love and attention. That’s when she texted.

“I’m in Starbucks, where are you?”

So much for seeking love and attention by pulling some stupid act. I hurriedly sprinted (in my current state, sprinting meant two slow strides a minute) to Starbucks. There she was with a friend from the office, remnants of coffee mixes rotting on their table. After the perfunctory pecking, necessary introductions, and customary small talk, her friend left.

“I’m so glad you were near, I was already getting bored with her,” she said. I told her I was terribly sick. She said she had with her some headache tablets she had intended to give to her mother; she could give me three of them. Since I couldn’t pop in those pills with a grumbling stomach, we went to eat in a restaurant.

For a while I forgot I was sick. We were laughing and swapping stories as if we hadn’t seen each other just two weeks ago. As is usually the case, our conversations spanned a gamut of topics, from the most serious to the most obscene. I can be open to her like that. What transpired between the two of us several lusty moons ago, apparently, did not destroy the friendship. It further strengthened the bond and made us more open to each other. How can I still withhold something from her when she has already seen me devoid of anything, figuratively and literally?

I intimated to her what I like about physical intimacy. And she said that’s exactly what she had in mind. We both agreed that, maybe, just maybe, the lusty moon would come shining down on us again. And we both laughed.

“I guess there’s a reason why we didn’t end up getting married. We’ve so many things in common our marriage would become bland at some point.”

I agreed. I like it better this way. Marriage is not the only thing that can bind two souls together. There’s something else infinitely stronger. And that’s what we have.

I felt healed when I saw her off that night. It was a refreshing feeling.

The next morning, I was back in my bed, thrashing and writhing in delirium again.

dive into my bowl

2005-07-26T12:41:00.000+08:00

I just have to say this. I now have a tagboard! Feel free to put anything you want there--views, comments, rants, obsceneties, philosophical musings, literary farts, intellectual cum, or invitations to orgies.

Oh and I have another blog. I created it a few months ago but it’s not updated, which means it’s pointless to direct you there really, but, what the heck. Go check it out if you want to. It’s a free country.

these fucktards made my day!

2005-07-21T11:53:00.000+08:00

It’s good to be in the company of friends who don’t regard me as a museum oddity. Friends who can read through the massive fortress I have erected to shield my feebleness; friends who offer me a puff of their Dunhill cigarettes and encourage me, a non-smoker, to go on and try it like I were some high school kid; friends who would offer to give me a wet smooch, tongue and all, whenever I feel I’ve been shortchanged by love; friends who would listen to and argue with me at Starbucks, oftentimes impaling me with their scathing diatribes for fucking up my own life; friends who strive to see things through my eyes without necessarily conceding; friends who don’t look at me like I was a talking specimen of alien life forms from Pluto; friends who do not lick my ass now and bugger it with a chainsaw the next moment; friends who do not go around announcing to the whole world how dirty my undies are.

Oh yes, they do exist. Through billows of cigarette smoke, they give you their smirks and smiles and dirty fingers. Over tall glasses of Frapuccino, they slap you awake with crisp curses, obscenities, and blasphemies so hard that the customers on the other table think you’re a bunch of Satanists out on a holiday. Whenever you’re feeling blue, they would not even try to comfort you. They’d tear and mangle and desecrate your very soul while trying to decipher your psyche. And then, when you’re already dismembered and bleeding, they would knock you down with their own take on your issues and suddenly you feel like a lame fucktard for having felt depressed in the first place and then you’d just laugh your ass off and then put your ass back in place and laugh it off again and slap it back in place ad infinitum.

After hanging out with them last night, I felt I could breathe again.

where the pool ends

2005-07-19T10:45:00.000+08:00

When I was just starting on lap swimming, I never stopped in the middle of the pool. I used to goad myself to go and touch the tiled wall on the other side. It was my little personal goal. A lap, once started, should always be finished. No stopping in the middle of the pool however breathlessly tired I was. I thought, if I could not finish this, then how could I expect to finish my thesis, or anything for that matter?

That’s how I encouraged myself to take lap swimming seriously. I did finish my thesis, albeit haphazardly, and some other little triumphs on the side. But now I feel I haven’t been touching the tiled wall on the other side that much. The water is now too cloudy to give me a clear picture of what’s ahead, not to mention the other swimmers who produce more current disturbance than a quadruple-boiler ship. Sometimes I even end up unwittingly encroaching on other swimmers’ lanes, duped into believing that their goals are mine, too. Sometimes the tides change and I feel I am swimming toward where I came from, suddenly finding comfort and repugnance with the familiar.

Most of the time, I feel the tiled wall at the end of the pool does not exist at all.

and you call that rambling?

2005-07-15T17:32:00.000+08:00

Whenever bloggers write ‘I’m just rambling on in here,’ I always roll my eyes and say, ‘you call that rambling?’ It does not even come close to being disjointed, confused, and inconsequential. Compared to my ramblings, theirs are literary masterpieces. When I ramble on, I really ramble on, without thinking of the sense or organization of what I write. Or maybe I’m just more bored than most drifters here in blogosphere. Yeah, maybe that’s it. I’m way too bored to even try to tidy up my thoughts. Or I’ve really gone bonkers but don’t want to admit it. Or my brain’s pretending it still has some functioning dendrites when in fact it has nothing but sawdust floating around like white thingies in a snow globe.

Whatever the state of my mind is, I know I can ramble and babble and jabber and prattle and talk nonsense very well, thank you very much. That’s what I do best. Come to think of it, this whole freaking blog is just a load of nonsensical, higgledy-piggledy bullshit.

Anyway, I saw this file being eaten by termites inside my hard disk. I decided to extricate it from the deepest bowels of my disgruntled Drive C: and air it out here a bit. I wrote it in a brief moment of dementia (which is not infrequent, by the way); finished it in one minute tops, without pausing, without thinking, without reflecting, without breathing. I entitled it…

The Principle of Trajectory Endeloscopic Malfunction within the Context of Eloidical Amalgamation of Presumptions: A Philosophical Treatise

With the introduction of all the possible protracted imperfections resulting from interlocutions of elitist ponderings, now wanting in castrated ramifications, now smelling of placated shimmering, or oscillated windows, all lip service of the shod of the matron who consecrates the mawkish wanderings of the prefect whose wife meanders into the marshes of sanctimonious leprosy, warrants undivided attention. Why then must the lusty porcupines finger the listless fodder of the lemur? Because of travesty and megalomania? And what of the leaping umbilical protection afforded by the lackey’s blistered lopsided mush? In this never-colliding machinery, the spent locomotors cease to entangle plausible pundits. However, knowing fully well the recalcitrant domain of the king’s loquacious plenary trappings, the amalgamation of slivers and trapezoids arrests the vortex of seasoned ebbing. This very senile shade, in whose folds rests another rapacious yet cranky shenanigan, sees the effervescent pleadings of a truncated, masticated, and emaciated tendon. If, however, we perceive a contraction in the mezzanine of canonical bonkers, the sanguine pores of the meticulously calibrated scumbag leaps into another zooming goulash. Granting that this perception tingles the trumpeted finesse, the pockmarked leasing of unity’s posh canine holster must not presuppose a possible beating.

The presumption, therefore, of a bloated linden nourishment trims our intellectual perspicuity into another lobbying enigma, a trinket in limbo, a princely innuendo of a precarious, elemental contrition. Of all the lampooned premises, this one creates a lucid tinkering of a nunnery. Could it be the legalese that a horde of rambunctious lechers lubricates to form an elephantine ermine? Perhaps it is, or perhaps not, judging, I presume, from a kinetic celerity that chases the perfected onomatopoeic pontifical crest. However, my proposition adjuncts an overarching, lashing yet brocaded plummet into a hegemonic pandemonium. If this is the hemispherical bolstering, then the crowned, pilfered stealth of a crinoline piston does more to the draconian fleeter.

Provided that the fictitious shamble procures a sabbatical amputation, however suppositorial or endemical, we can project a pincer. And why not? Shall lisping be tiered to fixate moribund somnambulism? That would be a stark contradiction of Leplupaditot’s theory of transcendental implications. Lost within the peristaltic embellishment of the pristine mesentery of a Calvinist torque, we can, in all filigreed somnolence and opulence, extricate the limpid sonority of aquiline prosthetics.

glitz, glam, and boys in thongs

2005-07-13T17:52:00.000+08:00

I was at the glitzy opening ceremonies of the the Cinemalaya Film Fest at the lobby of CCP’s Main Theater last night.

Cinemalaya is a bid to resuscitate the dying film industry by encouraging the production of independent quality films. Six short films were premiered that night, amid pomp and pageantry. In the darkened lobby, only spotlights on the floor illumined the platform that was diffused with stage smoke. All the huge, swanky chandeliers were draped with white, gauzy cloth. Amid half naked male dancers with gleaming body paints and fancy headdresses, the filmmakers were hailed like returning Roman conquerors. I was, like, OK enough with the hype. We’ve already been convinced that it’s worth our while. No need for trumpety fanfare. Cut the garish bullshit and let us get on with the damn films!

After an overly dramatic performance of the theme song by Grace Nono, who staged a faggoty entrance via the grand, twisting, smoke-choked staircase, we were instructed by the voice-over girl to “follow the balangay (ancient pre-Hispanic boat) toward the Little Theater.”

And so, led by Grace Nono in an ethnic-inspired, Graeco-Roman robe and silver-painted boys wearing nothing but silver thongs (where the hell did the women in thongs go?), rowing their oars in theatrical slow-mo, we all trooped toward the Little Theater while a recording of Grace’s voice suffused the misty air. With all the TV cameras around, I felt like a Hollywood star on my way to the Oscars as I walked down the carpeted stairs leading to the Little Theater, forcing myself not to get distracted by the bare back of the woman in front of me, who just slung some cloth to cover her breasts. (Down boy, down.)

