The Beagle that Astonished Darwin

Whew!

2011-08-16T21:58:00.000+08:00

even an F1 needs a pit stop.

Vanishing Act

2011-05-31T11:21:00.003+08:00

this, free- falling;
this swift, gleeful
earthward prayer.

it is peace until
the soil claims you,
and you succumb
to a higher peace

free-falling. it is just like sleep

except that the dream defines
your reality and whatever is
beyond it. free-falling.

like receding

strings

giving.
way

to

silence:

Time Travel

2011-05-24T10:00:00.001+08:00

it was supposed to be a romantic date where we, the intoxicated couple, would be lost in each other's presence-- the flickering candle light, the crisp linen, the sweet talks, the passionate gazes, the we. it was our third month afer all. we did nothing of that sorts. we did something more dangerous and liberating.

we time-traveled.

it was the petite pastillas de leche cheesecake that ushered us towards a story, a history that is older than us combined. to my dismay, the cheesecake had icing on it. i remember commenting about how I disliked icing and that when i was a child i always shave off the icing and the merengue flowers before eating the cake. then i asked him how he celebrated his when he was younger. he replied that he would have cakes but only discreetly because his grandfather did not fancy the idea that much. then i asked him was his grandfather aloof and severe, sharing that my grandfather was. he said in a way yes, but because it stemmed from his hardships.

at this point, the cloud of reverie started enveloping him. his almond-shaped eyes began assuming a part-wearied, part-thoughtful look, a look more tender than a kiss.

more than five decades before his time, a young chinese woman braved seas and traditions in search for a better opportunity and to meet a person she barely knew. come here, said the letter. two words. two words that brought her to a foreign land and uncertain future. the man who bid her would become her husband. come here, he said. no other instruction or directions.

she waited for several months on the quay, waiting for the ship or boat or any vessel that would bring her to her destination. it was dangerous times. chinese christians were being persecuted. they were considered as traitors, as contaminators and threat to the chinese culture. it was the era of identity crisis where, suddenly, dynasties and governments found themselves in nervous spots. anything that challenged status quo were considered as seditious, therefore should be mummed, controlled or eradicated. religion was the seat where transformation blossomed, changing not only the person's soul but also his/her outlook in life. it was no surprise that the chinese government prohibited group meetings. every now and then chinese christians would disappear and never to be found. some said they were tortured and killed. others suspected that the captives were brainwashed and used as spies to disintegrate the growing members of christian community from within. where violence came in abundance, the food, however, was scarce. black markets and oppression thrived like ivies, leeching on desperation.

the mother of the young woman warned her. she was foolish, her mother said. but the young woman was headstrong. she followed her heart. whenever the winds of the harbor batter her hopes, she would always cling to her determination: hands clasped, her dress slapping her thighs, eyes squinting, reaching for the land unknown beyond the sea.

after from what it seemed a futile vigile, finally the ship arrived. it was a merchants ship. she mustered her courage and asked for a ride. probably part-amused, part-surprised to see a woman with purposeful eyes to demand a ride, the crew let her. months after, she touched down philippines, the american-occupied pearl of the orient. the air rented of hope, freedom, jazz and smoke. the words she heard were more free-spirited yet less savory. in fact, they sounded meaningless and stale like cold tea. a young man approached her. she stood straight and executed a slight nod, an introduction and acknowledgement.

it was not even love, he told me, that brought her grandmother in the philippines. it was defiance and the desire to break free. his grandparents settled in the philippines, started a family and business, and worked until their bones ached-- the cost of freedom. two generations after, he was born, the second son, the second grandson. thirty two years later, someone provincial with horrible accent and tentative disposition would meet him. three months after, he would share this story, which started with a bland comment about the icing on a cheesecake.

his grandmother left her native country knowing that the future was uncertain. she followed her heart and what she believed was right for her. likewise, i don't know what the future holds for us. sometimes i entertain this thought, lingering inside my head like termintes. sometimes they are wishful, sometimes fearful. what i learned from the story, however, was one could only do so much. the more close fisted one is with life, the lesser is achieved, learned and understood. in the end, one makes choices, but the rest, is beyond us.

although life is wider and more feisty than the sea, i am on a harbor is all it takes to , destiny and destination unraveling themselves. all one has to do is marvel. and perhaps take one small step like what his grandmother did five decades ago.

01/29/11-05/24/11

Literature

2011-05-22T22:32:00.000+08:00

a poem by palanca awardee Joel Toledo. you could check his blog here. i dedicate this post to the geek who sent me two vonneguts- Cat's Cradle and Player Piano. it's been a while since i found another person who has the same passion for reading. geek, thank you for the books!

Literature

This is the plot:
A man plants a bench in the middle of the road
and sits on it, oblivious to the afternoon heat
and the heavy traffic he's now causing.
People are gathering on the sidewalk.
Some think the man is crazy,
others just look on,
welcoming the distraction.

He's probably just lonely,
an old woman whispers on page three.
Get off the street, you idiot,
shout some teenagers
from behind parked cars.
The crowd quickly hushes them.
Someone has called the police.
Now the whole street is littered
with people and cars and more people
and more cars. Sirens are wailing.
A TV crew has arrived.

The man is not heeding
the police's repeated calls.
He is just sitting there,
his face buried in a book, a bottle of water
next to him. He doesn't look too old;
maybe in his forties. He looks up suddenly
and squints at the hot sun.
Just then he pulls out a revolver
and waves it in front of his face.

Even with the gun, he doesn't look dangerous.
He looks more like he's trying in vain
to fan himself with the weapon. He shakes his head,
puts the gun down next to him,
and goes back to his book.
The book, by the way, is an interesting detail.
It might even be symbolic.

Sir, please put down your weapon,
put your hands behind your head,
and let the officers come to you.
The policeman repeats the same instruction
over and over. The man doesn't hear him.
He is busy reading.
The officer with the binoculars radios
that it's an old, paperback
with a faded red cover,
the title too small to be read from a distance.
We should take this guy seriously,
says the policeman.
They call in the SWAT team
The crowd is told to please move back.

The rifle scope zooms in
and finds the man grinning.
He is pleased about something.
This guy's sick, whispers the sniper.
He studies the man's movement carefully,
waiting for a clear shot.
The technique is called patterning.
The idea is to memorize the minutest gestures
of an armed person, predict his next action,
and aim for the weapon. This involves a lot of waiting,
a lot of patience. Meanwhile,
the sun is blazing and there is no wind.

The story becomes dragging here.
It has been two hours now since the man
brought the bench out to the street.
And now, quite suddenly,
he puts down the book and drinks from his bottle.
He is finished reading.
He looks around and considers the commotion
he has caused. He is surprised at the turnout.
Somehow he didn't think they would take him seriously.
especially at this time of day,
the sun blazing hot, slowing things down.
He wipes the beads of sweat
gathered on his forehead,
takes his gun, stands up, looks around.

The sniper wants to get this over with.
The heat is making his palms sweaty.
Even the crowd is anxious and restless,
but they are completely drawn by the drama.
They want to see this to the end.
The old woman is mentioned again here.
She is taking out her fan.
Policemen wait behind their cars,
fingers loosened on the trigger.
Most of the onlookers are now seated
on the sidewalk.
Two men are talking quietly, smoking.
They say his wife left him this morning, says one.
That's his house over there, says the other.

Now the climax.
The man suddenly raises his gun
The sniper thinks the man is about to fire
at the crowd. He takes the shot.
A young policeman, two weeks on the force,
pulls the trigger. He thinks the man
is aiming at him. The old lady (she again)
buries her face in her hands.
She thinks the man is pointing his gun
to his head. Gunshots fill the air,
echo in every television set
all over the watching nation.

By early evening, everyone has dispersed.
The bench is gone, the traffic back to normal.
There is a slight wind.
In the chaos of the afternoon,
the detectives did not find the book.
They found a torn page
at the far end of the street,
but they couldn't be sure
that it's from the same book.
They will ask around the neighborhood
The next day.

I wish there is a clear resolution
to the story. Finding the book
will shed some light
on the main character's background,
motivations, etc.
It might even explain the change of character.
But this is often not the case,
as in this one. The sun is gone
and the crowd has gone back home.

And in a hidden compartment
somewhere inside the man's house,
are other torn pages
(the book's telling chapters, actually)
and the detectives will not find them.
The readers do not (get to) read
beyond what's there.

Ra(i)n

2011-05-22T12:30:00.001+08:00

one blog ago, this certain anxiousness has hit him again. in a way, i understood where he was coming from. the absence of seemingly value-adding activity blunts the brain. the obtuseness of upward curve of progress. his mind in particular is a beautiful one, with severe capability to rationalize, distill and process even the most mixed-up of all human concoctions--the emotions. however, weeks before, we had this discussion over the phone, which led me to finally acknowledge the selfishness of my intent on why i almost always immediately rush to him whenever he's low-spirited. so, i stayed put and allowed him to explore and exploit his emotional landspace.

xxx

last wednesday, after our daily grind, we went to UP again for our usual run. during the ride, i tried not to engage him in heavy topics. silence, sometimes, is a better healer especially when the body is too raw even for an embrace or words of comfort. silence. his voice was a notch thicker and higher as he explained to me his growing concern on some things. i listened. i had nothing to offer but a listening ear.

we reached UP Diliman relatively early. the sky was still shedding off its last indigo lights, the stars still dull and occasional. the wind, however, was unusually colder.

we started slow. i would like to follow his pace for he's the faster and better runner. people kept staring at his feet. he's wearing the infamous vibrams which blended effortlessly with the asphalt. that and his paleness, made paler by his white singlet. hence, our 2-km per revolution waltz.

two revolutions after, the sky started to assume a different mood. the occasional lashing of wind was succeeded by scattered heavy raindrops. the first drops felt irrelevant. the mouth of the earth was too parched to give them value. the rain must had had heard its scorn, hence came the torrential rain made brute by a committee of lightning and thunder.

it could be foolishness, it could be something else, but running for cover never became an option. so we ran. ran in the rain. i know that he loves running in the rain. he feels liberated, and at peace, the element pounding at his body, his soul-- the syncopated pitter-pattering eroding his defenses---allowing him to slide out from himself, surrender and just run, run away, or otherwise.

the oval was suddenly sparsely populated, now only ran by courageous (read: foolish) people like us. our wet clothes and the wind slowed us down. we were engulfed by silence. the violence of rain was like a prayer lulling us to wordlessness. we could not hear our footsteps. we could have been simply sucked by darkness and ceased to exist and nobody would even know. the streetlights, which stood like sepia-coloured ghouls, and the acacia shivering above us served as the sole reminders that we're still alive.

then, i shouted "i love you ( his name here)!". my voice was broken. i was off-keyed even in yawping. i realized i cannot remember the last time i shouted. i sounded funny and hilarious but i felt joy warming me from inside. it was the first time i shouted those three words in public. he laughed at me. i laughed too. the rain was our sole witness.

however, past the engineering building, he unlatched. he slowed down. it was unlikely for him to slow down given that he normally increases speed around this time. then i recalled he's wearing vibrams. i gave him a sideward glance. he was staring straight ahead but since the darkness was partially hiding his face, i could not check if he was alright. he said i maintain my pace. it's the runner's golden rule. i opined that it was also time for him to actually enjoy the rain which was not contingent to anyone else. a private interaction which even i should not trespass. so the gap between us, i sustained.

without him beside me, images from the past descended like lightning. i remembered how my childhood friends and i would run around the village during rains like this; how the wet and shiny roofs looked beautiful; how the raindrops bounced from leaf to leaf before crashing to the ground.; how my grandfather would hint to me that i play bach's air on G string, my grandmother busy in the kitchen preparing humble gruel; how my favorite cousin would spread her sketchpad and muse; how the same rain would remind me of that violent fight between my father and mother, which culminated in a more violent silence-- the silence of closets suddenly half-empty, my father's clothes tightly snugged inside the luggage bound somewhere else. this particular last memory nipped me sharply that i found myself kicking and sloshing puddles of water. i ran faster, more wayward until i regained that sense of happiness i have always associated with the rain. i started thinking about him again. i focused my attention to him. hence, i slowed down. i waited for him. his first words, "my muscles are tightening up". so we walked towards the nearest shade. lightnings and thunders continued to unseam air's pockets. in fact there's this one strong, charged lightning that resulted in electric fluctuation, causing the street lights to shut down for a few moments. to me, running in the rain is like a love letter. only in motion. it is disrespectful not to seal it with a kiss. so, i took advantage of the complete darkness to kiss him on his cheek.

we lingered in the shade for an extended moment, allowing the storm exhaust itself. the wind was cold. i slightly shivered. he rested his shoulder on me to give me warmth. we had a small chat then headed for his car to change. inside, i gave him a hug, made more tender by the rawness of our rain-battered skin.

sometimes, love can take form other that that of gestures of sweetness or words. sometimes, it manifests itself in unlikely situation, in an unexpected packages. last wednesday, it came in puddles, in fragments.

we, ra(i)n.