Inside the theater, the naked boys, again, struck a pose onstage, still rowing and doing some mild body movements in synch with the theme song’s MTV playing on the screen behind them. When we’re all settled, the filmmakers were called onstage for the nth time for yet another round of hail-the-returning-conquerors blah blah. Not again! This sort of stuff should come after the screening, when we would have already judged the merits of their films.

After all the rah-rah, the films were finally shown. I must say they were gems. I won’t go into the nitty-gritty of each of the six films. Suffice it to say that most of these filmmakers know how to tell a story effectively, however mundane their subject matters are. They used powerful images that would impact you emotionally but would not gross you out unnecessarily. Sure these films could use some polishing at the edges, some trimming of overwrought psychological exploration, and more fine-tuning to make their plots tighter. But as a whole, they do rise slightly above the standard fare. I noticed, though, that Hollywoodish filming style has crept into the crevices of our film industry so deep that even supposedly indie maverick filmmakers have taken to it with ease. Gone are the long, drawn-out, contemplative scenes that invite the viewer to participate by way of introspection and interpretation. In its place is a swiftly paced, cut-to-cut editing typical of MTV, which does not leave you much headroom for some thought processes. Having said this, I still immensely enjoyed watching those short films. Maybe there is still hope for our degenerate movie industry. The only problem is, how do we mainstream these films? How do we create a market for them?

But that’s the least of my concerns right now. Until such time that these films can already elbow out trashy commercial flicks, I would continue to patronize indie film fests, gaudy thonged boys notwithstanding.

cancer of the armpits

2005-07-08T11:59:00.000+08:00

I bumped into Jaybee at the office cafeteria a week or two ago. Why are you having lunch alone, he asked. I said I didn’t want any company. I hate gossiping. Let me gossip with you then, he replied. So he sat at my table and started talking to me about how rotten the system was. Now that was no gossip. I couldn’t agree more with what he said. After rattling off stinking tidbits of power politics in the office, we ended up talking about the government. I said there seems to be no point in working for the government. Everything you do is just for show. You’re just one huge roll-on deodorant that masks the stench of the presidential armpits. He said the whole machinery does just that, to make the President look good.

Studies have shown that deodorants can cause cancer of the armpits or something. That means the President’s armpits, underarm hair and all, are already stricken with some kind of malignant, incurable tumor. We should pity her. Poor Gloria.

get the hell out of there

2005-07-07T12:51:00.000+08:00

It is hard not to take a stand these days. The political ruckus is just too disconcerting to ignore. As much as I want to convince myself that my activism died on that surreal day when the moron was deposed and the opportunist was thrust into power, I cannot force my mind to shrug it all off and focus on more important things in my life. After all, where would these ‘important things’ be if my country is spiraling down the drain like tapeworms being flushed down the toilet bowl?

The president must resign. Now. She must stop scaring the country by dangling the prospect of a Noli de Castro presidency, which Vishnu knows, would probably be worse than Erap clambering up the presidential throne again. But that’s beside the point. She has already lost what little credibility she had when she first ascended the presidency. She can still resuscitate her dying dignity (I’m assuming, of course, that she is still dignified after what she has owned up to) by resigning, and thus, ridding us all of an undeserved albatross around our neck. This has gone on for so long. Her apology, at best, merely soldered the public’s suspicion that she indeed cheated in last year’s presidential elections. The public can never lap up the mea culpa of a sorry-ass president pretending to be wallowing in contrition. Seasoned thespian Zenaida Amador, who used to coach her in her State of the Nation Addresses, is already dead. She has no acting coach to make her statements believable now, which explains her catatonic posturing during that laughable, televised apology.

What I find terribly disheartening, though, is the fact that the opposition itself is just as tainted as Gloria. Their only concern is to push Erap’s fat ass back into Malacañang, or at least, get him off the hook. And then there’s the brooding nightmare of Noli de Castro taking over the reins. A military junta is out of the question, and so is the transition government being peddled by the clergy. This kind of thinking is dangerous, especially in these times. Who would constitute this transition government? Who would choose them? And by what power would they choose them? This perhaps, would invite other sectors to venture into political adventureerism. If a group of personalities could take it upon themselves to elect a body to rule, then what stops other groups from doing the same?

An extra-constitutional solution will merely send our economy plunging down the depths of whatever is under Hell. But judging from what has been happening, this might be the only thing that would make Gloria leave the palace. Contrary to what some sectors are saying, this solution is not exactly unconstitutional. As constitutional expert Father Bernas put it, the Constitution recognizes the right of the people to revolt. But a peaceful uprising would never fructify if the middle class and the military would not join it. The former is still making up its mind as to whichever is better: tribulations with Gloria or hell with Noli; and the latter is still weighing its options, possibly thinking of how it could highjack the situation to their own advantage.

But then again, are we not doing the country more harm than good if we take this path?

We are only left with one solution. And that is for the president and the vice president to resign. Noli’s mandate is as questionable as the honor of the president he serves. These two should leave their posts vacant for the conduct of a snap election. The officials of the Commission on Election, too, must resign to give this process some semblance of credibility. Either that or we go for more drastic measures like a charter change that would usher in a parliamentary government or federalism. We can’t just sit and pray and hope that everything goes well. Whether or not we accept it, things will still get worse. And no amount of praying can help it.

photo from news.yahoo.com

the boy that was

2005-07-04T10:32:00.000+08:00

Hey, kid. Come here. No, don’t run away. I’m no pedophile. I won’t make you drop your pants and fondle your tiny weenie. Please. I just want to talk.

Here, sit beside me. There you go. Ah, your eyes, how could I forget those long lashes, droopy eyelids, and thick brows?

Let me see the scar on the bridge of your nose. Good thing that wooden folding fan struck you at that exact spot. If it had missed by a fraction of an inch, you would’ve ended up with just one eye. Don’t ask me how I knew about this. I just do.

He still has that scar and he still keeps that wooden fan.

What is that you’re holding? Can I see it? A book? You wrote it yourself? That’s wonderful. Choose your own adventure. Oh, so you patterned it after the famous series. Cool. And you have another one? An unfinished detective novel set in Victorian England? Wow. So you really got something out of reading Sherlock Holmes, Hardy Boys, Agatha Christie mysteries, and Poirot novels.

He does dabble in writing, too, albeit not as beautifully as you would have wanted him to. He had written a few short stories and some essays but he’s still struggling to have his works published. Only two, so far, have seen print. The shit that gets published by his office doesn’t count. Oh, shit, don’t say shit. It’s a bad word, OK?

Writing is such a bitch, you know. And he doesn’t know if that’s what he’s cut out to do. He loves the craft. But he doesn’t have the requisite flair.

Do you still paint? I know you turned one whole wall in your parents’ house into your own mini-Louvre. You painted your own version of Mona Lisa and a detail of a Pompeii fresco in watercolor. You even mounted pictures of Venus de Milo, Aphrodite, and the Pièta that you had cut out from glossy art magazines.

He still paints once in a while. He has done a couple of nude paintings and some symbolic subjects in watercolor. One time, he painted a nude Christ crucified against the shadow of a hooded figure. His mom got so shocked when she saw it hanging on his bedroom wall. No, it’s not sacrilege. It has nothing to do with Jesus. It’s more of a social commentary. But you’re too young to understand that, kid. And they’re all too devout to get the message.

He does have his own ‘mini-Louvre’ at the office, within his little blue cubicle whose walls he adorns with his own watercolor attempts. But painting, too, like writing, has eluded him.

He has come face to face, though, with Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, and the Pièta. And the experience exhilarated him. But that’s as far as he could go.

I am boring you, am I not? I mustn’t talk so much about him. Why don’t you talk about yourself, kid? What are you up to now? What’s keeping you busy? Spanish? You’re learning Spanish? They’ve long abolished that in high school. And you’re not even done with sixth grade. Oh, you’re learning it by yourself? You found your sister’s old Spanish textbook and you are now studying it without anyone’s help? That’s great. You seriously want to become an old-world geek, huh?

Well, no, he doesn’t speak Spanish. He speaks a little French and is now learning German. He just doesn’t know what the heck these languages have to do with his life.

You have this penchant for learning things on your own. I like that. I especially like how you learned to play the piano. You bought piano books and taught yourself how to read notes, practicing with your niece’s toy keyboard. And then, when the notes ventured to the extremities of the musical staves, you drew three octaves of piano keys on a cardboard and practiced there even without hearing how the notes sounded. By the time your family bought you a rusty, second-hand piano, you can already sight-read.

He doesn’t have the time to play the piano anymore. He used to play such fine pieces like the first movement of Beethoven’s Sonata Quasi Una Fantasia or Jim Chappell’s Gone. But not anymore. His piano is now home to roaches, mice, mosquitoes, and Vishnu knows what else.

How he misses those days. Especially the first few weeks after the piano was bought. The original owner was Cookie, a tanned pretty lass that looked too sophisticated for a fifteen-year-old girl. She started frequenting his house after the sale, under the pretense that she missed her piano. Soon, Cookie and he were playing piano duets; chief of them was the irritatingly stale Blue Moon.

They had something going on, he and Cookie. Oh, yes, she admitted it through faintly scented love letters. Allusions to Erik of Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera were actually referring to him and no one else. I know it was such a macabre way to refer to your crush. And quite insulting, too. But he took it all in. He actually delighted in them because he had feelings for her. But he found her too aggressive, his teenaged heart was not yet used to the convolutions of flirtations and flings. Oh, but he has grown up since then. He knows better now. He would never pass up such an opportunity again.

How about you, kid? Tell me about your long-time crush, Karen. Oh, come on, loosen up. These things are natural. It’s all right to talk about them. Crushes, relationships, and sex are a part of life. Don’t be too shy. You might be surprised when you see him now. He’s no longer as timid as you are, no longer saddled with masturbatory guilt. Jacking off did not make him blind. So much has changed. He even—oh, I’m sorry. Am I scaring you? Forgive me. Please, don’t cry, kid. There’s no need to. Nobody will bully you. No one would call you a sissy klutz.

And nobody would tease you again for being the only born-again Christian in your class. Guess what, he found a great solution to that. He discarded religion all together! If you ask him about it, he’ll just say “Fuck religion!” Ooops, no, don’t say fuck. You didn’t hear me say fuck. Fuck is a bad word. You can do it later on in life, but don’t say it now, OK? Kids should not go around saying fuck all the time.

You’re scared again. No, he’s not a monster. He just does not believe in those stuff anymore. Things change as one grows up. And gods lose their haloes over time. You’ll understand these things soon.

I bet you’ll get even more scared if I tell you that he almost joined the communist movement up in the boondocks.

What? No. Please don’t leave yet, kid. Me and my big mouth! You shouldn’t get mad at him. He is just following his heart. Please stay. Please.

If you must know, he is very proud of you!

He often tells me how you sang live on a Christian radio station, how your voice was heard by millions all over the country. He cherishes that memory. He once lent his voice to worthy causes too. Like you, he is no stranger to the stage. He just got kicked out from the theater company he joined because he always sings off key.

He also treasures your collection of academic medals. He even added a dozen more to it, though he no longer equates medals with intellectual maturity. He’d rather boast of your matchbox cars and ziggy toy collection. Sometimes, when nobody sees him, he still plays with your toys, desperate to see you again through them. But you never showed up.

You are very special to him, even if you had once wished for him to die after college. Unfortunately, he didn’t die. He is very much alive. And he wants to see you, if you would only let him. I only wish that you give him this chance to meet you. You don’t have to like him. He just needs to connect with you again. Just this one time. He misses you. After this, you can forget about him if you like. Don’t worry; he is as nervous as you are.

So, shall we go see him now?

i've been tagged

2005-07-01T14:16:00.000+08:00

There are necessary evils in blogoshpere. And this is one of them. Since I’m trying to be a good citizen of this crazy community, I’ll try to do my obligation like a proper, law-abiding schoolboy. Weng, I’ll be sending you truckloads of viruses by the end of this month. Just wait.

Instructions:

List down five things you enjoy doing, even when no one around you wants to go out and play.What lowers your stress/blood pressure/anxiety level?Post the list on your journal and then tag 5 friends and ask them to post it on theirs.

Ok, here it goes:

1. pinching my nipples till they bleed

What? Sado-masochistic fantasies don’t count? Ok, strike that one out.

1. a long swim in a huge pool, uninterrupted by critters who swish and splash like they’ve never seen chlorinated water before.

2. reading a great book on a hammock while sipping black Russian with cherry

3. listening to Secret Garden, Orff’s Carmina Burana, Debussy, or Rent.

4. sight-reading new piano pieces that rock

5. staring at the blurring, passing countryside through a bus window

now, I pass the curse to the following people. If you break the chain, your anus will seal up faster than you can say “that sucks!”

1. Dionne and Joven
2. Tet
3. Marc
4. Jen
5. Just put Dionne down here and Joven on number one.

one hundred years of surrealism

2005-06-30T10:42:00.000+08:00

I skipped gym to go to Manila Cathedral’s crypt tonight, hoping that, since Jaime Cardinal Sin was buried there yesterday, the crypt would still be open for people who want to pay their last respect, like what the Vatican did to St. Peter’s grottoes days after the Pontiff was buried. I don’t give a damn about the late prelate or what he stood for. I just want to seize the opportunity to get inside the crypt and take pictures. I have this thing for old churches.

But what I saw along the way was something far more interesting.

While walking along General Luna Street, I heard what seemed to be the strains of an orchestra blaring from loudspeakers. It was coming from one of the two humongous, air-conditioned tents called Clamshells erected a block away from the exquisite San Agustin Church.

Outside the tent was a small crowd dressed in red shirts with the word FIRM (Friends of Imelda Romualdez Marcos) in bold letters. They were carrying placards that said “We love you Madame Imelda” and “Mother, We Need You!” Curious, I crossed the street to investigate.

At the entrance of the Clamshell was a big picture of Imelda Marcos in her youth. It was, apparently, her birthday. She does have a reason to celebrate. Not everyone gets to be half as old as God. Whoever originated that local proverb about evil weeds having long lives should receive a Nobel Prize.

I peered through the glass entrance of the tent. Cramped onstage was a chamber orchestra playing a dramatic arrangement of the love song Ikaw (You). The hall was packed with round dinner tables and hundreds of Marcos loyalists craning their necks to get a better view of the performers. Just below the stage, lit by a spotlight was Madame herself in all her frivolous glory, standing beside a violinist who was playing the solo parts of the song. She was resplendent in a heavily embroidered, sequined avocado green stylized national dress.

I couldn’t believe it. Was I actually seeing the Steel Butterfly herself? Let me check, trademark 60’s coiffed hair; unique facial contortion that is a cross between theatrical sorrow and regal condescension, yup that’s her all right. Man, was she radiant! But then again, if your Swiss bank accounts were as fat as hers, it would be almost sacrilegious not to look radiant and true and good and beautiful.

I left the party and continued walking toward the cathedral. When I found out that it was already closed, I hurried back to Imelda’s birthday bash to peer through the glass walls again. The scene was just too delectable to be ignored.

This time, a group of middle-aged female followers whose get-up seemed to have been frozen in the 80s was singing Madame’s favorite song, Dahil Sa ‘Yo (Because of You) to the twangs of an untamed electric guitar.

I had goosebumps. I shuddered in delight. I simply love this country. Just last Monday, the President did a Clinton as she admitted on national TV that she was the voice in the controversial tapes, practically implying that she rigged the presidential elections last year. The same people that overthrew her predecessor and catapulted her into power are now amassing against her. The peso has sunk to abysmal depths against the dollar. Oil prices are up. Senators are morons. Corruption is an art form. And before me was the ousted dictator’s widow shedding tears of joy on cue. Beautiful. Magic realism can’t get any better than this.

No, this is beyond magic realism. It’s a class on its own. I could almost imagine Gabriel Garcia Marquez concocting another epic—One Hundred Years of Surrealism. Beautiful. Just beautiful.

photo from BBC News

the interview game

2005-06-29T12:03:00.000+08:00

This is one of the little games that has been jumping around from blog to blog these days. You ask someone who has been interviewed by someone else to interview you. You, in turn, offer to interview people who signify their interest in the game. I had asked Transience to throw me some questions. Here they are.

Trans: you once said to me that my words would make pablo neruda green with envy. what would they make ee cummings? explain why.

Me: e. e. cummings would want to sleep with you.

I don’t know if you like him or not, but I guess he’d like your style. His crisp words and stark images that fall out like strands of wiry hair from a senile head call to mind your own writing style. Grace on paper. Passion in ink. Call it what you will. I guess you two would get along well. Also, you might want to teach him to drink tea with milk. I’m assuming, of course, that you like his style, too.

I’d stop now before your ego starts to bloat.

OK, you can laugh out loud now.

Trans: you like anything to do with the ass. aside from love potions you would fashion into suppositories, what are the other things you would shove up your deep, dark realm?

Me: Oh do I? I never noticed that. Maybe I’m still stuck in Freud’s anal stage and never progressed from there.

I’d love to shove up my ass shredded pages from The Purpose-Driven Life or The Alchemist or any of those feel-good books. That way, I won’t have to bring toilet paper the next time I go to the bathroom. I just have to shit it out together with my feces.

Trans: let's say you are agnosticism's harshest critic. write a scathing, 150-word letter to me that will make me feel shame for being an agnostic. use anouk, my real name, in your salutation.

Me: my dear anouk,

Let me get this straight, you’re fucking with things you don’t understand. What kind of alien philosophy are you harboring? Agnosciti—, see! I can’t even spell the damned thing. I’ll tell you what, God loves you more than anything in this whole god-damned world. He gives a shit about you all the time. Why don’t you give him a chance to show you how much he loves you, you worthless, unbelieving piece of stilettoed shit! After giving you everything—and that includes your excellent facility with the language—is this how you’ll thank him? Such an ungrateful animal you are! If you must know, Kafka cannot lease you some prime property up in heaven. For all you know, that Kafka guy is metamorphosing into a cockroach in Hell at this very moment, to the delight of Satan. Maybe you should start reading your bible more than Kafka (refer to answer to Question Number 2 for ways to dispose of this evil book) so you’d get to understand the mysteries of resurrection and shit. God died for you, remember that. If your best friend saved your ass (there goes the a-word again) from sure death, would you slap her and call her a bitch? Think about it. You still have time. Repent and be saved. And don’t forget your tithes while you’re at it.

Love and prayers,
Chris

Trans: i will ask you to woo me with a five-line verse written in german. or french. your choice. provide a translation, please.

Me: My French-speaking readers—especially Elsa, who is a true-blooded Parisian—may want to correct my grammar here.