On Freedom

2011-05-17T13:34:00.003+08:00

while lau xu was waiting for his best friend to arrive from davao, he loitered inside the mall-- bought a book, bumped into his ah-ya and date, explored art galleries, and searched for horses. yes, horses. the mother of a client apparently has penchant for horses. i jested him, texting that the woman has a phallic inclination. he soon replied that horses are auspicious and they represent travel. and added not phallic, followed by his usual committee of exclamation points. i replied that horses, for me, represent virility and potency, basically just sanitized variations of phallic, among others.

and because i was exhausted (sleepless/ran 5k/attended feast/birthday/wedding) and already lapping on the shore of sleep, my brain went on a monologue mode. i texted him: then carousels are tragic.

imagine them, horses, impaled on a saccharine-colored spikes, frozen, mouth gaping, then turning and turning without reaching destinies and destinations: something that occupies time and not space. yes, allow me to consider the circular base with kitschy regal roof as non-spatial.

lau xu tried engaging but i was pretty sure his mind was already elsewhere. he's inside the mall, perusing galleries and wares.

i lied on my back, rested my phone on my tummy--its usual place whenever lau xu is outside. that way, in case he texted, the vibration would rouse me from sleep. staring at the ceiling, i started contemplating. i imagined grey horses galloping, their strong, muscular legs against a riot of knee-high grass, leaving arrogant marks on the wet, yielding soil. then the chant of hooves-- like the cadence of soldiers marching towards the war. behind them is a ragged mountain defiling the softness of the afternoon sun. despite the heat of summer, i could almost feel the coolness of air as it brushes through their manes. they neigh without restraint. the way they cock their head, and evenly distribute their weight-- they're pronouncing their freedom.

the carousel, on the other hand, feels cold and dreary despite its glitzy merriments. the candy bar handles and the smoothly polished approximation of horses. the horses lack movements and choices. they embody a tragedy of a laughable existence which is the owning of the un-ownable. tragedies are devastating; laughable tragedies are more horrifying because they exist and persist everywhere in unsuspecting places and conditions. what is worse that acknowledgment of such miseries only pushes them downward in the quagmire.

lauxu was correct. horses represent travel. freedom. but let me add that indeed, they likewise represent virility. virility is power to fight against the machination, the once-imposed constraints and norms. strength comes from the vigor of spirit, defiance.

before i started applying these fragments of thoughts into my life, something else took over. sleep. i only realized i succumbed to this morphine-filled delight when my phone vibrated violently like it was experiencing orgasm. lau xu was calling. the first few seconds was pure disorientation. i picked up the phone and said hello.

fifteen miles away, a giddy lau xu was with his bff. fighting off the remnants of sleep, i attempted to converse but failed. i stuttered. i can't respond properly. it was wonderful hearing his bff's voice again. i find her faux-modulated voice that lilted and lulled spectacular. there's a spice and there's tenderness. the thickness was also something else. i could have had been more engaging. i told lau xu to give her a really really tight hug. i know lau xu is the fountain of "tightness" (oh, oh, pun!). it was sweet but as soon as the call ended, i was already falling asleep again.

two hours later, i received a text from lau xu. he's home. i was pretty sure he enjoyed the night. i said goodnight. and once again, hurled back into the world of dreams.

the questions remained unanswered.

p.s. i guess i should discuss this with lau xu.

childhood impressions: memento mori

2011-05-08T21:13:00.009+08:00

or remember you must die.

flowers and love wilt, memories and island vanish. impermanence is the long streak of a wound that humbles each man. it is the mother of the venerable vulnerable.

i first came across with the concept of death when i was a little child. the eldest brother of my father died. i do not have any memory of him except for the sepia portrait hanging on my paternal grandmother's sala. what i do recall, however, was how the candles flickered against the glaring afternoon sun---the coffin, the smell and the crackling sound of dried watermelon seeds, the littered carpet, and endless serving of zest-o. i was five or six years old then. i was too young to understand the pain, the sense of loss. for me death was a pleasant activity wherein i get to meet my cousins, where everyone was too busy to notice our mischief like stealing ice-cold tetra packs from the pail or skipping our afternoon nap, the dirty sando, the grit, the pre-pubescent exploration.

my understanding of death, however, took an unexpected turn in the most trite way. 1994. i was ten years old then. the lipa massacre movie starring vilma santos. the gripping drama deeply embedded itself inside my young, unguided mind. the movie made me feel unsafe. that a john regala would unlatch the door of my room and stab me to death. (clip of the movie here). i would wrap myself in my blanket from head to toe, intently listening to each stirring while praying the apostle’s creed and the lord’s prayer several times until i fell asleep. death suddenly became something accessible, something real. before, it was no pain, no blood; only a necessary shrouding, an obligatory afternoon march and wailing, then the reduction of existence into supernatural-- ghosts or lore, something that hovered like a clear smoke. the brutality of how the kitchen knife was held by john regala terrorizes me up to date. it is ridiculous but he was convincing, the sweat was convincing. vilma's pained expression and bloodied daster were convincing. at ten, i, once again, soiled my bed.

association of brutality with death however escalated to obscene proportions one night. my playmate and i were tuned in at IBC13, waiting for masked rider black. but instead of the usual serving of action packed adventure, something else was shoved down my throat.

two young girls/ blonde/ picking yellow flowers/ singing "oh my darlin', oh my darlin', oh my darlin' clementine"/ then somewhere, a man appeared/ a plank of wood/ in nanosecond, the wood bashing one girl's head/ blood spraying on yellow flowers/ the other girl tried to run/ the man caught her/ threw her unceremoniously into the river/ yellow pigtails thrashing about/bobbed/ then disappeared/

i remembered breaking into a cold sweat. for fear, for some reason, was ridiculed inside our house probably because my parents saw through the irrationality of my restlessness. what they failed to explain though was why they thought it was irrational. hence, again, i suppressed my fear and never told anyone about it. i kept it all in. but here fear could not be contained. it cannot not be acknowledged. it developed into a fever. the fever ushered me towards my first hospital visit, and the long needle attached to the dextrose pack. during my delirium, i would be haunted by nightmares of the faceless man beheading yellow flowers. days later, my father told me i was asking for knives. still, i kept mum on that unsettling tv show.

as i grew older, i became more aware of the variations and dimensions of loss. of death. from the deplorable to the unfortunate to the deserved to the heroic, to the poetic, dying is too rampant to be taken seriously.

remember you must die. carpe diem is an appropriate remedy but i wish to dodge the convenient.

a joke instead: it only takes a magician's flick of wrist to fashion an illusion. here, you live and die; elsewhere, you do not exist; farther, you're that man armed with a plank of wood about to smash someone's head.

impression no. 1: lorenzo revisited

2011-05-03T13:46:00.010+08:00

just like that his back is, again, against the wall. once again, he listens to the toll of the bell. outside, a dying sun and cool breeze; the window left ajar, allowing a slice of orange. the nakedness of the room is oppressive. nothing except scratches on the floor where the heavy furniture must had been dragged years ago.

lorenzo, he addresses himself hoping a part of him will respond separately, cancelling out everything. nothing. i am no longer here, he claims. this body is just a dull semblance of what has been, like a cocoon. i live somewhere else. some place where whales and elephants float and commune in the sky; where birds do not fall like atomic bombs. when they die, they speed angelward.

the words taste like a cold tea. empty yet heavy. in other words, meaningless.

confused

2011-04-11T09:03:00.002+08:00

Seriously, it's almost always a snowball

The Chinese Tyrant

2011-04-04T21:38:00.006+08:00

five terms ago, during my information management class, i met someone-- a fragile looking bespectacled chinese girl. she looked ridiculously uptight, her eyes surveying the classroom. it was my first term in graduate school then. fate decided that my mba life should be exciting. as a result, she and i became groupmates. i introduced myself, shook her hand. she just smiled. little did i know that that handshake served as the sealant, the cuff that would bound me to her. the chinese tyrant. working with her was rather unpleasant. she has high regard on quality. she cannot accept inaccuracy or lengthy brainstorming. she despises stupid remarks. she despises smart remarks even more. she does not tolerance stupidity but she hates it when someone outshines her.

our first project together, a report on information management regarding university computing case. we were five in the group. one risk analyst, one lawyer, one recruitment liaison, her, and me. the lawyer immediately admitted his lack of understanding on the case. the risk analyst, being an equally competitive girl tried suggesting workflow, which the tyrant chinese quickly countered by suggesting an alternative approach. after a series of negotiation, the risk analyst conceded. and it's just the first week of mba. wait, the recruitment liaison? did i mention the tyrant hates stupidity? and so my love-hate relationship with this tyrant that lasted for five terms.

the tyrant and i, for some reason, worked highly effective as a team. together, we always topped school reports, with the next best group trailing far behind. for some reason, i became the architect, building the structures as well as the strategist while she acted as the auditor and the strategist. yes, we both like to claim that bejeweled position of strategist. so we tried to outwit each other by providing the better solution. more often than not she provides the straightforward and methodological solution while i supply the more offbeat ones. i strongly believe that she abhors me whenever i was able to provide better and more overarching solutions.

after the first term, we became groupmates in management statistics. this subject solidified our bond as frenemies. we fought for the best student in the class. she had the competitive advantage. she was an applied mathematics undergrad after all. the teacher was notorious for her temper and course requirements. she was called the pressure cooker. this teacher seemed to enjoy the terrorized faces of her students. anyway, this time our groupmates were the liao, the gon, and the ortega. management statistics proved to be highly demanding. still, we won all the games and bagged the highest scores on term paper and reports. we were called the manstat genius. we celebrated this victory at, surprise!, a chinese restaurant near MOA. being the only non-chinese, i was completely ignorant. so i ordered the safest food- siomai. little did i know that this siomai was raw. my mouth learned that part too late.

next, we had business economics. this is the darkest moment of my academic life. if you've seen holly holiday in glee-- the dreamy, disorganized substitute teacher, you'll probably have not seen anything yet. our professor in business economics has the strangest sense of education and time. she's often unprepared and easily rattled. the subject was very interesting. imagine: monetary policies, fiscal policies, gross domestic product, market structures. if there's one subject that would make one instantly smart, it's economics. after economics, supposedly one's approach in newspaper reading would change. this time there's only a maximum of three in a group. i saw this cute half-japanese classmate seating three rows behind us. i asked the tyrant if she wanted that guy to be a groupmate. without hesitance, she said yes. she would normally ponder on my suggestion before replying but this time it was an easy yes, the flirt. turned out that half-jap was out of sequence so he had to drop the subject. and there went the tyrant's dream. the half-jap was replaced by an equally competitive econ major. of course, the result was unpleasant. we were the first reporter. we were suppose to set the tone. the queens never had dialogue. queen a would email me her comments, stating that queen b's suggestions were terrible. queen b would text me, complaining that the flow of presentation was boring. i became the messenger. in the end, we got a grade of 4.0 for the report. but this presentation drained me that i promised that it'll be my next collaboration with the tyrant...

...until we became classmates for the fifth time in ethics. because she was burning bridges everywhere, she was left with no one except me. by this time, people are convinced that we were secret lovers. we argue like lovers, they said. so, unwillingly, i became her groupmate again. but this time i firmly stated that i would choose the other groupmates. i chose two older classmates. one at her early 40's, the other one at his early 50's. she was obviously unhappy. here, she found her match. the other groupmate is at her prime age. equipped with charms and experience, she often overruled the tyrant's suggestions. she would like to assert her queen-hood. of course, the tyrant, not used to being the lady-in-waiting, challenged the other woman. hence, the battle between the lioness and tigress. i was actually amused how distraught the tyrant was. she clung obsessively to her crown. for the first time, she lost. i felt joy. i explained to her that she should learn how to deal with defeat. during the presentation, the bitch extended her air time, whipping out real life cases, overshadowing the presentation of the other groupmate. she gave me a meaningful look. she was not ready to give up.

xxx

earlier, it was our last session in ethics. it was also our last day together. she would not proceed with mba. she's only under post graduate program. walking for the last time towards the campus gate, i felt a cloud of sadness hanging above us--something we did not want to acknowledge. instead, we argued. treat me? no, why would i? this is your last day? exactly, therefore you should treat me a coffee? no, that wont do. we argued like this until we arrived at the gate. she sat. i stood beside her. then i said, "ok, i'll meet you soon" then extended my hand. then left. i think she understood the meaning of that handshake. embrace would be too sentimental for us. the handshake was the symbol of our love-hate relationship, both at a personal and at the business levels. she knew too well that it was me making her recall the day we first met.

of course, i would not admit that she's better than me. neither will she. but i think school would not be the same now. there's no one more tyrannical than her.

What Monday and Bad Day Can Do

2011-04-04T13:37:00.009+08:00

How about

???? HMMM......

Ready?

Dicot

2011-04-03T13:09:00.010+08:00

I've been hearing rave reviews about The Black Swan. Some people found it disturbing. I know someone who had nightmare after watching the movie. Some found it intriguing and brave. So, last night, after four months of focusing on my graduate school, I was able to finally watch the movie. Here are some of my notes:

The Roof

Nina's mom is obviously overprotective bordering obsessive. Drawing from the premature end of her career and boredom of domestic life, she tries to impose authority and at some degree impede Nina's growth. The absence of a progressive life reduces her into a mother who exists primarily and solely to, well, play a matriarch role. Stripping that off from her, she is nothing. She fears that without Nina cupped in her palms, she has to confront her wasted life. Hence, she sugarcoats this fear by showing gestures of concern and affection, which are way too much, stifling Nina's own emotions and exploration thereof, resulting in a contrived child who functions like a robot. Regularity feeds the mother's sense of self-worth, fooling herself to believe that whatever she gave up is all worth it.

For some reason, I found this mother-daughter relationship similar to the plot of Tereza of The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Tereza, living at the far-flung province of then Czechoslovakia can palpably feel her mother's resentment. Tereza is her mother's destruction. Her mother used to be the most sought-after woman in their town. She knew she was beautiful, hence she was arrogant. In the end, she allowed herself to be abducted into domesticity, into ugliness by a man without beauty, wealth or smarts to boast of. Growing up, Tereza becomes a witness and victim to the descent of her mother's monstrosity to the point that whenever she goes, she could feel the roof their home extending, suffocating her. Roof is her mother.