Je n’écris pas comme Kafka
Je ne pense pas comme Marquez
Mon cerveau raconte n’importe quoi.
Mes mots ne blessent que le vent mourant
Mais je peux te déshabiller et lire ton âme.

I don’t write like kafka
I don’t think like Marquez
My mind talks nonsense
My words scathe nothing but the dying wind
But I can undress you and read your soul.

Trans: if there is one question you would not want me to ask you, what would it be? provide the answer to this question.

Me: Where are you headed? I hate being asked this question because I simply cannot answer it. I’m always floating without knowing exactly where to go or how to proceed, be it in my professional or personal life. It’s perhaps my juvenile indecisiveness that constantly claws at my already scratched-up mind, or soul if you will. As a kid, I had once wished to die right after college because I didn’t know how to lead my life after school. School, at least, provides you with a set and rigid framework that you can easily breeze through. Give it your best shot and you’ll easily graduate with honors. But life is a lot trickier. I am still very much in control of my life, still the proverbial “master of my fate and captain of my soul.” But as to where exactly I’m sailing remains to be known. I pick up my cues from the stars or the whales that dance around my ship.

Ok, here are the rules of the game:
1. if you want to participate, leave a comment below saying interview me or any other permutation of the phrase.

2. i will respond by asking you five questions—each person’s will be different.

3. you will update your site with the answers to the questions.

4. you will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.

5. when others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions. and so on and so forth. this is a redundant rule but i guess lists look better when they come in multiples of five.

here comes skeletor

2005-06-23T10:10:00.000+08:00

I have a new inspiration at the gym—my trainer.

I only have to look at his body to remind me of my goal. Standing just an inch taller than I am, he has muscles that seem to have been the result of a botched-up cosmetic surgery. Narrow shoulder blades hold two arms that are too small for his bulky chest, which makes him look like a duck when he walks—chest comes first before the wings. Too much working out has made his veins stick out like angry tubes. He has stretch marks near his armpits and he proudly wears them like battle scars. His ectomorphic frame must’ve endured much hardship to grow those disproportionate muscles. His tiny, skull-like head is framed by velvety, shoulder-length hair that sways gloriously when he does his crunches. I wonder if working out makes your head shrink. I’ve been told that one’s dick gets smaller with too much weight lifting, which, by the way, is a grossly unfounded myth. But the head?

At times, he reminds me of a hairy raisin pinned on top of a large potato chunk, or a dehydrated Skeletor who just had a dialysis.

Oh but he is my inspiration. One look at him and I know what I should not strive for.

my swim team

2005-06-21T12:57:00.000+08:00

“How do you do that, kuya? Can you teach me how to do that?” A boy asked me when I reached the other end of the Olympic-size pool. I didn’t reply. I just smiled and thought of the most creative way to shoo him away so I could continue my laps. I haven’t swum in about a month. I deserve some peace and quiet while I wrestle with my favorite element.

Before I knew it, his other kiddie friends were already swarming around me, their shrill voices scratching off my eardrums.

“Yeah, kuya, that was great! How do you do that?”

“Teach me how to swim, too.”

“Me too!”

“Count me in!”

And so I became an instant swimming instructor. There was no point in dampening their enthusiasm. I couldn’t switch on my jerk mode to kids. I can’t bawl them out like I did to this idiotic French woman who shouted at me because she didn’t want her hair to get wet in the pool. I slapped cusswords on her face, both in English and in French. That snooty bitch! Just because I was in her country doesn’t mean that she had the right to order me around like she owned the fucking pool.

But that’s a different story. These kids didn’t mind getting their hair wet. And they didn’t mind having me as their swim coach.

Recalling my swim class days, I started out with correct breathing.

“Like this, manong, like this? Am I doing it right, manong?”

No, you’re doing it wrong, kid. Release the air through your nose.

“Oh yeah, like this, manong? I can do it now, manong.”

Yeah, whatever. Ok, moving on. Floating. Try to float face down, with your arms stretched in front of you, on the water.

“That’s so hard, manong. Let’s go to that arm movement thing now, manong. Come on, teach us that, manong.”

Ok, let me get this straight, pesky kid. You’ve got to learn how to keep your ass floating before you could do the strokes, do you understand? And please, stop calling me manong if you don’t want to end up puking and shitting chlorinated water by the time we’re done, is that clear?

Now, the feet. This is how you propel yourself through the water. Watch me do it.

“I can see kuya’s briefs! I can see his briefs underwater!”

That’s called trunks, dearie. And give me back my goggles before you see other unsightly apparitions down there.

Now, you kids practice what I taught you and then I’ll come back. I’ll just do a few more laps, is that all right?

“Yes, kuya!”

And I swam away from the excited younglings as fast as I could. When I returned, they were still at it, swimming away like wiggly ducks, except one chubby girl.

“Why aren’t you practicing what I taught you?” I asked.

“I’m tired. It’s just too difficult. What’s your name, kuya? I’m Jenny and that boy is so-and-so and that other boy is so-and-so and that girl is blah blah”

Only her name stuck. Jenny.

“How did you learn to swim like that, kuya?” Jenny asked.

I took lessons when I was a kid like you, I replied.

I was actually enjoying hanging out with them! I usually don’t bring friends along whenever I go lap swimming because they always distract me, especially those whose idea of swimming is clinging onto the side tiles until moss grows over their fingers. We have a special thing going on, water and I. That’s where I become free and whole and one with my spirit. And I don’t want anybody to disrupt that.

But these kids were different. Perhaps it was their enthusiasm to learn that got me. I don’t know.

Since the pool would be closing in an hour, I told Jenny I had to do more laps and then swim back again to give them more swimming tips. When I reached the other end of the pool, I heard a man reprimanding his two sons for having talked to a stranger. Funny how two different worlds can exist on two sides of a pool.

I smiled. The scene was so ironically unnatural like a contrived plot. Clearly, it was not the side of the pool where I should be hanging out.

I swam back to the other side, where kids were free to take swimming lessons from strangers and where my swim team was struggling with their laps. I had yet to teach them the arm movement.

artists and armpits

2005-06-17T11:52:00.000+08:00

‘Watched another presentation of the French Spring in Manila Fest at the Republic of Malate last night, a mélange of abstract dance forms, light acrobatics, and comic acts. These French artists always have this distinct I-don’t-care-what-you-think-of-my-art air that works well with their haughty, almost raw artistry. The music was provided by an ensemble of bongo players, percussionists, and an accordion player with a beret. So typically campagnard. ‘Reminded me of virtousic musicians at the Metro asking for a few coins, spicing an otherwise boring trip through dark tunnels and stinky train stations that looked like oversized bathrooms. If we only had such musicians in our trains here, then smelling the stench of other passengers’ armpits would be more bearable.

orgasmic

2005-06-10T16:34:00.000+08:00

Bows glided in fury. Masses of red locks wildly thrashed. Black gowns creased and rumpled over quivering legs excited by cleanly executed trills. And Poulenc did cartwheels onstage.

Oboes pedaled up in silky restraint. Young, white, feminine muscles on bare arms contracted with every agonized pianissimo. Eyelashes flitted like flies escaping the swat. And Prokofiev limped gaily with one leg.

Flabby cheeks shook jelly-like with passion. Worn-out leather shoes traced the rhythm on the carpeted floor. The uncontrolled tittering of a half-Japanese, half-French violinist infected the crowd with mirth. And Debussy jacked off in front of us.

“She must have had jutes, that girl,” my seatmate, a classmate in German class, was referring to the giggling half-Japanese performer. Maybe I had jutes, too. I could feel it. Either that or the wine I had gulped in the lobby was now tickling my brain cells. And my limp body was surfing the air thick with the wailing of strings.

One more number and I was already one of those animals in Saint-Saëns’ Le Carnaval des Animaux, jumping about in ecstasy, cavorting to the bassoon’s gossips.

The French performers had requested that the aircon be turned off. It’s bad for the instruments, they claimed. The Francisco Santiago Hall of PCI Bank was, therefore, a bit warm that night. Add to that the heat generated by the young musicians whose passion seared the walls, and of course, the hot, heavy breathing of the guy seated on my left, who was already seeing talking cellos and walking clarinets in his dreams.

The zest of the performers was contagious. It was clearly their life. And they were living every note of it. Every flick of the bow, every dizzying cadenza, every squirting glissando was relished. They were enjoying the whole experience, and so was I.

Fingers stabbed the ivory keys. Applause attacked the ceiling like drugged bats. Seats clinked and creaked as the audience rose for an ovation. And I had an orgasm.

sucking blackhole

2005-06-08T13:49:00.000+08:00

Procrastination has a luscious appeal to me. I’m supposed to whip something up about Bamboo and Mishka Adams for my other job. But here I am, writing this stupid post instead. Wasting what little time I have is something I’m adept at. It’s sheer joy. It’s bliss. Like marinating your dendrites in vodka before a major exam.

I feel I have the right to laze around because this morning, I had a dream. And I don’t usually dream. Dreams are as ridiculously remote to me as those million-dollar vintage items being auctioned off on eBay. So it’s either my body is in dire need of defragmentation or the universe is about to implode and it’s telling me to sort out my fucked up existence before it sends my ass whirling into some hungry blackhole that will suck me in like a blowjob. Either way, the best thing to do is to bum around. Relax. Chill out. Take off your shoes and philosophize about your wiggling toes. That’s the way to go when dreams suddenly appear like warts in your sleep.

Anyhow, about my dream. This is how I remember it, more or less:

I am in a darkened drawing room with badly upholstered couches and shoddy armchairs (funny, it reminds me of Cez’s living room in Rosario). I am taking a foreign language class with a handful of classmates slouched on the sofa. Suddenly, the sliding door opens and in comes a friend (who is now in the States) from Lingua Franca. She’s dressed in an elegant, sexy red gown with a sprinkling of red sequins or red swarowski diamonds. I am surprised to find her in Manila. She pulls me out of the room and puts her arms around me. Then she kisses me on the mouth. I notice the smudged rouge on her lips. I wipe it with my right hand. Then we kiss again, this time, I initiate it, but without tongue acrobatics, just moist lips and saliva and smeared lipstick.

And then I wake up.

Ok, that’s just it. I have no psychological babble, sexual or otherwise, to go with that. Freud can fuck Jung for all I care. Dreams don’t mean much to me, not unless they are of the wet variety. If that’s the case, then bring it on every night. I won’t mind. The sheets can always be laundered afterwards.

So why am I blogging about this dream if it means nothing to me? I’m wasting my time, remember? What better way to spend those precious minutes than by rambling on about some aborted, potentially erotic dream. But just the same, I did inform the girl about it. I left a message in her Yahoo Messenger, telling her that we just kissed in my dream. For all I know, the universe has already sent her to some fellatio-obsessed blackhole or something.

A sucking blackhole. I like that. I should dream about it next time. I wonder if it swallows.

thus spake the oldies

2005-05-31T20:00:00.000+08:00

So I started interviewing my parents two weeks ago for the first stage of my fossilization project. Writing a book about your own roots can be really fun, especially if your parents were as colorful as mine.

Armed with my tape recorder, I blurted out the project to them. As soon as my father saw the recorder, he immediately said yes like a child offered a balloon.

“Let me sing. You have to record my singing,” he said.

“We already did that four years ago, remember? We used up one whole cassette tape just to record your singing voice.” [It was a humid afternoon in our old, now-demolished living room. I accompanied him on my off-key piano as he sang Kundimans (traditional Filipino love songs), Frank Sinatra ditties, and some religious standards.]

“Yeah, I know. But I’ll sing again. I want to sing again.” So I let him have his way. He can be stubborn at times. Only after his robust rendition of Frank Sinatra’s (or was it Nat King Cole’s?) When Somebody Loves You was I able to start firing questions.

It was hard to keep them focused because their musty memories were just bursting into a deluge of trivia, painful images, vague recollections, vivid snatches of conversations, and hilarious anecdotes.

My father rambled on about teachers and farmers being heroes of the world and Jose Rizal having been taught by his mother to read and write and all that shit about honoring lowly, hardworking people when all we were talking about was the balangot (woven native leaf) hat he was wearing when he first met my mother. What Rizal had to do with his hat was something that really boggled me.

And my mother, who was busy preparing lunch, was incessantly shouting to my father “Hey, that’s not how it happened,” or “You’re exaggerating,” or “You suck at story-telling!” until she, herself, joined in and recounted how her conservatively virginal posturing finally gave in to my father’s request for their first and only movie date that immediately led to their wedding.

Back then, if people so much as see you go home at ten o’clock together, and in a stormy night at that, they would quickly assume that you just came from some marathon-fucking spree. Such a crazy time, the fifties!

I briefly touched on their childhood too and brought back some nightmarish memories of World War II when my mother watched warplanes fight (she called it “dog fight”) through the coconut leaves covering their dugout. My father recounted how he endured those chilling nights in our ancient house (which still stands, by the way) as agonized wailings wafted from our backyard where suspected traitors were being lacerated, whipped, or drowned in our stone well.

I felt odd to be talking to them about these stuff. I’ve always known them as the oldies. I never imagined them to have been young and wild and scared and flirtatious. It’s like, they were already 60 when I was born and they had no past whatsoever. Which makes me all the more interested to push through with this project.

I guess I should start stocking up cassette tapes. I’m sure there would be more Frank Sinatra songs and war stories; Rizal trivia and balangot hats; flirting and elopements just waiting to be unearthed.

i became a zombie on my way to german class

2005-05-27T16:38:00.000+08:00

It is that time of day when the sun, or what’s left of it, yawns in exhaustion. I am on my way to German class, in a passenger jeep that speeds through the surprisingly clear stretch of Mabini. Sugary drizzle tingles the asphalted road. The entr’acte of a full-blown summer storm, perhaps. The barely-there sun and the nimbus clouds render the whole scene in muted sepia tone. The perfect time and perfect weather for the blues. Turn up the sentimental music and bring on the pain. Get ready with sacks of anti-depressant pills. Or valium. Or pot. Or tofu. Or Chinese plastic cats that eternally swing their hands to and fro like a retard.

On a normal state of mind, I will have sunk into a fit of slight depression. But that day, I am not normal, and so I feel something worse. I feel detached. Floating. A zombie without a soul, but nonetheless riding the jeep to get to his zombie German class and endure the annoying “Fragen Sie Ihren Partner” of his zombie teacher.

No, I cannot force myself to feel sad even if I see an old woman sitting by the gutter, wearing oversized red boots, sporting a wrinkled expression of blankness and pain. Not far from her, in front of a seedy bar tended by scantily clad girls, an obese Caucasian guy is being pushed on his wheelchair by two locals like he were some white, flabby idol on a pagan procession. Everywhere I turn there are barbecue stands clouded with smoke. And beside them are street children flashing their toothless grin as they go high on rugby. All these while a bar girl belts out a Barry Manilow anthem in some dingy joint.

I cannot wallow in depression with a sight like that, on a delicious street like this where, at the rumor of rain, the bars shrink and the smug old houses sneer. So I wallow in my zombie detachedness instead. Silently observing. Wickedly flirting with the allure of the banal.

I get off and walk along Williams Street, still a zombie, the rain delicate on my zombie head. To my right is a Chinese school called The Pear Tree from whose grounds grows a gigantic mango tree. As I turn around the corner, a young gay guy goes “Pssst! Boy, pssst!” I walk past him, thinking that he is calling out to an acquaintance. Then he goes “Pssst, hey you, the guy with the Vans bag!” I turn, surprised. And he waves his hand frantically and goes “Hello!”

Now, maybe I should get depressed.

flight of a famished mind

2005-05-26T09:40:00.000+08:00

A frenzy of flying birds will not disturb me. Not when my mind, itself, is part of the pandemonium, flipping about in carnal ecstasy over having found the wings to ride the air with. Oh, the bliss of gliding with vultures in search of carrion; the succulent pain of salivating over the thought of some rotten flesh, which, though not yet in sight, already dangles the promise of being discovered. I will find it soon. A few flapping would get me to where it lays. And wanton devouring will replace the pain.

to the stage

2005-05-25T09:47:00.000+08:00

It’s good to be worlds away from moronic Hollywood crap once in a while. Last weekend I was back to my old love, the theater.

Friday night, I sprinted to the Cultural Center of the Philippines’ (CCP) Little Theater to watch the ballet recital of my nine-year-old niece, Shekanyah Grace. I played the doting uncle to a proudly beaming little niece in a stiff tutu.

Entitled Vive la Danse, the two-night show featured French children’s songs and folk tunes, to which girls (and two boys) danced excitedly. The performance was faulty, what with a riot of shaky arabesques and uncertain pliés. But amateurish recitals are not watched for the performers’ virtuosity. You go there to cheer for a relative or a friend, which was exactly what some members of the audience did, rather overenthusiastically. They hysterically shouted “Bravo” or “That’s my daughter!” or “My daughter is there!” or “We love you Opalyn!” everytime their daughters went onstage. One guy, in an attempt to be funny, even shouted “My daughter’s not there!”

I almost screeched “Who the fuck cares? Go grab your freaking daughters and get the hell out of this theater!” Maybe there should have been a lecture on theater etiquette before the show. If Bobby Garcia were there, he would’ve thrown a tantrum.

I see some promise in Shekanyah’s performance. Although she still dances rather carelessly at times and she still has some pockets of baby fat, she already has the grace and the limberness of a ballerina. She was, in fact, one of the two students who got Distinction when their ballet class was evaluated by an Australian ballet school a few months ago. That means she’ll be flying to Sydney sometime soon for a ballet scholarship. I’m so proud of her.

What bothered me, though, was the speech of their head ballet teacher. Before the recital started, she came out in a micro-mini, showing off her long legs in distractingly white stockings, and sat on a black bench onstage. Reading from a black folder, she said she had asked the Lord to give her her own ballet company because she wouldn’t want her “girls” to be swallowed up by mainstream ballet groups that would make them wear sexy costumes, dance sensual dances, and star in “Dracula, the Ballet.” Then, she led a prayer so that she and her “girls” would be in the right artistic path, or something like that.

If all ballerinas had this mindset, I guess we’d end up with nothing but the ballet version of “The Passion of the Christ.” And then the line between art and religious propaganda would forever be blurred.

Saturday night, I was in RCBC Theater in Makati for Actor’s Actor Inc.’s Once on This Island. After seeing the first scene, I knew that it was going to be a great show. Some familiar theater stalwarts were in the cast and they hinted at a promise of a great performance.

There was Menchu Lauchengo-Yulo (who gave a sensitive portrayal of Ellen in the Manila run of Miss Saigon and who was such a hilarious witch in Trumpets’ The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe), Michael De Mesa (a fine film actor who played Collins with depth in Rent, although his singing leaves much to be desired), Bituin Escalante (her Mimi in Rent was one of the most memorable; who wouldn’t be enthralled with her huge voice?), Bodjie Pascua (any theater person who doesn’t know this veteran thespian must seriously think of changing careers now) Jett Pangan, May Bayot, and other familiar talents with unbelievably soulful voices.