The White

The cleanliness, the absence of fault is boring, so the movie tries to present. The perfectness of choreography and of technique did not impress Leroy. He wanted something more dramatic and more dangerous. Nina Sayer's repressed life is the epitome of the need for social acceptance. She knows she always had it in her, the Black. But knows that the volatility of the Black is too much for her and the society to handle. Again, this can be due to the strict upbringing by her mom. Nina is deprived of exploration and self-discovery. Leroy on the other hand have seen tad too much perfection in his career. For a highly meticulous art like ballet, minute mistakes are considered blasphemy. Hence, aspiring dancers try their best to be perfect. Perfection can be saturating. Leroy's escape is betrayal. To betray perfection is to conquer it. He needs danger. He needs unpredictability. He needs something that would catapult him over the glass ceiling of perfection. He needs the Black.

Obviously, Nina cannot and will not deliver. Beyond her familiar space is foggy and she is not willing to take the risk. Leroy says that "Perfection is not all about control. It's also about letting go." Nina responded, "Do you have any corrections?". The need for social acceptance comforts Nina albeit in a skewed way.

The Black

The Black is the antithesis of the White. The Black is the complete abandon of rules. Its volatility makes it dangerous and desirable. Leroy wants to deconstruct perfection and lift to a higher plane. He finds perfection, as is, boring. He would like to challenge it.

Meanwhile, The Black has always been inside Nina, lurking inside, repressed now. In defiance, the Black acts stealthily, manifesting in unsuspecting moments. Hallucinations and alternate reality confuse Nina. The Black's looseness flirts with Leroy's thirst for an "anti-perfection". Nina's facade suffered violently as a result. Hence, the familiar struggle between the good and evil. However, here it is noticeable that the White resists vigorously except that the Black effortlessly prevails, suggesting that Nina's "true" self is the Black, hence people are unimpressed with her cleanliness.

The Vulgar

Lily, on the other hand, is a symbol of a reckless juvenile. Her apparent disregard of the rules comes naturally. Leroy is drawn to her, and so is the Black. Nina found her beautiful and threatening. The Black is pulled towards the vulgarity of Lily. That and her imperfection, her unrefined movements and speech. The enamor becomes desire. Desire turns into jealousy. Jealousy becomes a tool for destruction. Lily's existence is purely to de-puss the Black out from Nina's White.

The Struggle

Nina's last line was "I felt it. Perfect I was Perfect." The question is which perfection is she pertaining to. The perfection that she's used to? The alternate perfection that the Black offers, which is primarily to satisfy Leroy's whim? Or the perfection of having achieved perfection, lifting it to a higher plane, and then deconstructing it once again and elevate it another layer, a perfection which is overwhelming, it can't be defined. It is perfection beyond further destruction? The skirmish becomes the stage within the stage within the stage (the first stage being the actual platform, the second stage being Nina as a person). Or perhaps, the perfection that Nina was pertaining to was the acceptance of her duality. That it is not an either or choice. That to embrace both is essential for her perfection as a person.

The Reality

The movie seduces us by giving a character that confuses which is reality and which is plain hallucination. As the movie progresses, the dichotomy becomes blurred, permitting the audience to thresh out and pick which one to consider reality or otherwise. The potency of the film lies on this choice-- the empowerment of the viewer. The combination could be limitless. The sequence varies.

In the end, the choices made mirror the reality and "perfection" the viewer is willing to acknowledge and accept.

Maricris

2011-03-26T16:31:00.005+08:00

It was supposed to be just a school requirement whose objective is to immerse the students in actual social responsibility activities. Just six hours, I said. Just a feeding program.

My group mates and I went to the Missionaries of Charity supposedly to feed the children, mostly with disability. Personally, I had my reservation. I have soft spot for children, and it is difficult for me to withdraw once I have established a connection. Hence, I tried to keep my distance, convincing myself that this is a transitory visit. Children are used to people coming and going. They know the drill.

We waited for the children outside, in the common area/playground. I can feel my group’s anticipation. We have our own expectations and doubts but we kept silent. Our eyes were focussed on the door.

Then they arrived like an armada of bees. The children.

Honestly, I was taken aback by their condition. Children of all sorts and degree of affliction and disability. Of “incompleteness”. Children on wheelchair, children with large heads, children with dull stares, children burdened with fear and anger. Then the riot started. Each member of our group handling two or three children, trying his/her best to be useful and understand the children. For me, it was overwhelming. The energy, albeit a sickly yellow one, was palpable, like being inside the eye of a tornado. It took me a while before I regained my cool.

I tried mingling with the children but I felt myself slowly detaching until I heard a bed creak-like noise and a rough shuffling behind me. Then I saw a foot reaching out for the broken crayons left by some snooty girl. The foot belonged to a child with cerebral palsy. The child turned out to be 15-year old bald girl who cannot use her hands and cannot control her grunting and sloshing about. Everything about her was jittery except her eyes. While dull-looking, the look of determination was unmistakable. She wanted to do some colouring. She used the space between her foot fingers to grab the crayon. She was obviously having difficulty but I could never deprive her with the experience. For her, it was not just mere colouring. It was a validation of her own worth. That she could do something. That she amounted to something. Her strokes were messy and wide. The paper wrinkled and tear under her heavy, uncontrolled foot. But the beam of satisfaction radiating on her face—priceless. She smiled. Her name was Maricris.

Throughout the rest of the session, I focussed on her. Talked to her, fed her, pushed her wheelchair. It was a humbling experience. Not a word passed her mouth but words were needless. Her silence, except for the animal howl-like sound, was clear enough for me to learn something. It is not about what you have but what you want to achieve. She did not have much, she wanted to do much. She was happy.

Missionaries of Charity nests and nurses more than 60 children with special needs. The dedication of the staff and nuns taking care of these children is admirable. It takes a lot of courage and strength to manage. Located near the slums, the institution is in a good position to read the pulse of the indigent. It is a good start for uneducated and mis-educated people like me to learn the dynamics of selflessness and dedication.

While leaving, the gate once again opened. Tired-looking adults entered the premises, their necks extending, their eyes searching. Turned out that they were parents of some of the children. A thought lingered on me while we headed home. Was it a relief or a burden or both that their children are locked inside the institution, away from them? Was it convenience? Was it a feeling of guilt. While these remained unanswered, I was sure of one thing. Six hours were not enough. Nothing could be enough for children who never knew how it feels to be complete.

The Krag-and-Bayonet Phase

2011-02-28T08:53:00.007+08:00

The Krag-and-Bayonet Phase

(A Love Song)

By Ricardo M. De Ungria

The landscape is just not big enough

for both of us, I see.

You go that way, I go mine.

With separate maps, we shall not

pay our thread behind us.
We'll arrive at the same places,

perhaps use the same paths and turnings,

separately, lured by the same

primordial amplitudes and silences we love.

Pinnacles, bedrock, harbor heads.

cliff dwellings, tumbleweed hinterlands,

waterfalls, canyons, forests

will wound us wit the grit

and hesitancies of impermanence.

At the end of the road

when we come across each other

again, we'll have stories to inflict

on the other without delay.
We shall drink to each other's absence.
We shall leave no stone unturned,

spare no mementos and take no compliments.

We shall leave the feeling between us

a howling wilderness.

We'll be at a loss for words, love,

but we shall have peace.

Un-gripping the Rope

2011-02-14T23:26:00.005+08:00

The familiar stirring of a restless mind resumes, ostracizing him from reality. He haunts. He's haunted. He smiles the crooked smile of someone who just lost everything, even his memory. Only that his memory coats his teeth like cavity. Yellow, yes, with stains of violet, the color of dying leaves, the color of a cadaver.

The mind floats like a firefly without a light. Aimless and violent. The thick muck of the night stifles the wings. Below is an endless pit. The quitter's hole is tempting. The mind only need to stop trying and fold its wings like hands joining into a prayer. Then fall.

The body is being lowered. Flowers shower from above. The world is now defined by a rectangle-shaped sky. Everything else is reduced to obscurity, to irrelevance. It is only the body and the four-sided sky. The body acknowledges its dispensability. The mind exists outside its culture of rotting organs, and system of nerves. But it is too late. The mind has chosen other vessel. A flower or fly perhaps? Or a stone. Something, mindless of its limitation or its own existence.

Dying is an art, and I do it exceptionally well, says Sylvia. Like a cat, she had nine lives to exhaust. In the end, she betrayed herself. Gas,poetry. She died but she never felt freedom. She lives and dies over and over and over again whenever a sad reader leaf through her poems. She is forever preserved, tragically devoid of decomposition inside the bell jar.

The poppies need to be scythed. And so the head, by the unconditional love of a guillotine.

But even that is inadequate to punish himself.

Final Respect

2011-02-09T00:11:00.004+08:00

Below is a poem I have written five years ago. I wrote this during my final year in college. The thought occurred to me while I was drinking coffee, having a short break from my finals review. I saw a trail of ants on the wall. Their seemingly bored yet cadenced march towards somewhere caught my attention.

What if I found myself dead. Me looking at my body slowly expiring. An understanding, a surrender. Between us is a thin line, a trail of ants racing against the blood.

xxx

Your room did not proclaim
that your soul would fall
like the ashes of incense
drudging a prayer.

How everything still hovers with life,
it is easy to be mistaken.
The pillow marks where your head rested
Yesterday's clothes littered on the floor
Norah Jones' voice blending
with the cacophony of the nth year-old fan.

Even the brewed coffee left unsipped.

Until I saw a trail of blood
racing against a queue of ants
to reach the morsels of last night's pizza.

Your body
positioned like Christ's final hour.
Both wrists as if dipped in red wine.

Death, however, does not

defy all gravity.

Or preludes resurrection

Hear: Your post-mortem story marred

by me not wearing mourning clothes
to complement old folk's novenas.

Grief for me
is closing your eyes
soaking your hands in warm water
kissing the lips that will not requite.

Respect for me
is not remembering:

It is forgetting

that I have seen a trail of blood

racing against an army of ants.

Meanwhile, below, is a discussion on the "rationality of suicide". Here, the lecturer identifies the "rational" requirements that would justify ending one's life.

Do you think former Sec. Angelo Reyes was just being "rational"? Or was it just plain cowardice?

Shooting Star

2011-02-06T21:06:00.010+08:00

Weekend's Collage (RC, Egypt and Persepolis)

2011-01-29T22:17:00.006+08:00

Below is RC's, my elementary classmate based in Boston, and his partner Miguel's contribution to the growing concern on violence against homosexual. Here, they share how they dealt with their confusion, during their younger days, on being not normal.

Catch Miguel smirking when RC mentioned "I had a boyfriend that time." Because RC was not referring to Miguel. Haha.

On a different note, today, the world has witnessed Egypt's uprising against its president Hosni Mubarak. There was, for a few hours, an almost internet blackout wherein the authorities tried to mum the news. Nevertheless, pictures of the revolution still leaked into the internet and provided the world harrowing images of the march and violence. Political-wise I can't comment much. I'll leave the analysis to the social and political scientists.

However, business point of view, this uprising resulted in downgrade of Fitch's rating on Egypt from stable to negative. Stocks also plummeted 1000 basis points amidst the speculative market. According to Bloomberg, the 2040 dollar-denominated bond yields of Egypt reached to records high in response to volatility. This means that the cost of borrowing for Egypt multiplied exponentially. A country in distress is most likely a country in default. The risk of default becomes as high as the pitch of an old maiden shrieking her first orgasm.

Look at it this way, since the debts are in long term, they cannot be easily recalled. As a debtor you can't claim your principal right away. Instead, what can be done is to increase the pricing or the interest rate. This is bad news for Egypt because its debts now are more expensive.

Finally, one good film about repression and breaking barriers is Persepolis. Enjoy the trailer below.

First Lunch

2011-01-08T16:33:00.005+08:00

Is burnt toast, omelette with cheese and diced luncheon meat, and coffee. This is the first meal I have ever prepared for myself. No, instant noodles are not counted.

I never thought that toasting bread can be this therapeutic.

Segue: A scene from an MBA class:

Teacher: Ok, tell us something about yourself.

Awkward Guy: Uhm, well, lately I've been fascinated with toasting bread. I think it helps me manage my control freak-ness. Toasting bread can be therapeutic. I distrust the timer since it does not inspire confidence. Here, I learn to trust and acknowledge that tightly controlling everything can be impairing.

Teacher: ...

Awkward Guy: I also love freshly-sharpened pencils. I get annoyed with stubby pencils.

Teacher: Sooo, ok...

Awkward Guy: I enjoy reading poetry as well.

Teacher: Thank you very much.

For an MBA class, this is fatalistic. Business students should exhibit, early on, their competencies like giving information on their positions, their affiliations, their expectations, which are usually and ultimately narrowed down into grades or salaries. You do not tell something about a cat that sleeps on a mat. You do not demonstrate how delightful it is to assemble scale models. And! You do not share stories about secret blogs, or oven toaster, especially in a Management Science class, which is a rocket science.

But for some reason, I did.

Off-Centered

2011-01-08T14:54:00.005+08:00

2010 was the year of centering. It was the year of reasoning and hiding inside the comforts of, well, comforts.

One thought about being comfortable is that the body and mind become complacent and lazy. Knowing what to do and what to get give a sense of security. Repetition is a joy for most of us. The regular patterns. The familiar taste. The accessible parameters. Arguably, it is understandable to desire, given, that man , I believe, is by default an insecure animal. Man would desire, resort, and function inside his own chartered space, spatial or otherwise. Familiarity leads to intimacy. The absence thereof either paralyzing or maddening.