Surprisingly, Jeffrey Hidalgo was part of the cast (unless it was just some guy who looked like him; I didn’t get to buy a souvenir program so I have no way of checking). It wasn’t hard to notice him among the talented cast members. He stuck out like a wad of booger on a glass tabletop. His accent was distracting and he was too boringly plain to essay the role of a handsome and appealing French mulatto. His character came out flat, drab, and uninspiring. His pop singing style, albeit not lacking in control (in fairness to him, he has improved a lot since his That’s Entertainment days), was ill-suited for the character, making one think what on earth Ti Moune found so lovable about him. Whatever German Moreno taught him in his now-defunct inane teen show did not prepare him for the legitimate stage.

(Little bit of trivia: he was in the same ROTC battalion as I was back in college. I remember we used to snicker derisively whenever he would ask permission from our commander to go home early. We thought, since it was a Saturday, he still had to prepare for some Vegas-style, Bellastar-type production number in Saturday Entertainment. The price you have to pay for being one of Kuya Germs’ boys, or gels.)

But Jeffrey was a minor distraction. The fire of the rest of the cast was enough to salvage the show. All throughout the musical, they swung from character to character; did some SM work; became human props; and supported each other on a minimalist stage draped with native bamboo Venetian blinds. The energy never waned, which riveted the audience. The singing was restrained and controlled. Despite the wild dancing and thrashing onstage, their voices, amazingly, still sounded clear, tireless, and powerful.

Still humming the last line of the last number (…that’s why we tell the story…), I came home refreshed that night. I think I would make veering away from idiotic Hollywood rubbish a habit from now on.

the dark side calls me to its folds...

2005-05-23T09:04:00.000+08:00

There it goes again.

I hear my brain go whoosh-whoosh as it turns into slush inside my shaved head. Too much work (or too much pretense at work) really takes a toll on me. Jeez, I should take a break. Again.

Everytime I close my eyes, I hear a tiny, godly voice (along with the whoosh-whoosh of my poor brain) whisper something like this:

“My child, my precious child, you are heavily-laden; your yoke is far too burdensome for your wearied sinews. Why don’t you pack your goggles, swim trunks, gallons of sunscreen, and hie off to some secluded beach and party till booze comes out of your ears?”

My skin isn’t even done rounding up melanin cells due to three weekends of straight sun-basking (Hundred Islands, Pangasinan; Laiya, Batangas; and Lucban, Quezon). And here I go again, itching to tow my sunburned ass off to another sun-crazed spot! It’s all I could think of right now. Plunge. Swim. Float away with sea snakes and tourists in dorky life vests.

But, since the gods gave me no choice but to sunbathe under the glare of fluorescent bulbs in my little blue cubicle, I’m doomed to just surf the net during breaks. Bummer. And endure the hypnotic drone of the ancient aircon. Super bummer. And overhear mindless office chatter. Ok, I’d rather listen to the aircon.

I’ve stumbled upon cool blogs, though. Great writers, these bloggers! ‘Makes me doubt my writing abilities. It’s essentially the same shit we talk about; they just have some creative undercurrent perennially ebbing and flowing through their writings. Oh well. I never claimed I was the Yoda of blogging, anyway.

Did Yoda ever blog? Or did he just record his image in that hologram thing (where a disbelieving Obi-Wan Kenobi saw Anakin slewing those cute and clueless younglings)? Whichever way he blogged, Yoda’s still my all-time fave Star Wars character (or thingie, whatever he is). He’s again in his elements in The Return of the Sith, though he’s a bit depressed because of failing to kill Chancellor Palpatine who loves showcasing his theatrical laughter. In that scene where Yoda enters Palpatine’s office limping with his short cane, he calmly raises his hand and two monster guards drop dead. Whoaah! I wish I could do that with the loudmouths at my office. Die, you bitches! Here’s my raised hand!

Some elements of the movie, though, appear too cheesy and formulaic. Anakin is portrayed with his brows eternally knitted to symbolize his eventual siding with the Dark Force. I could almost see a thought balloon plastered on his forehead: “Hey, look at me! I’m chummy chummy with Palpatine the Jerk and I’m gonna be his lapdog someday!”

Uhhm, Mr. George Lucas, in case you didn’t know, we already know he would become Darth Vader and spend the rest of his life sounding like a snoring machine inside that silly mask. You didn’t need to make it too obvious that he was thinking of denouncing the Council.

Anakin and Padmé makes a charming couple, if they only knew how to act. I felt like I was watching the first reading of a script. They were merely mouthing their lines! Whatever happened to Natalie Portman? She was a focused and determined actor in Star Wars 2. But here, well, suffice it to say that even a cardboard actor has more flesh than she does.

It may have something to do with how Padmé’s character has been subdued in this film. If she was a strong and resolute leader then, she’s a submissive and meek homebody now. She doesn’t even seem to be cognizant of Senate politics, to think that she is one of the senators of the Republic!

Also, the couple’s dialogues are too predictable. Padmé goes “Hey Anakin honey, don’t you think those separatist junkies have a point?” Then Anakin goes “Don’t talk shit to me, I’m loyal to the Republic blah blah.”

Ironically, in the next scene, Padmé goes “Hold it, Anakin sweetie pie, don’t fuck with the dark force!” To which Anakin replies, “Of course not, Padmé darling. But if it means saving your sorry ass, I might give their shit a try. It won’t hurt to kiss Palpatine’s ass.”

Toward the end, when Padmé follows Anakin to this blazing volcanic planet, Padmé goes, in between sobs and sniffs, “Oh, Anakin sugar cup, I don’t recognize you anymore, who the fuck did you turn out to be? Look at you, you’re full of shit!” And Anakin goes, “Ah, so that Obi-Wan prick poisoned your mind, eh? Here’s to you!” And he strangles the poor girl to kingdom come (well, actually, she still lives long enough to deliver the twins).

As a whole, though, I liked the movie. I’m contradicting myself, ain’t I? (Maybe it’s my slushy brain) Well, despite all the movie’s flaws, I still am a Star Wars fan. And if only to see Master Yoda perform his light saber antics, the movie is worth watching.

At least, it brought my mind away from beaches and swimming. Oh, jeez, there goes that voice again, urging me to party on the beach till I puke my guts out. Yes, my lord, thy will be done.

edible decor and ice-cold waterfall

2005-05-18T15:28:00.000+08:00

A dip into the frigid waters of Taytay Falls in Majayjay was not part of the plan. We were in Quezon Province for the Pahiyas Festival, so, naturally, nobody thought of bringing swimsuits or at least, a change of undies. We didn’t think we’d end up in Majayjay. But what the heck, we were already in front of the cascade. The water was pristine; the falls was splendid! It was a veritable “paradise on earth,” except that, instead of cherubs, it had countless imps perched on boulders, doing all sorts of un-paradise-y stuff such as cooking rice, chattering, screaming, drinking, loitering, and littering.

But it was still a paradise, nevertheless. Which pissed me off all the more—why the hell didn’t I bring my trunks and goggles? Everywhere I go—yes, sometimes, even to class—I always have my black Speedo trunks and my Speedo goggles (with its snake eyes hologram) with me. Being someone who dreams of becoming a fish, I’m always ready to strip and plunge into the water anytime. But this time, I had been a tad too obedient to la Présidente Dionne, our indefatigable organizer and French class leader, who advised us to pack light or, if possible, not to bring a bag at all since we would do a lot of walking around Lucban. She, too, didn’t foresee that we would drive through the sloping, roller-coastery road to Majayjay in wobbly tricycles; trek a kilometer of man-made trail that sometimes narrowed down to allow only a single file at a time; and behold something as breathtaking as this waterfall.

So there we were, seated on mossy rocks, thinking if we should just throw all our cares to the wind, strip down to our undies, and swim. It made Weng recall what brand of panties she wore that morning. It also made me think, did I wear bacon briefs? (In case you don’t know, bacon briefs are undies which are so worn out that the garter has already curled up like bacon).

I wouldn’t want to wade in the water in my jeans. That’s way too uncomfy especially in a body of water with a strong current; there was no way I could swim freely with a pair of denims on. After dilly-dallying for a couple of minutes, I saw Bon, Marc, and Ara who were already splashing in the water with their clothes on. Their wide smiles were enough to convince me to strip down to my underwear, bacon briefs or not, and jump into the chilly waters.

So, with nothing but a black sando and my black briefs (thank goodness it was black, at least, from afar, I looked like I was wearing Speedo), I negotiated my way toward the falls, through slippery boulders and past sunbathing manangs, to enjoy an hour of communing with my element.

Water, incidentally, is also Bon’s element. No wonder she swam eagerly even if the jagged rocks underneath scathed and wounded her. By the time we got back to Lucban, her shin was already bleeding.

I, too, got bruised as my toes and legs bumped and brushed against the ruggedness of the underwater terrain. The experience was quite refreshing, nonetheless. Despite the sweat-inducing ruthlessness of the midday sun, we shivered in the water. You could actually soak a warm bottle of wine there for about thirty minutes and it would come out nice and cool, ready to be quaffed. In fact, some quivering men were drinking brandy near the falls just to survive the coldness of the water.

Within a few minutes, most of us were already soaking wet—Dax, Weng, Lu, Marc (who were all fully dressed), Dulce and her beau, Eric (so happy for you, brod!), Jera and Bianco, and the rest of the gang. Michelle, Cely, Dionne, and Joven walked back up to the parking lot to wait for us. Some of the FSI people stayed on the banks. Weng, Lu, and Dax, I believe, just wanted to dip their feet but I saw the guys splashing water on them; instinctively, I joined in the fun and they all ended up like soggy rag dolls.