We've heard the phrase "grace under pressure" but this is easier said than done. I, for example, am not graceful under pressure. My countenance darkens, and so my disposition. It reflects how obsessive I can be with regard to my comfort zone. Inside the center of my comfort zone, I am childish, funny and curious. I am also quick in giving answers. Outside this center, I become more and more laconic. Outside my comfort zone, I am aloof and sarcastic, and hostile at times. I tend to fret a lot too. This kind of attitude resulted in slow growth and missed opportunities. Activities and days became routinary, hence trivial. I would coin this as getting lost in my own tangly psychological jungle. A part of me wanted to catapult myself into the clearer outside, but I was too scared, and yes, lazy.

And here 2010 can be defined in one word: centering. No point in justifying or finger-pointing now. I blame it all on me. Sad considering that it has always been my mantra that "plateau is evil". But when I found it, I stayed. I loitered. I sat and watched the clouds passed by one by one while I, wallowed. I betrayed myself.

So, a few days before 2011, I decided that this should stop. I need to break-off. 2011 should be an anti-thesis of my 2010. A sort of Yes-man year. Of course, mistakes would exponentially increase. I welcome them.

So here's the plan: pierce the comfort circle, test the unknown, the volatile, and unstable, and apply the three A's-- adapt, adopt, adept to dispel the three T's--- tension, threat and treachery. Short term, it looks like a breakthrough, but in long term, it would only look like a circle expanding and blossoming. Rest should always be factored in. Constant moving forward can result in looseness and experience taking shallow roots.

The trick, of course, is to know when to rest. Like in music, to know whether to go adagio, andante, allegro, vivace or when to employ larghissimo. Needless to say, even in rest, there should be no complacency.

Plateau is evil. The horizontal is only for the dead.

A Good Start

2011-01-04T06:24:00.006+08:00

1. I was able to scour my desk and inbox clean. I was actually dreading coming back to the office, believing that I would spend the first day of work eliminating backlog. Luckily, I was able to finish the last report by 830am and de-virginized (read: read and reply) all emails by 1000am.

2. I was able to call NSO Contact Center and request a copy of my birth certificate. Ah, the joys of having a speaker phone. Ear glued to the phone can be really, really frustrating especially when you're calling a government office, customer service center or helpdesk.

3. Because I was too excited to attend my Ethics class; Because I was too eager to deliver my line (I expect that this course would teach me how to appear ethical wherein in fact I am brutally the most unethical businessman); Because I find it relentlessly terrorizing to walk the shawarma- and cockroach-mashed up smell of the street Buendia leading to the LRT; Because I was ready to pass through the ID scan entry, and haughty guards; Because I could feel the smell and vibrancy of youth hovering above my head; Because I was all psyched up to do it right this term, I was slapped hard by the Notice of No Class.

4. Took the MRT Blue Line on my way home. Decided to read Pornographia:

We need courage and stubbornness, because we must stick to our purpose even if it does look like lascivious swinishness. The swinishness will cease to be swinishness if we stick to it! We must press on, because, if we let up, the swinishness will drown us. Don't be thrown off balance--don't let on. There is no retreat

and the unforgiving denouement

My greetings. Best regards. Burn this.

and this lengthy monologue of Vaclav, Henia's fiancée. Vaclav is breaking down after witnessing Henia's too rehearsed coquetry with Karol, Henia's childhood friend. Vaclav still belives that Henia remains faithful to him but is bothered with how Henia gleams a different light when
with Karol

...Yet what is it that she lives in me? My feelings, my love for her? No, not just that, she also loves me for myself-but why? What does she loves in me? You know what I'm like. I have no illusions, I don't like myself much, and I really don't know. I can't understand what she sees in me, I admit it even offends me. If I have anything to reproach her for, it's exactly that she...accepts me so graciously. Would you believe that in moments of the most passionate ecstasy I resent this very ecstasy, the fact that she succumbs to it with me? And I have never been able to feel at ease with her, it has always felt like a favor, a concession granted me. I even had to summon up cynicism in order to take advantage of this "convenience", this kindhearted arrangement created by nature. Well and good. All in all-she loves me. That's a fact. Undeserved or deserved, convenient or inconvenient, she loves me.

While I wanted to slap Vaclav for losing grip, I can't help but notice this middle-aged man eavesdropping. Probably early-30s but his already forehead is furrowed with deep lines, giving him a certain look of defeat or in deep thought. My unpleasant experiences inside MRT made me uber paranoid, so I treated this man with acute suspicion.

Suddenly, the space between our shoes became a territorial ground. Suspended in time, that space could turn into hubbub of possibilities. It could be flirtatious. It could be violent. It could present itself as something else, something beyond us. It could also be nothing but a blank--a pause, faithful to suspension. Regardless of its form, the space, I deemed, was treacherous. But then, suspension was meaningless. What was relevant was the space as the necessary distance between us, otherwise I would go berserk or be paralyzed. But no, I said to myself. Enough of the cowardice. Face it! MRT is vicious . But you can be more viscous. So what I did was to spread my elbows, and acted normal, thus asserting my territory.

5. Got myself enrolled in Muay Thai. The training gym was way smaller that the one where Lau Xu brought me to. The gym also looked sparsely equipped. Strikes Unlimited. My trainer's name is Puppy. But do not be fooled. Puppy is very large guy. However, what instantly caught my attention was his eyes. They looked kind. Today will be the start of my training. More on this soon.

6. My first attempt to domesticity! FAIL! Burnt toast + barely-heated leftover Christmas ham+Cheese spread. Tasted weird. Haha. A five-year old could do a better job! Housemate, if you are reading this, I apologize. Hope your tummy did not act up.

Street Light

2010-12-30T22:18:00.003+08:00

Saggy as a dying ceiling,

your light, the color of piss.

The attempt to exist

and persist

your acute throbbing,

your intermittent glares,

your occasional clouding

and eclipsing.

It warrants

unsolicited silence

and thought-strangling---

like that of a passing cortege.

Dark Alley Thoughts

2010-12-29T10:45:00.002+08:00

One reason why there was a lengthy hiatus here was that I felt like this blog was turning into a very sad photoalbum of years gone by, of the issues unresolved, and of things left unsaid. In other words, catacomb of memories that, like ghosts, lingered restlessly.

However, allow me this one to shake off the unexpected nip of melancholy.

xxx

Going home from the local coffee shop, I decided to defer riding the more convenient tricycle and decided to walk. I decided to take the path I used to walk, first, during my 5th grade after the Lahar Tragedy, and then during my college days.

The route, which is roughly 2 kms., includes a straight tread from the church towards the central public school- the school where I first understood how it felt to have no friends. A healthy 500 meters would end with a sharp bend to the dark and narrow alley flanked by a religious center at one side and ancestral houses at the other. The absence of street lights makes the alley a very dangerous place, however, for some reason, I always find peace in this place.

Walking through this old path, and while observing my shadow darkened and faded under the naked light of the night sky, I realized that it has been so long since I have had a real conversation with myself—those topics that I try not to acknowledge.

How five years of staying in the city has changed me.

When I was in college, I only had photocopies, books, a screechy, cacophonous recorder, and unrequited love to boast of. Dying was easy then. I would always wish that somewhere, a creature would suddenly appear and probably take me away.” I have nothing to lose. I do not amount to anything.”, so was my claim then. This foolishly fuelled by courage. I would deliberately walk slowly, step by small step, prolonging my stay. There were also instances that I would retraced my steps. I even made a PERT/CPM chart of how I was suppose to live. And die.

I tried blaming everything to my parents. My ever-absent mother and ever-distant father. My parents got separated during my second year in high school but it took me three years to fully absorb the gravity of their separation, and its impact on us, their children. It was as if suddenly both my parents died. And hence they died inside my mind. I pretended that they died in some road accident. Better this way, I thought. To not to expect anything from them. No disappointments. Hence, my desire to be alone surfaced like the Nautilus in full view. And like Captain Nemo’s Nautilus, it only surfaces either to refill air or to destroy ships. My case was more of the latter.

And so downward spiral to isolation.

Isolation’s gift to me was abundance of time. The absence of any solid social tie permitted me to focus on my books. It was during this time that I felt feverish, probably delirious whenever I analyze financial statements or make SWOT analysis. Despite the tons of school readings to be reviewed, I had the time to read Hugo, Kafka, and Dostoyevsky. I started writing and reading poetry. I also started practicing Hiragana and Katakana and basic Kanji. I decided to eat sparingly. My neck became dangerously thin. My cheeks shrunk. I started having monthly fever. Still, I felt oddly happy. I find delight in the grunt of my stomach and the occasional palpitation probably because I thought anytime soon death would take me.

I would listen to this 10:00pm radio program playing classical music. Satie’s Gymnopedie No. 1 and Chopin’s Nocturnes became my instant favourites. Then, I would also, from time to time, go outside during 2:00 or 3:00 am and have a conversation with my dog who died a year ago. I would stare at the sky and attempt to create my own set of constellations but, would always fail because when I am reminded and overwhelmed by the idea that above me was a spectacular stellar show. Thus, my plot then.

Then last night, five years later, while walking at the same alley, stouter and less idealistic now, I realized that something was amiss. Yes, I may have more stable financial standing now; more grounded to reality; more attuned to my everyday needs but for some reason, I felt emptier.

Probably because, before, I used to walk this alley without fear or ambition. I simply had nothing to protect and prove. However, now, I am so full of wants. Bigger pay. Better job. Recognition. Awards. Achievements. All validation of my existence. Five years of staying mostly in the city has turned me into an insatiable creature, obsessively wanting to be ahead of the pack. I became a nameless, faceless daily commuter, having a specific role, expected to perform a defined set of task. I turned into a bowler hat man without a head. Everything felt transitory. I would be partly to blame. Distractions. Bad choices.

It felt guilty all of a sudden. As if I did not deserve to walk the alley anymore. Where was the “I” who never find delight in new clothes and fastfood gratification. Where was the “I” who would prop up on the sofa or bed, and sincerely believed that nothing would be more orgasmic that reading a good book.

This does not mean, however, that I should start starving myself again, slit my wrist, and return to my lunatic days. Looking back, I can’t even believe I survive that phase. Maybe because I was not as brave as I thought I was, otherwise I would be dead by now.

I think, the lesson here is that when everything feels shady and complicated, I should go back to my roots. For example, the primary reason why I am taking my master’s degree is to teach. But sometimes I forget that and all that is left is an ambitious student who desires a more glamorous job. A mover.
Lau Xu is right when he said that I should stop working on proving myself to anyone. Well, while I still believe that aiming for excellence and beyond expectation is good, I acknowledge the fact that one does not need grandiosity to prove one’s self-worth.

I am pretty sure that somehow, I would manage to forget all these realizations. I am still young. I would be driven by my desires which would definitely broaden as my capabilities and capacities expand. My propensity to deviate and break the status quo would lead me to greater heights or fall. Worse, I could get lost in a labyrinth has created.

Hence, I am attaching the image of a dark, narrow alley with deadly creatures to where I started.

That is, to have nothing.

A Study on Study

2010-12-16T23:04:00.006+08:00

1900hrs. Chef's Table. The Fort. We arrived an hour early. Lau Xu and I. Vikki, Lau Xu's bestfriend would be coming from Makati, and given the congested roads, it'll be at least 45 mins before she arrives. So, we are confronted by waiters who, I think, every three minutes, would ask us if we would like to have anything. Lau Xu gently declined at first, but several kulit after, he gave in. He asked what's the best seller. The waiter said the pusit.

While waiting for our order, Lau Xu commented on how quaint and angular the ceiling and walls were. Honestly, I did not notice that the walls were not flat until Lau Xu called my attention. Then Lau Xu drew my attention to the pencils resting suspiciously on the table. Then it dawned to me. Pencils. Paper table covers. Ah, a slow service.

Lau Xu started scribbling his Chinese name. I attempted to mimic but the characters were too complex and webby. He patiently guided me, stroke by stroke. The result: As Lau Xu opined, they looked like made by a kindergarten. The last character, particularly the descent to the rhombus-like part was a pain to my stubby, stubborn fingers. Lau Xu tried justifying, stating that it took him a long time to perfect writing his own name. No wonder chinese are very shrewed. Just writing one's name requires a considerable level of focus and motor coordination. And they have how many? More than a thousand characters! Nonetheless, it was fulfilling to be able to write Lau Xu's name. Then he left me with my lousy attempts on perfecting his chinese name.

A few seconds later I saw him tentatively drawing shaky lines. What I thought was a random doodling turned out to be the beginning to a gradual and delightful blossoming of a sketch, a woman in frock. Watching Lau Xu intimately absorbed, witnessing an activity where he's very good at was a delight. The way he held his pencil, how his skin of his fingers rubbed to the paper, how sinuous the strokes were. I was close to tears. I wanted to hold his hand but I kept my distance. I wanted to see him finish it without interrupting him with my silly qualms.

There's something part-methodological, part-maniac on how Lau Xu drafted. Owing probably to his unforgiving clinical training back in his PT days, the paper became like a laboratory table and the invisible body took form as his hand, inch by inch, revealed it, whipping it out from thin air. The anatomical approach was highly-noticeable. There's also an air of meticulousness. Then there's this undertone of inward storm that seemed to slowly build inside. The way each line developed and confronted each other. Like how Claudio Vandelli would weather a musical tempest. I particularly enjoyed how he ran and maneuvered the curves. They were almost palpable, tangible. I could watch him do this whole day and not get tired of it, I thought.

The study of a woman in frock. The smile on his face, it was priceless. I love how he surveyed his work, reviewing the nuances and the surrender of the image inside his mind and assume a form to his liking. The curve of his lips, and how the light bounces on his skin--- he was glowing.

If only I could capture that moment and own it. The study is an art in itself. Its incompleteness, its noise. I would never see the clean version but for me, it was better than the final work because, probably, it was more potent. The absence of strayed lines make a clean work mechanical, artificial. Whereas the draft, raw as it can be, held, story, history. Its vulnerability welcomed interpretation, which made the work richer.

Perhaps, this can also be applied to our lives. We are all fractured and imperfect but we all aim for perfection. The clean. While it is not wrong to aim for it, perfection, sometimes, results in barriers. The lack of wrinkle makes a thing suspicious, and at times incredible. Imperfection makes us human. I doubt if animals understand that they are imperfect. Imperfection invites us to celebrate our humanity, our existence with other imperfect individuals.

Later, Mel, Lau Xu's friend, arrived and the neighboring table got to loud so we asked to be transferred to another table. Vikki arrived minutes later.

We left the sketch where a sure crumpled end awaits it. A hand, a ball of paper, a garbage can.

Nevertheless, the woman in frock, the fractured, imperfect woman in frock will remain with me, reminding me of Lau Xu's satisfied smile, his lips glistening and the stubby fingers which could produce a body and lesson alike.

Poems I've Written Before

2010-12-12T10:07:00.002+08:00

Shapeshifter 3 (Backmasked Dreams)

Surreal specks inch above your forehead
as Tchaikovsky,once again, tones
your midnights with adagios
and allegros.
The tapping of the fingers
certain about your mind
being lured to land(e)scapes of memories.
Again, you seize each detail
so as not to miss any moment.
Checking and counterchecking
to ensure the images of her
dying pulse, the spadework,
lapidary and graveyard blooms

never leave you.

Sleep beckons you
as the last note swarms your ears.
Still you cling to the end
of your wakefulness as darkness whirpools
into galaxies of fireflies and form
her face. In silence

the relay of images reverses:

Graveyard leaves hovering back to trees
like tears budding back to your eyes.

The unearthening of her body,
the funeral march, trip to the morgue.

Lips parted; her eyes freed from stony stare.
Bed warm again and so your morning cups.

Each photo turning from sepia to full color.

You listen back
to the hush of first kiss and of first glance.
Back to the exchanges
of names, to silence
and dimming of the skies

to find yourself back in your room
and hear the incessant peck
of a bird at the windowsill.

Now, is that a crow this time
or just another black dove
you have chanced upon?

Quartet for Father

"Bless me Father for I have sinned"

1

We always work in subtleties.
Pain implicited through vehicles--
like the fireflies I left in your room,
their lights as sickly as the moonlight
screened by the dirty windows;
or the glints of twilight captured on piano voice
every midnight,usually followed by creaks
of door left ajar and footsteps on rooftop
pronouncing bottles of beers yet to be emptied.
You know: Distance
widens like slits on your blankets
making our nights colder.
And mornings? Spent in silence,
to avoid the words and meanings
that might betray our sorrows.
I know: Years
have thickened the glass walls
between us. Yet I know.
It is not the receding hairline
nor the curses you puke behind the curtains,
not the calligraphy and codes you use
to name the same tears, not the nails
jutting on random planks
nor the prayerbeads hanging on them
do your bruises rub against mine
with hottest friction
but on the coffee cups you emptied
and my favorite song you whistled inside the shower.

2.

For the nth time this afternoon,
you are watering the broken pot
where not a root or a bone
was buried.

Soil erodes on cracks and gaps.
The mud oozes like blood on fresh lips of wounds.

You pause (as if sensing my thoughts),
made a quick turnaround and caught me
opening Ungria's Waking Ice*.

Then, a splatter of water, some putang ina mo's
and one jab at the mouth

before you left me with blood on my lips
dripping on Waking Ice.

3.

It is clear that you have learned
to gather memories with observation.
Silence settles with less gravity now.
Words are needless to timeline my lips, You said

You know my lust with the way I eye
a butterfly gathering nectar on a flower.
My academic failures with the nods and pouts
while watching quiz shows.
My cynicism on religion through the
boldness of my fingers as they gather candle's sweat
to form headless figures.

I let you
enumerate my fragments,
label me with phrases
that burns like salt on fresh wounds.
I let you know me
and the versions of me.

But when you said you know my sadness
when I came home with flowers to lighten the porch
and paint tubes to lighten up my room,
I have to drop my silence
and feed you with word

s
that tear like needle on a cloth.

Let us keep our distance
and speak only in private languages.
Let us leave pain hovering above our heads,
stop plucking them from the air
just to blurt their bitterness with
intersected words.

We do not need these slurs and stutters.

4.

A cat dangling between Brownie's jaws.

A vase positioned at the edge of table,
half of it already touching nothing.

Marbles and thumbtacks scattered all over the floor.

Seconds hand inching its way
before the clock drowns the chirp of idle birds.

Funny smell like a hair caught in candle flames,
emitted from undetected faulty wiring.

These, fill my mind as I nervously
press the buttons of remote control.

Already, I see your eyes
with their mock and hunger for revenge.

How could I tell you
we have PTA meeting tomorrow.

Van Gogh and Icarus (Retro and Jethro) Part 1

2010-12-11T08:30:00.003+08:00

xxx

He took and early off mainly because he was too excited to stay at the office, and secondly he would like to make sure that everything was all ironed out. The restaurant is known for its haughtiness, rejecting all attempts to make reservation, as evidenced by its dead contact numbers. It was supposedly a half-day leave but due to some office obligations he was forced to stay until nearly 3 pm.

It was raining hard when he reached his unit in QC. Undeterred, he hastily changed to his everyday clothes and headed for the Maginhawa St. In hurry, he forgot one little thing. An umbrella. He did not bother to come back as the glacial ascent of the elevator to 16th floor was too harassing for his subzero patience. Outside, the rain gladly welcomed him.

xxx

The terror of riding an ordinary bus. It was like being lost in dark, thorny forest. He felt like a prey to invisible monsters real and imagined alike. He has never fancied riding ordinary buses since the incident that happened to him a few years back. But since he was already soaking wet, he had no choice but to ride on the first bus which came his way. The rusty smell of the bus hinted of blood, rendering him almost nauseous. He tried to fight the feeling by diverting his attention to something else.

Birds flapping. Strings of a violin taut and at the ready. Rivers.

xxx

Philcoa. The tricycle driver rejected my destination. Maginhawa St. is the first street, so he told. But he failed to mention that the numbers of the houses remain intact. #154 Maginhawa St. Uphill road. And a less than an hour to spare. Nevertheless, I ran. Made it up to the 50th. Took the trike. Was overcharged.

xxx

A "Closed" sign welcomed me. The presence of three pairs of shoes outside were comforting. That meant people inside. Gagged Gaga music playing inside. I knocked.

A half-naked man wearing only tattered jeans and suspenders opened the door. Despite the new haircut, immediately I knew it was the man. The Jethro. The Bipolar.

xxx

We came a few minutes late so we were asked to seat next to an Ateneo students group. The start was awkward. The visual masturbation was too intense. Our eyes, harassed by a riot of oddities. The beautiful, the kitschy, and the ugly. Behind our backs were the array of photographs taken from different European cities. In front of us, the red wall, immaculately vandalized. Farther, the committee of business cards. Inside the washroom, the bipolar's artworks.

xxx

I had salmon. He had lamb. He said he'll introduce his three personalities. The French, the Chinese and the Dexter. He also said he had to blurt out the things bothering him. He confessed. I listened intently, trying not to establish my own theories, make my own patter. I just listened. Here is a man outpouring his bipolar self while between us a candle flickered.

Then he solicited my opinion.

xxx

I took from my bag a printed out copy of his Icarus. It was an image of desperate fall. We all know the story of the arrogant and adventurous son ignoring a father who flew too high and stayed too close to the sun. Every time his story is read, he dies. Then I turned the drawing upside down. I said what I see now is not a man who is about to die but a man who has conquered the sky, the Maneuverer-- a complete insult to his stigmatized existence.
Then I asked him to put it on the wall. He was reluctant at first. I urged. He gave in. His Icarus now part of Van Gogh is Bipolar's washroom art gallery.

xxx

We soon left. Jethro retired early so we were not able to bid goodbye. Inside his car, thoughts became more wayward. I hugged him tight then rested my head on his lap. Yes, no stars aligned that night. No shooting stars. No fireworks. But that moment was truly magical. The silence was comforting and more intimate than any words or actions could form. Idyllic trysts need not always need a moon and a bench.
That moment I realized how lucky I was. The lucky bastard.

Hydrant 1

2010-11-29T22:26:00.007+08:00

Hydrant (And On Why the Rain Never Cured the Wound)

There it is

The hydrant

Fixed to the ground; calm

As if it has stood there for thousands of years.

Indifferent to the world;

Its fiery red glow an insult to the sky

Overcast now and spitting of rain

I took some shots of it

Using your camera

Attempting several angles

Just for the heck of it

With plans of showing you

Its comedic existence.

However, when i knelt to the ground,

The wet soil shifting to my weight,

A wave rippled in the air.

I saw you walking in the rain, searching

For me. Your paper fedora soaked.

I retracted, receded and retraced my steps.

Your entire existence gathered up to a single purpose

Of finding me was too large for me to receive.

I hid behind the layers of rain, rain, and rain.

The sheets of rain upon foliage upon rain

Blurring you.

But Love has its way of finding

Those who skids from it.

And when it does, it does so

Lovingly violent.

A throbbing bruise pulsated.

Its palpability demanding acknowledgement.

You sniff, said Love.

That is restlessness spreading

Like gasoline. Allow it

To explode

And exploit your body.

And the fire consumed my mind,

Greedily razing the squatter of thoughts,

The unwelcomed persistent thoughts,

And timber by timber

They fall

Their crackling

Like children’s laughter.

Then the hydrant found me.

I embraced it

The way a drunk man would have

Mistaken it as his god.

And knelt I did.

I brought forth myself to you again,

Your fedora soaked and deformed.

I am empty, i thought,

I can accept.

I can be filled in again.

Lifeless

2010-11-18T01:19:00.004+08:00

Waiting for the dead who has not died yet is like being suspended in a hubbub of shadows. The confusion of forms arrests the mind, making it impossible for the senses to follow. However, the body is compelled to react. Unguided by the mind, the body acts on its own. The break can be a series of repetition habit has perfected. It can also be in the form of stoic, structural acceptance--- an unforgiveable pretension or denial.

My grandmother was restless that night. There was a charge surrounding her. She lied on her bed. Went to the restroom twice. Paced back and forth. Sat on the stone chair. Inspected the garden. Switched the lights on and off. And on. And off.

My aunt was restless that night. She needed something to hold on to. Something unchanging. Hence, she found comfort in the broomstick. The broom and the singularity of its purpose. She scoured every corner as if searching for something lost or forgotten; something, that could approximate the old familiars.

They, the Charon-like, paddle-equipped, hawk-eyed, restless and alert, ready to usher in the freshly-sent off, to their final resting place. Here, our boat of grief; here, our rivers of woes.

xxx

She died two days later. Multiple organ failure. The days of psyching up did not spare my grandmother from feeling the cold draft of sense of loss. She only has few days to live, she told me days earlier. Her eyes averting, resting on her grandchild (her son) who was unmindful of the things to come or would never come. The grandchild, my youngest cousin, suffers from cerebral palsy. The earth claimed her mother back too soon. Impeded by his condition, he would not learn this story as we know it. He would, however, in his own way, in his private wor(l)d, understand that something is amiss. Something, like a fading blur. But he would not feel remorse or grief. He is spared, cushioned. For now.

The stab will hit him probably years later when his brain, if lucky, is ripe enough to process ideas, emotions. His eyes wide enough to un-fog the world.

His first word would be probably Mother, which, in other words, is read as absence.

xxx

We never shared a single conversation. She was a teacher. I wanted to be one. But this shared passion was not strong enough to draw us nearer. I tried searching for her name in Facebook. She has an account. I almost wanted to click “Add as a Friend” but that could have been too sentimental and vulgar.

xxx

Hiyasmin I. Isip. Died November 17, 2010. Unburdened by the limitations of your body, you can now assume any form. Any form. Your dream would come into reality. Finally, your son would feel you, hear you. See you. Speak to him. He would respond. And by that, you can say that, finally, you have met.

Van Gogh and Icarus (Retro and Jethro) Part 1

2010-11-07T18:00:00.013+08:00

xxx

Birds flapping. Strings of a violin taut and at the ready. Rivers.

xxx

A "Closed" sign welcomed me. The presence of three pairs of shoes outside were comforting. That meant people inside. Gagged Gaga music playing inside. I knocked.

A half-naked man wearing only tattered jeans and suspenders open the door. Despite the new haircut, immediately I knew it was the man. The Jethro. The Bipolar.

xxxx

We came a few minutes late so we were ask ed to seat next to an Ateneo students group. The start was awkward. The visual masturbation was too intense. Our eyes, harassed by a riot of oddities. The beautiful, the kitschy, and the ugly. Behind our backs were the array of photographs taken from different European cities. In front of us, the red wall, immaculately vandalized. Farther, the committee of business cards. Inside the washroom, the bipolar's artworks.

xxx

Then he solicited my opinion.

Sprouts

2010-10-18T22:41:00.008+08:00

The absence of writing made by life duller, highlighting the monotony of everyday living. Wake up, commute, work, eat, work, study, surf, read mags, sleep. Then repeat. The repetition of things is rather taxing. It just does not add value. On top of this, it claims something, tearing off a part of me, of my soul perhaps, leaving holes where air can pass through effortlessly.

Of course, every now and then a spark of inspiration lights up somewhere, exciting my senses. However, before it even becomes a small flame, the deluge of repetition kills it. Pushing me back to darkness where I thrive, sustain, and live without actually living at all.

The reason why I stopped blogging months ago was I felt that I was being selfish and unfair. Every post was self-referential. As a writer (or trying to be), I have this obligation to elevate the topics I tackle into something universal and relevant to the society. Clearly, I am socially irresponsible.