I, on the other hand, enjoyed the cold water as it swallowed up my skinny frame and made my tiny bones tingle. I even tried opening my eyes underwater, something I haven’t done since I learned how to swim eons ago. During my formal swimming classes, I would only open my eyes in the water with the aid of a trusty pair of goggles. I was so afraid that my eyes would get irritated not so much because of chlorine or salt water as because my eyelashes easily got stuck in my eyes. And it was always a terrible experience. I somehow carried this childhood fear up to my adult swimming years.

But there, at Taytay Falls, without my goggles, I was forced to open my eyes underwater. Though the view was fuzzy and my freaking lashes were still bothering me, I was able to amply enjoy the sights down there. Hackneyed as this may sound, the water was crystal clear, and that helped me a lot in seeing my way through the raging waters.

We tried staying right under the falls to enjoy the sensation as the water pelted our backs and heads like frozen arrows. But I didn’t stay there long, fearing that the water might actually drill through my skull.

An hour after, our body temperature was already below normal. It was time to head back to Lucban as the jeep would be arriving around 3:00. So we crawled out of the water, and prepared to trek back to the parking lot, along the trail fringed with a pure gushing brook on one side and a verdant gorge peppered with huge rocks on the other. This well-trodden path was sometimes slushy with creamy mud and at times gory with generous splashes of fresh human blood (on our way there, we had come across a man with a bleeding foot being carried away from the falls; I was told he had been wounded by glass shards. Every drop of blood we passed by made Michelle recoil.).

With dripping clothes, we headed back to what we came there for in the first place—the Pahiyas Festival in Lucban.

Edible décor and commercialism. Bedecked in multicolored rice wafers called kipings, the houses seemed like obese bejeweled matrons in a soiree. With a confusion of stinging oranges, blushing pinks, striking blues, fiery greens, bleeding reds, and giggling yellows, the streets were oozing with old-world gaiety and rural merriment. There were tomatoes (or longanisas) strung together and made to appear like Christmas garlands; water falls with painted paper backgrounds; plastic ponds with real fish swimming about; curtains made of string beans; chandeliers made of kipings; and carabaos made of rice stalks. Some even included live chickens in the décor. Tethered on one of the trees was a real, pensive carabao with some sort of headdress. (Three or four Pahiyas festivals ago, I even saw a live monitor lizard among the fruits and vegetables here. We should have a law against the use of animals for decorative purposes.)

Big companies, however, are quick to wring dry any event of its commercial potential. Those traditional rice wafers are not enough, they must've thought. There has to be some touch of class, of élan, of elegance. So, along with kipings, fruits, and vegetables, sprang screaming posters of Globe Telecom (“Making Great Things Possible”) and San Miguel Beer (“Itaas Mo!”) displayed prominently in strategic places. Even the control numbers of each decorated house had Globe’s logo. The walking papier-mâché giants were draped with big banners of Western Union Money Transfer or McDonald’s or Aling Pacita’s Funeral Parlor (“We Embalm You While You Wait”) or whatever local enterprise sponsored them.

When Weng and I went out to look for her friend’s house, we saw a truck filled with people tossing Philam Life shirts to the excited crowd below. And on one side, there was a mascot of Eddie the Electric Bill Collector of MERALCO. I won’t be surprised if they come up with Kadyo the Kubrador ng Jueteng mascot next time. When the morning procession snaked out, I was actually expecting the town’s patron saint, San Isidro Labrador to come out wearing a T-shirt that says Lhuiller Pawnshop, Isangla Mo!

But what can we do? These companies are the reason why such festivals still survive. They provide funding in exchange for product exposure. That’s how it works these days. I’m surprised why they haven’t infiltrated the fiesta Mass yet to include casual mention of their products during the liturgy. The priest can go “This Communion is brought to you by Ginebra San Miguel, Bilog Ang Mundo.” Amen to that, Father.

I had no choice but to force myself to dismiss the crass commercialist mood of the festival as just a minor distraction, like pus on smooth skin, or like the bloody cut on Bon’s pale shin. If I fuss about it so much, I won’t get to enjoy the sights. So, forgetting this ugly dreg of our increasingly capitalistic society, we inched through the narrow, crowded streets of Lucban, taking pictures left and right, posing in front of the most colorful houses, and even going up to their second floors. The owners were gracious enough to invite us in.

In one of the houses we entered, Dax chatted with the owner who politely explained how kipings were made. It would’ve been nice to sit with her and chat for a few minutes but the house was getting crowded and we had to prepare for our photo op.

On our way out, there was this tactless guy who said, within hearing range of the polite owner, that guests entering their house should also be fed since this was a fiesta. I controlled the urge to trip him at the stairs so he could go tumbling face first all the way down to the concrete floor below. Being thick hided is one thing; being abusive is another matter altogether.

Which is not to say that we were not famished. Well, our intestines, too, were sort of grumbling already. But we weren’t that famished yet to demand that we be fed by strangers who were already kind enough to let us in their houses to be photographed. Jeez.

Feeding time came quite early. We dropped by Café San Luis, a crowded, Mediterranean-inspired alfresco restaurant managed by a tanned girl in a pink tube top and a cowboy hat. Amazingly, all 24 of us found seats, courtesy of la Présidente who, having gone there ahead of us, must’ve elbowed other guests off the tables to reserve seats. Part of the meal, of course, was the famous pancit habhab. Ok, Michelle, let’s say that again, it’s habhab, not hadhad. The latter is an itchy, smelly skin disease found in the genital area. Let me say that again, habhab.

This Chinese noodle, which is traditionally eaten by devouring it doggie-fashion, without spoon or fork or bare hands, is best served with local vinegar. The rest ate puto and dinuguan (pig’s blood stew).

Snacks (or more appropriately, a very early dinner) was served in Bon’s aunt’s house. While some of us were still dripping with water and sweat, we eagerly partook of the food at the feast table. The fruit and potato salads, which I eventually shared with Michelle after I got for myself two helpings, were awesome! Credit to Bon’s aunt who was kind enough to feed 24 people who just came from a dusty trip from Majayjay.

Before sundown, we were already walking toward the edge of the town where our two rented vans were waiting. In the van, we still had some energy to discuss the local rebels’ disgust over China’s emerging capitalist thrusts (let’s listen to Lu’s lecture on this; nope, she won’t be making up one of her stories like she did in Paris: “Oh, this must be the exact spot where Marie Antoinette picked her nose before being guillotined!”), the military’s connivance with the Abu Sayyaf and their leaking of a list of enemies of the state, or whatever that list is called (come on, Marc, speak up! What do you know about the military’s stench?), why rainforests are called rainforests (go Dax! This is your field of expertise; I know you’ve got a rainforest somewhere on your body), crustaceans (so Michelle, how many feet does a centipede have? Does it fall under the Crustacea family?), and so many other unprintable topics. There was even some room for Michelle’s Spanish song for the Peñafrancia Virgin and some bugtungan (“Ang ano ni Nena, bubuka-bukaka”).

As the night deepened, and after an exhausting conversation in French, our mouths (nos bouches? Hehe) finally got tired, and we fell asleep.

I’m wondering where our next stop would be. Did I hear someone say Peñafrancia? I guess we just have to wait for invitations from true-blooded Bicolanos, right Dax, Michelle? I’d start packing my trunks and goggles this early, just in case.

this is the FUSS time i'm gonna say i love you

2005-05-11T18:43:00.000+08:00

It was an episode straight from Survivor, sans the bickering and psycho-emotional torture. The location was picturesque Quezon Island, one of the most frequented islands among the one hundred dotting the seas of Pangasinan.

Since it had Spartan amenities, we were forced to eat our dinner—de-boned milkfish and eggplant (grilled to mouth-watering perfection by RR, Lawrence, and Lester) squid adobo, steamed shrimps, rice, and mangoes—under the dying light of a kerosene lamp. After which, we washed our soiled hands with nothing but brine and sand.

Because of dark, waterless bathrooms that stunk to high heavens, the women did their peeing in the sea. Gail even had the luxury of having spotlights trained on her while she was peeing—one from JP’s flashlight and the other from some bozo up on the pavilion (I swear, Gail, it wasn’t me! It was JP and that perverted guy). As for us, guys, we had no choice but to relieve our bladders like dogs in dark, nondescript spots. JP, who had the misfortune of feeling the call of nature after dinner, had to defecate and endure the stench of the bathroom up on the rocky hill. I hate to think how he washed himself after that, if he did wash at all.

We had also been given a handful of challenges to hurdle:

1. Take off your wet clothes and change into dry ones on the beach, in front of each other, using a flashlight, a sarong (a long, tie-dyed piece of thin fabric), or a towel.

2. Find out how you could cramp yourselves (we were six) inside a small tent and spend the night there like tuna soaked in salt water.

3. Try to sleep sound as shrieking monster-children scurry after a blasted talangka (tiny crab) that seems to be unexplainably drawn to your tent.

4. At two in the morning, try to sleep in peace as that same freaky talangka seeks refuge under your sheets and crawls its way to salvation from the shrieking monster-children.

5. Without using soap or shower gel, rinse the sand, sweat, and seawater off your body with just five cups of distilled water brought in from mainland Pangasinan.

6. (I’ve got an immunity charm from this one) Have a good night’s sleep while Chris angelically snores his lungs out inside the tent.

7. (This one’s just for JP) Hold your breath as long as you could while you shit inside the stinking bathroom and die of lack of oxygen. Or inhale with gusto the putrid smell of shit and die of suffocation.