So why blog again?

For the same selfish reason. To pull myself out from the quagmire of prosaic. Of irrelevance. What I am trying to convince myself here is that before I can write for the society, I need to write for myself first. Need to hear myself speak words, and their play thereof. I need to reconnect with my madness because I believe that in madness, something beautiful springs out. Incomplete but nevertheless beautiful.

If my Muse abandoned me, I'll chase her down.

I've been plagued by people who keep urging me to engage in physical activities. That way the stored energy will be released, so they told. But for me what is more urgent is to de-puss my brain. More than a year of being poem-less + sex-less produce a whitewashed brain. The more I keep things to myself, the more convoluted I become.

Jamie said I should write again. Hence, these sprouts, while weak and tentative, will do for now.

P.S. I also need to fix my decreasing appetite for pain. No, not the emotional pain but the physical pain. The joy of cracking my back and fingers knowing that the same are manifestation of my productivity. I think Ayn Rand, somewhere in heaven (or hell) is lamenting, incredulous that a tiny nip of exhaustion could send me running back to my bed and sloth. Simply pathetic.

My life should be guided by three things

1. Learn

2. Love

3. Produce

New Year

2010-01-08T11:42:00.002+08:00

Because I unresponsibly slept hours before and minutes after the New Year, I need to reverse the portent by becoming more productive this year.

I do not wish to be 2010-cursed.

Zigzag Thoughts

2009-09-15T18:36:00.003+08:00

Nothing catches my attention anymore.

Oh yes, boys, books and blogs. I cannot recall when did this sort of short attention span syndrome began. But what I do know is that everything is so light like feather, in other words irrelevant and distant.

Imagine yourself trapped inside a room where you hear the twittering of the birds, the rustle of the trees, the honks of occassional cars, the whistle of wind. All stark and pretty, isn't it.
Now, imagine hearing them with your head submerged in a pail of water, or worse, drugged. Everything is like a pale version of things of what they should have been. Everything moves in normal pace but what you catch and you register is their ghosts- without the blurs (which is scarier because it becomes the reality).

What I am trying to say is that I let everything pass, and just pass. So unlike me that tried to scrutinize and understand things. The only thing I want to hold and examine things is when I want to destroy or disprove them. This leads me to believe that I only have suppressed anger and that my so-called suspended consciousness is just a mechanism to deal with or avoid the issue.

This leads me to another monologue of what caused my digression. Was it the absence of sex? of love? of money? of poetry? of something to challenge the mind? Did I abuse my brain during my college days that the absence of competition and threat of death made everything looked dull and that my brain got confused and began searching for something to hold on to.

I guess I am ranting. I guess ranting means dealing with the problem. I guess I kept these thoughts too much inside, they began decomposing and contaminating everything.

And this entry stated the word "everything" six times, which is dangerous. Everything should not be overused, otherwise everything will be ordinary- hence feather-like.

I guess I just need to blog more often

Infinite Possibilites

2009-04-29T07:48:00.003+08:00

Some excerpts from Jorge Luis Borges' The Garden of Forking Paths from his book "Labyrinths"

Thus I proceeded as my eyes of a man already dead registered the elapsing of that day, which was perhaps the last and diffusion of the night.

I thought of a labyrinth of labyrinths, of one sinuous spreading labyrinth that would encompass the past and the future and in some ways involve the stars.

A high-pitched, almost syllabic music approached and receded in the shifting of the wind, dimmed by leaves and distance.

The damp path zigzagged like those of my childhood.

From that moment on, I felt about me and within my dark body an invisible, intangible swarming. Not the swarming of divergent, parallel and finally coalescent armies, but a more inaccessible, more intimate agitation that they in some manner prefigured.

In contrast to Newton and Schopenhauer, (your ancestor) did not believe in a uniform, absolute time. He believed in an infinite series of times, in a growing, dizzying net of divergent, convergent, and parallel times. This network of times which approached one another, forked, broke off, or we’re unaware of one another for centuries, embraces ALL possibilities of time. We do not exist in majority of these times; in some you exist, and not I; in others I, and not you; in others, bot of us. In the present one, which is a favourable fate has granted me, you have arrived at my house; in another, while crossing the garden, you found me dead; in still another, I utter these same words, but I am a mistake, a ghost.

Time forks, perpetually towards innumerable futures. In one of them I am your enemy.

I love these parts!

===================================
Two names, almost instantaneously, came into my mind. Ayn Rand and the Time Traveller of H.G. Wells’ Time Machine.

The way I have read Ayn Rand, I think she will reject the existence of parallel time. The future and past and present with all their infinite possibilities happening somewhere at the same time. What she accepts is the “today”, the time we live and exist. She does not want to focus beyond the parameters of what the senses cannot verify or understand. Only the vicinity of what the body and mind can produce and achieve is important.

On the other hand, the Time Traveller offers a different picture. Here, we see the man of infinite possibilities. A man who has gone to future and past and back. Unlike Ayn Rand, he could accept the “forking paths”, having defied the so-called limits of the fourth dimension—time. Time, like matter, is traversable. One can move back and forth. Time here becomes spatial. Although, the Time Traveller did not exist both at the past, present and future at the same time, I believe he would agree with Borges that time is not merely lateral but a “dizzying net of divergent, convergent, and parallel” time.

The only problem he has to solve is how he will verify the existence of another version of self walking at the park or, for that matter, fighting for his life.

Rant for Free 2

2008-12-09T17:17:00.003+08:00

This is the English translation of La Paloma, a song composed and written by Sebastian Iradier in 1861. It is widely believed that the inspiration of the son is the Persian fleet caught in a storm off the shore of Mount Athos and being wrecked. The Greeks noted the white doves escaping from the sinking Persian ships. This evoked a notion that these birds bring home a final message of love from a sailor who is lost at sea- the final link of love overcoming death and separation.

The Dove

A song reminds me
of yesterday,
when she left in silence
at dusk.
She went away, somewhere else,
with her sad song.
She left behind my solitude
as companion.

A white dove sings to me
at dawn.
Old melancholies, things
of the soul,arrive with the morning's silence
and when I go outside to see it,
it flies back home.

Where does it go,
that my voice
doesn't wish to listen anymore?
Where does it go, that my life
is extinguished
if she's not beside me?

If only she'd want to come back
I'd go wait for her.
every day, every sunrise
to love her even more

Rant for Free 1

2008-12-09T08:38:00.006+08:00

I had been staring at the watertank at the rooftop of Convergys Makati for quite some time when I realized that I was staring the watertank for quite some time. I checked the digital clock of my computer. Fifteen minutes had passed. Fifteen minutes of staring, not being aware of staring until a jolt sent me back to reality.

The jolt comes in different forms. It could be as loud and distinct as a ring of telephone or the alert of an incoming email. It could also be as distant as a recollection of a taste of young guava still too bitter to be edible or an imagined yet felt stroke of a hand at my nape. Either way, the jolt, as the word suggests, is like being electrocuted back to life- back to reality.

Pissed Off

2008-11-25T16:40:00.006+08:00

Five years ago, while traversing the newly opened NLEX, I had this urge to pee. When I say urge it means bladder-bloated, red shot eyes urge. It was raining then. Imagine the psychological torture. Everywhere I saw water trickling. I was clenching my fist, my nails digging my palms.

Minutes were hours. In reality, the gas station was a quarter of mile away but back then it was farther than Neverland. I was already having delirium. I could sense the floodgate seconds away from bursting. I will die! I will die!

I did. Inside the cavernous restroom of Shell Gasoline Station. What Yangtze River lapping on the bank earlier recoiled and reversed its course.

Before me was a weird looking urinal. Let me remind you that I was stupid and young then. (Although now I am not that young but I am still stupid). A urinal with a bee? Bee urinal? I was almost tempted to touch the mark to verify if it was really there. I might be having a hallucination. But before I could do that, someone said "It was supposed to guide the trajectory of your piss."

My head turned to where the voice was coming from. It was a stranger. I do not like strangers. They make me uncomfortable especially when enclosed in a small space like a restroom. Nevertheless, I nodded and proceeded with my business. The yellow river gushed forth generously. And yes, it all trickled on the bee mark.

I left without looking or thanking the stranger who was combing his hair at a glacial pace. I asked Tito Julian who was waiting in the car if what the stranger told me was true. He said it was. The purpose of the bee mark is to keep the piss from spilling from the side of the urinal. It is a rather ingenious idea. The tendency is to hit the bee mark. It is psychological, Tito Julian added. Everybody feels good. You with your sadistic tendency. The janitor for cleaning less.

So that is the reason for the bee urinal.

For those who do not have idea what I am talking about, below are some pictures and "more weird" urinals.

Weird Urinals Coming up... Be ready to "pissed" off.

A urinal with video game

A Spread Eagle urinal.

You might proceed with jerking off with this kind of urinal

How about this one?

Imagine a mouth like that?

This is a very horny urinal

Much better than this. A urinal that will siphon every sin you might have inside your two heads

Talking about watering the flowers.

Mercy! Mercy! I promise not to jerk off inside the cubicle!

Of Ignorance and Stupidity

2008-11-24T20:04:00.002+08:00

Board Meeting earlier. As usual, I am an idiot to more than 3/4 of the discussions.

I remember during my first meetings, my head literally pulsated after the meeting for absorbing (or more properly desperately trying to absorb the information my ear sadistically supply to my shrinking brain.) There were uber unlyrical jargons like collateralized debt obligations, held-to-maturity, unquoted debt securities classified as loans, marked-to-market that would have probably gave Booba her NDE or near death experience due to profuse nosebleeding. There were also unsuspecting simple words like haircut that could mean a deduction in the market value of securities being held by brokerage and investment banking firms as part of net worth for calculating their net capital. The size of a haircut varies with the particular type of security held. Still with this definition, I could hardly decipher its meaning.

I decided althogether to consider these highly complex argot as foreign language or at times white noise, paying only attention to the directives given by the Board. It was useless trying to research on the internet because the information are either incomplete or equally confusing and contradictory.

I decided it is time to return to school.

Last Saturday, it rained hard. Perfect. The squall of the mind concretized! It was the my entrance examination at DLSU Graduate School of Business. I was genuinely nervous, considering my personal cut-off grade of 98%. I tried relaxing by reading Yann Martel's Life of Pi. (A seperate entry for book review). But the thoughts of forthcoming battery of tests loomed like a nightmare hurled away from the realm of sleep and whispered teasingly on my ear, "Good luck! Good luck!" How can I trust my own enemy.

Three hours later, I found myself sitting on a cold case room together with the other takers. It was a small group. Some could not hide their nervousness. Some were making last minute review. Some appeared to be bored. Some were noisy. Koreans. Some where eye-candy. The test facilitator was a gay who had a funny accent that was supposedly British. We began with essay writing. Good, relatively my forte. That would warm up my brain. It did until I opened the questionaire and was dumbfounded with the first problem solving question.

x raised to 6 is equal to 3 while x raised to 5 is equal to 5/y. What is y in relation with x?

Perfect! I screamed inside my mind like Jack Skelleton when he found Christmasland. I found Halloween Town, "WHAT-IS-THIS?!". My mind plumetted like a bullet-stricken bird. I know if I devoted around 10 minutes or so for this particular problem, I could probably guessmath it but 10 minutes is too precious for a single question. There were 80 problems. I skipped it. I ended up guessmathing 4 math problems. No geometry problem appeared! Dammit! Where were the radii and angles? Where were the transversals and vertices?

I tried building momentum again.

During my self-review, I dreaded Data Sufficiency. It was always like a Warner Brothers anvil fallling on my head, knocking me off. Surpisingly, I found the section quite easy. Critical Reasoning and Reading Comprehension were also not that bad. Sentence Correction. I do not understand why the testmaker preferred long sentences over short sentences. The errors are more obvious this way, unlike short sentences where the errors are either "concealing" or "bluffing". Still, I don't think I nailed the Sentence Correction part.

Generally, I think I did OK. But not 98% level OK. There is a suuuuuper slim chance of getting a scholarship grant if the entrance examination will be the basis. Graduate School Dream broken. But this does not deter me from entering the same. I would find other ways if it was really determined that I do not deserve a scholarship program.

However, I have observed the following before, during and after the examination:
about 1/4 of the takers are Chineseabout
1/3 of the takers headed for the basement after the exam. (Meaning: cars)
7 out of 38 takers are bald
2 bought chocolates during the break, including me
8 bought mineral water during the break
1 woman left in the middle of the exam to take a pee
4 eye candies
3 gays, including me
9 are in black
3 women took out and applied their lipsticks before and after the exam
I heard two farts
There were sockets for each table, meaning the student is expected to have a laptop. T
here was no blackboard or whiteboard but there was a projector.
There were no rotting chairs.
The test proctor was chatting online, as evidenced by ever-shifting facial expressions and unnecessary encoding (DLSU-GSB is wifi area).
The test proctor's One minutes (?) and Nine minutes sounded the same.

The test result will come up after two weeks. I am not praying to pass. I do not believe in luck neither will I accept luck as the reason for being. Whatever happens at least I learned something. I should learn something.

Remember, Remember

2008-11-20T16:59:00.004+08:00

No. This has nothing to do with V for Vendetta but if you have not watched it yet, better watch it. One of the most compelling movies I have seen. Yes, Remember, remember is an allusion to November.

So far the Collage-Gone-Berserked award undisputedly goes to November. How can I not remember, remember the month of November.

The month started with the dragging night at the cemetery, as people relocated their reunions from their homes into the graveyards of their departed. The cemetery becomes the Smokey Mountain of MSGed chips wrapper, peanut shells, candle wax, hyperboles, gossips, snatchers, lost children, of spaced-out minds and I do not know what other things that had nothing to do with the subterreanean lodges of the dead.

Then came the first meeting with my staff. Meeting= highly emotional hurling of grudges, complaints among others. The two staff would be named Dingdong and Piolo here. Dingdong said I am authoritarian. Piolo said our unit should have harmony. Dingdong stands at almost 6 feet, but during the meeting he was entirely red-eyed and emotional as a boy. Piolo, the midget, had his eyebrows almost reaching his nape. Both were utterly incredulous that a boy a third of their age combined could impose structural and procedural changes that would push them out of their comfort zones like puss. The tirade of quips was like a night of meteor shower. I listened intently, and to their horror, smiled.

I understood that it was a territorial issue as it was a resistance to change. It is important to mention that before I came to supervise my unit, the system was like an uncombed hair (meaning come what may) and the hierarchical model was highly centralized. They were trained to act like corpses-- bodies without analyzing mind. Dingdong was restricted to messengerial tasks, which is sad considering his wit as evidenced by his humor and how he fashions his joke. Piolo, on the other hand, spent ten years of his life with the company encoding, encoding, and encoding. As to the rest of the work, it was possesively held by their former supervisor, thinking that the two could not be trusted with non-clerical work. Over the years, the "specialized" work were they were confined became their territorial grounds. And then I came, seemingly breaching the territories, preying them like a maddened hyena.

I smiled because I understood that this would happen. I was actually amused. I said to them was, "If you do not want to grow as employees, then let us be status quo." They knew what that statement implied. Dingdong's eyes shifted from complete aversion to something gentler while Piolo's eyebrows returned to human level. I got their attention.

Then I explained the reason of automating labor intensive activities that produce little or no value. I also enumerated the systems I established and implemented from minutes monitoring to petty cash control to budget projection. Finally I said that my "authoritarian" disposition was actually decentralization of power. By the end of discussion, Dingdong was silent while Piolo nodded to no one. Their expressions noticeably softer.

After that incident, my unit became more harmonious. They were more attentive and cooperative.

Another blog-worthy incident is my most recent haircut. Yes, haircut.

After a week of abstaining from Bench Wax, I found my hair immodestly cubic like a Picasso study. The problem with my hair is that the strands are too thin and limp yet amass they are more stubborn than a club of old maids. Only a chemically-rich hair products like Bench wax could mold my crowning worry.

Last Thursday, I decided to have a haircut at Piandre Ayala. Cecille, my haircutter, was on leave but I could not wait. The attentive receptionist suggested two hairstylists. Andy and Ising. Ising? How curious to find a carinderia-sounding name on a hair salon. Normally, hairstylists stylize their names to sound Western. Liza for Felicidad, Rowie for Rowena (not a Weng this time), John for Juan, Peter for Pedro, Marie for Maria. Some overkill their screen names--names that has nothing to do with their real names. Ginger, Carrie, Raspberry, Tabitha. Usually gays prefer grand names.

Still cringing from the aforementioned names, I chose Ising. A minute later, a petite 50-ish lady came and asked me what style I prefer. She nodded as I explained my woe. It was almost like having a shrink.

I suspected the moment she flicked the scissors that she was something different. It could be an imagination, it could be real but when I looked into her eyes, I saw an expression that could only be seen among people computing lengthy equations.

She did not use any mechanical tool. All was done with the hands. Her movements were prudent and mechanical to the point of laziness. But it was not laziness. It was adeptness of craft, sans the unnecessary actions and wasted energy. There was also something part-motherly, part-severe with her manner--something shared by poets and painters.

Angles determined, length established, snip here, cut there---it was very methodological as if she was preparing a blueprint. I smiled meekly to her. She was not paying attention to me. I say that it was the point of trust albeit complete vulnerability. I closed my eyes and listened the guttural hum of the air conditioner.

She patted me minutes after, saying my hair should be ready for washing. I did not have the time to check what she did with my hair. The assistant was already leading me to the sink.

She came back while the assistant was still patting my hair dry. For the first time, she looked into my eyes. She gave me instructions on how to achieve the desired style. I nodded. She smiled then returned to the staff room unlike others who usually loiter in peripheral view, implying their expectations for a tip.

Minutes later, I was wondering if my hair had been a subject of an artist. I wonder where did she bury the metaphors, the undertones, the mood while I was stroking the freshly shaved nape and sideburns. I tried experimenting with the angles. It was not the best haircut I got. It could be considered average. Still I was satisfied. There was something metronomical, like the beating of heart, swelling inside me. It was happiness, even briefly felt.

A Mountain of Flesh

2008-11-13T08:34:00.007+08:00

I was busy cracking my already toasted brain neurons last night with some coma-inducing algebra problems when my mobile phone vibrated,

From: A. Zhao

Ang Alamat ng Macapuno

May dalawang ngongo
Conti: Nakay nayo MRT?
Nental: Maket pa, mwede naman nayong mag-dyip ah.
Conti: Maka puno eh!

Can a joke be more joyless than this? Alright, alright I told myself, and slumped back to my bed to continue my self-inflicted arithmetic torture.

I was halfway through a particularly bitchy math problem that sauntered inside my mind like a stilletoed lady in red, when my phone vibrated again. Hoping it will be someone else this time, I reached for my it and read to my, err, "ineffable" moment.

From: A.Zhao

Gd pm. Can u book me sa gay? Ineed P10,000 emergency and I give you P2,000 commission.

Ten seconds and I was still grasping the reality that "A.Zhao", "book me sa gay" and "give u...commission" could come in one sentence. If shock has a physical form it would be a falling debris that did not register on your mind as something dangerous until the same hit your head.

Of course, I thought it could probably be a joke considering the precedent message was a joke albeit being tasteless. But it was A.Zhao. A.Zhao is never designed to blurt out a joke of his own. But I was hoping, really hoping it was a lousy joke.

I:
I'll check. But I hope there are other ways than that. Have you tried applying for loans

Him:
My wife sister manganganak...walang maasahan kundi ako. Tsk! Tsk!

Him again:
Marami na ako loans... nagkautang utang na... pag may kakilala ka mas higher ang price and ibabayad sa akin mas malaki ang komisyon mo...emergency lang. If you can make my price higher mas malaki komisyon mo. Thanks... I have a nice body na sabihin u sa client, 5'11', gifted ang alam u na.

This was A.Zhao right? I was still incredulous. This was the A.Zhao, the Chinese-milky-creamy-ideal-boyfriend-in-terms-of-look-and-monnies of my dreams. My Meteor Garden Dream. There he was in his usual straightforward talk, only he was speaking words as murky as a pail of muddy water.

I:
Ok A. Zhao. But why?... Anyway, in case, how could I prove to them that you are worth the price?

Him:
Di ako photogenic sa pic, marami nagsasabi i look more good looking in person...and by the way huwag A.Zhao name na ibigay mo, change it to RICHARD...Thanks. And tell for confidentiality sake kaya walang picture..but guaranteed satisfied naman ang looks ko. 6 inches the size of my cock... I can perform all the way...nice body.

The sectant and tangent lines of mathematics were so far away now. They were replaced by thoughts of sex and tangles. Two things: a. A.Zhao was telling the truth and really desperate for an immediate cash. b. A. Zhao was lying about her wife's sister and the message could be something else.

Choice B seems to be more logical because of the following:

A. Zhao is filthy rich. I know that. He lives in one of the highly-secured exclusive villages of Makati City. I believe he is the eldest son of a Chinese couple.

I could not establish the existence or non-existence of his wife. I've known him for about three years and the "wife" shapeshifted from a "nagging, possessive girlfriend" to a "nymphomaniac partner" to "non-existent someone" based on his stories of which truth I could not prove or disprove.

It was easy for him to say that his body is for rent.

It could be a bluff.

After thinking about it (as if it something that should be analyzed),

I texted him:

Nalulungkot ako A.Zhao... Di kita kayang ibenta. Pasensya na. If only I could help you sa ibang paraan.

He replied within 10 secs:

It is okay. tambay na lang ako sa gay bar... dun maraming clients.

--end--

I sighed and flipped the page of my math book but my mind could not solve even the most basic fractions. My mind was busy making sense of an unfamiliar landscape: A landscape where the starkness of everything makes it suspicious. The color of the sky, the soil, the trees, appeared to have products of crumped-out painttubes and were now spreading like disease.

Was it the A.Zhao of my dreams? My Meteor Garden Dream?

Yes, it was. I admitted tastelessly.

The P2,000 commission he was proposing bought the memory of a chinito man stooping awkwardly at a bookshelf, pretending to search for something, but in reality was trying to steal my attention from the book I was reading. The sacred memory I preserved like a heirloom.

Yes, it was A. Zhao.

This morning, I did some research to learn the history and roots of Zhao.

According to Wikipedia, Zhao is a common Chinese family name, which ranks 8th largest number of people with this surname in Mainland China. The origin of the family name came from the people of State of Zhao in ancient China. Zhao is the first surname in the Hundred Family Surnames. Zhao is the first surname because Zhao was the name of the emperor when the book was created. The book was created as a form of census.

Years ago, A. Zhao told me that Zhao means "high mountain".

I guess last night I felt a Zhao avalanche , burying at last the Meteor Garden Dream I held possessively.

Top Hits

2008-11-07T10:20:00.013+08:00

Top 20

20 (46 hits)

All in Need, Clubmix 2006 compilation

19 (47 hits)
Gymnopedie #1, Erik Satie
Musica Cristiana, Mercedes Sosa feauturing Fito Paez
Brush On Silk, John Willams (OST Memoirs of a Geisha)
Yes, DJ Disciple

18 (48 hits)
Uschi's Groove, Starbucks Collection
Groovin With You, Starbucks Collection
Home, Michael Bublé
You On My Mind, Sitti

17 (49 hits)
Piano Sonata No. 2 in B-Flat Minor, Opus 35 3rd Movement, Frederic Chopin
Love, Jon McLaughlin
Give It Away, Deepest Blue

16 (50 hits)
Etude in C, Opus 10 no 1, Frederic Chopin
No Frontiers, The Corrs

15 (51 hits)
Etude in G- Flat, Opus 10, no. 5, Frederic Chopin
Waltz No. 1 in E-Flat Opus 18 (Grande Valse brillante), Frederic Chopin

14 (54 hits)
Lux, Starbucks Collection
La Paloma, Alexander Atallah

13 (55 hits)
Clarinet Concerto in A: Adagio, W.A. Mozart

12 (56 hits)
Unravel, Bjork

11 (57 hits)
Fly Me to the Moon, Sitti
Oceania, Bjork

10 (58 hits)
Moonlight Serenade, Los Indios Tabajaras

9 (60 hits)
Variations On The Canon By Pachelbel, George Winston

8 (61 hits)
Mazurka in D Minor, Opus 33, no 2, Frederic Chopin

7 (62 hits)
Ako'y sa'yo, Ika'y sa akin, Iaxe

6 (63 hits)
Piano Concerto No. 21: Andante, W.A. Mozart

5 (64 hits)
So Close, Jon Mclaughlin

4 (68 hits)
Nocturne in D-Flat, Opus 27. no. 2, Frederic Chopin

3 (75 hits)
Prelude in D- Flat, Opus 28, no. 15 Raindrop, Frederic Chopin

2 (79 hits)
Always on my Mind, Michael Buble

1 (90 hits)
Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 2 in F Minor, Opus 21 2nd Movement, Frederic Chopin

Runner's up (45 hits)
Love is a Losing Game, Amy Winehouse
Aerial Boundaries, Michael Hedges
Love of my Life, Queen
Honrar La Vida, Mercedes Sosa
One Night Samba, Sitti
If I Fell, The Beatles
Gloomy Sunday, Vlado Kreslin

Comments

Chopin
I knew I was a Frederic Chopin fan but I was not aware I was that into his works. I have 8 entries from Chopin here- all of them were piano pieces. I admit that Chopin, together with Erik Satie's Gymnopedies, flirted with my heart like thin legs of a spider.

When I first encountered the nocturnal music of Chopin and Satie, I was having the trough of my teenage life (read: first heartbreak). I, being Mr. Non-conformist, would not settle for ordinary sappy songs although the perfect song then was, no doubt, "Before I Let You Go" by Freestyle.

I just knew that if my heartbreak was a tangible object, it should be a solo piano played under the bluish shaft of moonlight.

Sitti
For the record, I do not enjoy the mirthless voice of Sitti. What attracted me to her songs renditions were how they were arranged. This only holds for the maiden album. The succeeding albums were either "pilit" bossa nova or almost sounded like a cat in mating season.

Nevertheless, You On My Mind is an upbeat, excellent take of a Swing Out Sisters hit that would make you dance ala Carribean sister with matching maracas and seaside loose. Mas Que Nada (not included among the most played songs) has also good rendition. I give credits to the musical arranger of Sitti's album. It saves Sitti's chirpy voice from immediate oblivion.

Jon Mclaughlin
I first heard Jon Mclaughlin while watching Enchanted starring Amy Adams and Dr. McDreamy himself, Patrick Dempsey. The throaty quality of Jon Mclaughlin gave me goosebumps. It was almost magical that the oooohhh-ish waltz of Amy and Patrick became more than just a teeny, tearjerker scene. Then I began downloading songs and I fell in love with his geeky-untidy look.

Mercedes Sosa
For a time I thought Mercedes Sosa was a man with very deep voice. It turned out that the "man" singing soulful Latin songs was an Argentine woman who is immensely popular in South America both as a singer and an activist.

Her contralto singing voice would remind you of your grandmother humming almost forgotten songs as you traverse back to the mono radios and siestas of your childhood memories.