We also had self-inflicted challenges courtesy of that time-tested, weather-beaten, intellectually challenging game, Truth or Consequence. It made Licel seek out pebbles in the dark and sent Nikki to the task of pulling our huge and heavy distilled water container from the tent up to our spot near the sand bar (with some help from her sweetie-pie JP, after much prodding from us). I, on the other hand, was ordered to find a stranger and introduce him to our group. This amid riotous laughter, teasing, and ribbing from all of us, most especially from RR and Lester who had gotten the Dolphy-Panchito routine down pat.

The game also led to RR’s confession regarding his feelings for Adie. Good thing she was back in the tent at that time, enabling RR to pour his heart out to us. When she finally returned, we knew what to do.

If it weren’t dark, I’m sure I would’ve seen Adie blush as we teased him to RR, who, as the night waned and as the alcohol took hold of his tongue-with-a-built-in-subwoofer, became increasingly bolder in hinting at his feelings for Adie (do I smell professions of love this early?). The next morning, when Adie lost her slippers to beach thieves, he graciously offered his own and tiptoed his way on the boiling sand. Ahh, the things one would do for love!

The rest of our night was spent waiting for shooting stars while Lester and RR provided entertainment through their non-stop Dolphy and Panchito antics. If RR has a built-in subwoofer, Lester has a whole sound system down his throat; you could hear these two whisper ten kilometers away.

I had a natural high swimming the morning after. Only Gail, clad in an oversized orange life vest and snorkeling goggles, was gutsy enough to join me in the deep part of the sea. Most of the time, though, I unconsciously left her as I swam farther to even deeper waters. Because of this, we became known as the tandem, Aqua Man and Goggle Girl, whatever the hell that means.

The corals in these parts were rather drab and gray. And the fish, too, seemed to be of the dull hue. Upon further inspection underwater, I found out that the boats docked on the beach were anchored on these same corals. I hate to think what would be left of them after a few years.

After a quick early morning swim, we went back to our tent to have ripe mangoes as breakfast. They were so sweet I devoured around three or four in one sitting. We personally picked some of these from mango trees in Tilbang (did I get the name right?) the day before.

Rewind to Tilbang, one day before…

Using Nikki’s pick-up, we drove to Tilbang to pick some fresh mangoes. It was a good thirty-minute drive from downtown Alaminos. In the car, we started talking about the liters of sunblock I poured on myself but somehow ended up talking about Star for A Night champion Sarah Geronimo’s latest hit (This is the FUSS time, I’m gonna say I love you/It’s the FUSS time I’ve ever felt so helpless deep inside.)

Which got me thinking. Why don’t we have something like Search for the Star Phonetics Teacher of the Night? The champion could win, among other prizes, a five-year contract as speech coach of the winners of singing competitions like Search for a Star or Star for a Night so they can learn to pronounce "first" properly. Just a thought.

When we got to Tilbang where a stretch of parched, dried-up farms lay side by side, we turned right at the exact spot where lazy, loose-skinned cows were hanging around. The cows mark the spot, said Nikki. Once you see those cows, it’s time to turn right. True enough, when we turned right and drove ahead, we found the site. Good landmarks, these cows.

Amid two circular ponds were duhat and mango trees. JP and Nikki led the mango picking with their long bamboo stick. I tried picking mangoes myself but gave it up after I got only three and an army of hantiks (huge red ants). So we, Adie, in her prayer-meeting outfit, Licel, Gail, and I just contented ourselves in posing for the camera.

Fast forward to Quezon Island…

Where was I…Ok, so back to Quezon Island…So there we were, fresh off the sea, ready to jump into the boat and go back to Alaminos when they discovered that they lost their slippers—Adie, Licel, Nikki, and JP. If Gail hadn’t chosen garish, shockingly hot pink slippers that naturally repel thieves within a five-kilometer radius, she, too, would have gone home barefoot. Well, at least, Licel didn’t lose her chopsticks, otherwise she would have nothing to clip her long, rich, frizzy, wiry, Nuestra-Señora-de-Antipolo hair with.

Before we left for the bus station on the morning of May 2, we dropped by Lucap Wharf to check out a concert marking the end of Le Tour de Hundred Islands. Contrary to what I had expected, it wasn’t jologs epicenter after all. With cans of beer and servings of bininghoy (sweet, sticky rice stuffed inside halved bamboos), we enjoyed listening to Bob Marley covers, reggae music, and other standards.

As we went up the bus to go home, I don’t know if it was just me or I really did see some pain in RR’s eyes. Could this be the FUSS time he’s ever felt so helpless deep inside? I don't know. I can't tell. I’d rather not fuss about it.

Freddie Kruger tractor, shit-colored church, and riotous baptism

2005-05-04T16:31:00.000+08:00

Exactly one year after Puerto Galera, the gang is together again for yet another summer escapade. This time, though, Flores, Boo, Jake, Raymond, and his friends did not make it. We’re just here with Adie, Licel and her officemates, JP (with his girlfriend, Nikki, whose family lives here), Gail (my seatmate on the bus; I scared her out of her wits with my horror stories as we zoomed through the shadowy countryside last night).

We arrived here in Alaminos City around two this morning, went straight to bed, and woke up to a dry, languid sun. Like any other provincial city, the whole place showcases drab concrete and asphalt everywhere—the usual, ostentatious trappings of cityhood.

Since all these concrete roads and buildings intensify the heat of the sun, I ended up having a slight headache. Not wanting to spend my first few hours here nursing my throbbing temples, I decided to go check out the city all by myself (Licel was busy reading Dan Brown’s Digital Fortress; Adie was hanging around Buddha knows where; and Gail was snoring her way to dreamland).

Just right across Adie’s uncle’s house (where we were staying) is Nepo Alley, a pocketsize mall that houses your usual chain of bland fast food stalls and tiangge-ish boutiques. A walk around the mall, which looked more like a classy, high-ceilinged warehouse, convinced me that it wasn’t a place for me to hang around in. Save from an uncharacteristically clean wet market at its back (where you could have your purchased milkfish de-boned for an additional five pesos; the de-boning process itself is such a joy to watch), there was nothing special to see in there. So I just went into its one-peso-per-pee restroom, relieved my complaining bladder, and headed to the exit.

Just before I went out, I saw this display of “great prizes” for some raffle draw the mall was sponsoring. The third prize was some squarish appliance that looked like a small washing machine or a rice dispenser. Second prize was a weird steel machine with an iron snout straight from the workshop of Freddie Kruger. And the first prize was a long, monstrous agricultural implement. Adie told me later that it’s called a hand tractor or kuliglig. Not exactly the type of prizes I would wildly jump up and down for. It’s a raffle I’d gladly not win in, not unless I’d want to use that freaky tractor thing as paperweight, as Licel ingeniously suggested.

So out went my hunky little ass from that mall-cum-Freddie-Kruger-shop to go to (where else)Alaminos City’s place of worship, St. Joseph’s Cathedral (jeez, I’m getting too predictable).

The church is something that could only come out of an interior designer’s worst nightmare. The whole place was painted tombstone-white while the moldings and trimmings were splashed with a gaudy shade of yellow-green, reminiscent of liquid shit that comes out when you have diarrhea. There was a crass attempt at eclecticism by throwing in together a neo-classic retablo (main altar) in pastel colors and striking stained glass windows depicting the crucified Christ with God the Father behind him. These pieces would’ve looked great individually, but together, the effect was anything but godly.

Priests should be trained at the seminary to cultivate their aesthetic tastes so that such bastardization of supposedly sacred ground would be averted. How can one concentrate on her Hail Mary when the church itself reminds her of an unflushed toilet bowl?

The first few pews near the altar were filled with excited parishioners. There would obviously be a ceremony. Great, I’d get to hear a mass in Pangalatok, or Ilocano, or whatever language they speak here. So I sat down behind one of the scaffolds (they’re not yet done applying shit-colored paint at the choir loft and the ceiling) and waited.

After seeing some wailing babies dressed in lace and satin, I knew that this was going to be a baptism. True enough, a lay minister brought out a tacky, light blue Orocan pitcher and a fluffy white towel. Then, an old, bored-looking priest came out. He silently surveyed the noisy crowd, and, without waiting for them to settle down, he began reading from a small, black book.

He spoke with a calm, soothing, monotonous voice that was as enthusiastic as a static TV screen. The poor guy must’ve officiated religious ceremonies all his life; he must've had one too many. From where I sat, I couldn’t catch what he was saying as the sound system was a bit muffled and he was speaking English with a thick accent. So much for my wish to hear a Pangalatok rite.

Curiously, nobody was listening to him. The people were chatting, laughing, taking pictures, or tinkering with their cell phones. Here and there, the din was accented by a loud cry of a baby or the gleeful squeals of little boys. Restless adults were hopping from one pew to the other, greeting guests and exchanging pleasantries as in a party.

Amid all these, the priest simply continued his monotonous drone, unmindful of the cacophony of chattering and shrieking. A few minutes later, he stepped down from the dais and, followed by his assistant with the Orocan pitcher, perfunctorily blessed and baptized each of the garishly dressed babies.

A confusion of flashbulbs, a concert of clicking cameras, and the whole thing was over. Fifteen new infants had just unwittingly become members of the Church. The priest slowly walked back to the sacristy, with the Orocan guy trailing behind him.

At that point, I also walked out of the church while Frere Jacque was blaring from someone’s cell phone. Somehow, I was no longer pissed by the church’s terrible interiors.

Maybe these people deserve it.