Oceania
I love Bjork's Oceania! She is a genius! It was so amazing was she was able to come up with a vocal arrangement that sounded like an ocean, including the waves lapping and receding. It was a collaboration of distorted London choir and beatbox, which was oddly pleasant. This has been the Sydney Olympics official theme song. Maybe Bjork's enormous skirt slowly enveloping the athletes on 2000 would make you remember this song. Watch the video here

Halloween Entry

2008-10-30T16:17:00.016+08:00

Last night, I was listening to Dr. Ginger's Campbell's Books and Ideas podcast about the so-called "decoupling" of Philosophy and Science. Part of her discussion includes the mystifying of religion, or Christianity for that matter, of several beliefs such as the Earth being the center of the universe, which I would not dwell much into here. Of course, it is incontestable that that idea is incorrect. But during the the time of Copernicus, a heliocentric system was a threat to the very foundations of the religion; hence he delayed the publication of his text, De revolutionibus orbium coelestium, for fear of being persecuted. But today, this is a widely accepted fact. The sun is the center of the universe unless another Copernicus will challenge the fact, armed with revolutionary idea and verifiable data.

However, I was not really paying much attention, as my mind was distracted with several things. There was my GMAT review on geometry; lying near my pillow was half-read Ayn Rand's Introduction to Objectivist Epistemology, accusingly specifying my negligence; and there was the dark thought of why my boss did not greet me on my birthday. To quote her secretary, "How unusual." The stress on the "unusual" was unusual too.

Anyway, despite the tempest within the brain, there was one persisting thought clearest of them all. My Halloween blog entry.

Let me introduce to you the heroines of my childhood and formative years, the Sailorsoldiers, led by Sailor Moon. If you are a gay, and you do not know them, it must be a strange world for you. Nevertheless, follow this link. You need a lot of catching up to do.

I was a certified "Moonatic" before I became a lunatic. They were the closest to living Barbie that I could indulge with. Here they are: (For your convenience, I highly recommend that you can click the thumbnail pics to have a better view).

During the time Sailor Moon became a white lady and had two pestering whiny children (Chibimoon and Chibi Chibi moon) it was already too indecent for me to shout "Sailor Moon Make up!" in college

Can anyone tell me who is that Lady with red hair and black cap?

From left then up: Sailor Moon, Sailor Uranus, Sailor Neptune,

Sailor Mercury, Sailor Mars, Sailor Jupiter, and Sailor Venus

Now, you shall be probably asking me what do they have to do with the Halloween? Well, brace yourself, for the scare of your life. Yep, there are things more horrifying than recession. Ladies and gentlemen, guard your groins.

SHAKE

The distant planets, (from left) Pluto, Uranus, Sailor Moon, Saturn and Neptune metamorphosing into something feral...

...Only to look as if they were on a lifetime diet of Mena and Gluthatione

I wonder how much they paid the photographer for this?

In fairness, this is a nice shot!

RATTLE

They look freezing here. Sailor Moon appears to be sufferring from constipation or indigestion

The Sailor Soilders errr Soldiers. The girls after being hit by bus. Chibimoon looks older than her mother. Sailor Mars seems like she is ready to fart.

A Classic! The 80's look. The silvery costumes. The bangs. Kuya Germs would be very excited and proud!

Sailor Venus 's (far left) about to spoon Sailor Mercury while Sailor Jupiter's (green) angle could not hide the piles of celluloid. Sailor Mars with her fart-face

Welcome to our World! Is that Sailor Moon having a hard-on?

ROLL: ALL STAR CAST

Yey! Yey! Chibi Moon is soooo excited to be on the cast. Pay attention to Sailor Uranus's scimitar. She is not amused with Chibimoon.

Oh god! Is that Sailor Uranus? (far right) after slashing Chibimoon and eating her whole.

Look how cute Sailor Moon is?

If this is a park. They must be really really really proud!

I love Sailor Moon. She is so pa-cute. I also love Sailor Uranus after swallowing Chibimoon . More pictures of well-fed Sailor Uranus here

This is nice. Tuxedo Mask and Sailor Moon in love

23@23 Part II

2008-10-27T19:16:00.008+08:00

Living solo

At P3.5K a month, I struggled my way to complete independence. Yep, I had to leave Morning Erection Roommate. My voyeurism could only give me a certain level of joy. But some aspects of my life are better than being visually satisfied. I had to live and learn from scratch. Appalling and stressful at times, but the lessons are sure to be all worth it. From tidying up the room, to assembling appliances, from changing bedsheets, to ironing clothes--- I have to learn all these to survive.

It just rained, and I am a little paranoid about the clothes hanging on the rooftop and the electric fan that needs wiping.

Pimple Breakout

It started with a zit who found it too lonely to live alone in an island called Face. Meanwhile, Magellan Zit and his accomplices discovered the Face and decided to settle in the island too. Lonely zit was so ecstatic that he fucked a female zit right away. Female zit gave birth to baby zits. Baby zits grew at comet-like speed. Then they fucked each other. The island outnumbered China in population. The End?

Nay, Who would have thought that for each plane of reality, A Hitler is born and orchestrate a cultural cleansing. Nazi, in the form of my geeky dermatologist, methodologically pricked and syringed and peeled the parasitical zits away. The zits were massacred. Geeky Hitler ingeniously eradicated them sans the potholes, the island remained unscathed with pockmarks.

Every now and then, a lonely zit will appear. But he wont be there for long. I'm going to kill it too.

First official, yet shortest affair

I have a confession to make. My first OFFICIAL boyfriend came during my 23rd year. He came too fast, and he left too soon. Two weeks. Just like that. The reason: He did not want me to be smarter than him because I gave him insecurities.

Objectivism: The Virtue of Selfishness

I swear-by my life and my love of it- that I will never live fgor the sake of another man, nor ask another man to love for mine

-John Galt

Ayn Rand is the point of no return for me.

Co-dependency

I thought by solving other people's problems, and virtually any problem in that case, would make me happier. It did not. I became both a culprit and victim of co-dependency

Misterhubs: The Blog that Astonished the Beagle

First Official BF left me. Of course, I was completely devastated. I could not accept the reason. I was bashing myself with a nagging thought that I could accept it easier if he left me for another man, or that I was not that good looking for him. I cried, being a Drama Queen. I listened to Christmas Songs in July. It was driving me crazy!

Craziness did not include the sphere of Desire though. One faithful day, I was google-ing demi-god Akihiro Sato when I encountered the name Misterhubs. Read it. Fell in love with the wit and manner of writing. I fell in love with him falling and being in love with Hubster. I was teary-eyed when he I've read his Anniversary post. I was LOL-ing with his entries about Mystica, Ellen, Madam Auring and Lock-jawed Girl. I did not know I was slowly being healed.

I became a fan. Thousand people would agree with me.

SOP's Three of a Kind

SOP-- a seemingly series of joyless production numbers, otherwise a show full of berserked or possessed starlets/oldies singing their lungs out -- was able to do it right for once by creating a segment called Three of A Kind. I find this production number really really engaging. I always switch the channel as soon as the segment ends. I could not stand Jay-R's whiny voice.

Lehman Brothers and Large Hadron Collider

Two L's that made an impact worldwide: Lehman Bros. and Large Hadron Collider.

The bankruptcy of Lehman Brothers resulted in the opening of the floodgate. Now, US is in recession. Iceland's financial market is crippled. EU is scrambling. Philippines? Thanks to our grandstanding President who proudly claimed that we are an "island of calm" and that "we initiated an Asian bail out that would be IMF/ Worldbank funded", our Asian peers now look at us in indignation. There is not such a thing as "island of calm" and both World Bank and IMF denied the claim that they will fund the supposed Asian bailout. Where did that come from? Ask her, she might say "lapse in judgement" and say "Im sorry". Can't she be more entertaining than Miriam Santiago who dared everyone on national television that she would jump off the plane if Erap left his post as President, then later on said LIED and laugh her throat out? Suggestion: Why does not she ride a paper boat all the way to Pasig River. She might fit in there.

Segue: I like how one of our Directors capsulized the current state of the United States' Balance Sheet: You look at your right (meaning the assets) and you have nothing left. You look at your left (meaning the liabilities and equity) you have nothing right.

The Large Hadron Collider (click this link to view the eye-popping pictures) is an enormous instrument that would help man understand Higgs particle or God particle, as particle physicists coined it. It was generally believed that higgs particle is the key to understand the earliest moments of the universe before its first yawn became battlecry and then an explosion what we call the Big Bang.

Re-discovering oatmeal

I never thought that oatmeal could be sooooooooooo good!

I love you as the same value, as the same expression, with the same pride, and the same meaning as I love my work... my hours at desk, as I love the act and sight of knowledge, as I love the action of my mind when it solves a chemical equation or grasps a sunrise, as I love the things I've made and the things I've felt, as my product, as my choice, as my best mirror...as that which makes all the rest of it possible: as my power to live

-Hank Rearden

You whoever you are, whom I have always loved, and never found, you whom I expected to see at the end of the rails, beyond the horizon, you whose presence I had always felt in the streets of the city and whose world I had wanted to build, it is my love for you that had kept me moving, my love and my hope to reach you and my wish to be worthy of you on the day when I would stand before you face to face

-Dagny Taggart

I like you because you value the independence of mind. I like you because how you give pride to your achievements and to the capabilities of the mid. I like you because I do not need you to function. I like you because you do not need me either.

Introducing the Erinyes

An excerpt of my project:

Fast-forward to his last breath, Lorenzo never understood why, of all the people who should precede his own death, it should be Magaldi. Ma-gal-di. Just mouthing the name transported Lorenzo back to the discordant banging of a broken piano and its rotten, overripe guava smell. The stolen sugarcanes from the trucks of Central Luzon Azucarera. The impulsive trek to the farm and the dengue fever succeeding it. The delightful, exclusive view of breasts from a privy hole. Grandma Lingling has breasts like yoyo. All mischief. Those were what Lorenzo could bear to recall. The Mischief of Childhood. Memories like other memories. The ones usually easy to bear and replay all over again.

Magaldi never grew up to be a man inside Lorenzo's mind. Not that he never saw Magaldi growing up but he never accepted the man Magaldi turned out into that afternoon before Magaldi was to leave to Manila and never to return.

Lorenzo did not expect Magaldi to come back. The moment they parted ways, Magaldi simply became a mothball ranking, outgrown shirt left inside the drawer of his mind. A Mothball-Ranking Outgrown Shirt. That is why when the mailman handed him the letter, he was more than surprised to receive Magaldi's letter. His suicide letter. He felt thousands of invisible cameras simultaneously turned their exacting lenses on him, documenting his every move, every twitch of brow, wrinkle of skin, any inflection of voice (Thank you), any unnecessary dilation, of irregular rising of chest or falling of shoulders. He could almost feel their mechanical eyes opened and closed and zoomed and opened and focused. Ma-gal-di. He imagined one camera registering the tremor on his last syllable. "Kindly sign the receiving logbook, sir." said the mailman. Lorenzo took the pen. They are everywhere, watching me. With a sweeping stroke, he almost tear the page with a false signature then returned the logbook with such intensity that the mailman was taken aback. Nonetheless, the mailman gave a hearty smile and proceeded to his next itinerary. How unlikely, Lorenzo thought. A mumble the least. But a smile! This increased his suspicious. They are watching.

23 @ 23 Part I

2008-10-25T14:57:00.032+08:00

23 @ 23

Odd job

From teaching Koreans to proofreading thesis, from Imports Department to Loan Documentation to the Office of Corporate Secretary. Yep, All these in one year. Who would have thought that I could change jobs faster than my clothes. In fairness I love my current job albeit occasional Devil Wears Prada moments. I get to meet the gods of the Company. I get the chance to understand their thinking processes. I get to hear their lush corporate and socialite gossips and scandals. I get to hear secrets I do not wish to hear. But I love my job despite being underpaid.

Sunday afternoons at Bayanihan Park

A year of a series of walks at the park, pigging out on street foods, watching sunset, laughing hysterically together with Villamor and Jonathan. Nothing could beat this. I could be loose and vulnerable. I could even laugh (did I say it already). I could laugh hysterically.

Paper Cranes or Zenbaruzu

Jonathan, Villamor and I spent heaps of time doing this. This was our latest groupwork. Our first project was a comic book when we were still in high school and virgins. Jonathan sketched, Villamor colored, and I was in charge with the storyline. The sad part was I gave one to my ex. Yep, out of "because-i-love-you-so" reason. He never gave it back. Now I only have 999 cranes. And the one that would make them complete is with a person I would never wish to see again.

Kundera, Roy, Bulgakov, Nabokov, Eugenides, Rushdie

My 23rd year also marked the influx of novels that would forever change my views. I do not intend to atomize the following masterpieces, but I would like to describe each in short phrases.

Milan Kundera's Unbearable Lightness of Being: A pair of feet suspended in midair. Look down! A rushing river!

Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things: An eternal summer of dreamlike quality. Tapping your almost forgotten childhood, hurling the same in front of you in an image clearer than your present. Musky and reeks of dried, sticky sweat. A Booker Prize winner.

Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita: The gun-totting cat is a classic. Immerse yourself in a pool of blood, guiltlessly.

Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita: Oh boy! Oh boy! A very naughty yet extremely lyrical novel. Nabokov has this unique way of inducing delirium that would keep you wide awake in your sleep. A must have!

Jeffrey Eugenides' The Virgin Suicides: Oh! I spent weeks reading this book at Powerbooks Greenbelt. Imagine goth and pop music combined. Imagine Britney Spears reading Sylvia Plath or Sylvia Plath contralto humming Maksim's version of The Flight of the Bumble Bees. The effect is potent.

Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses: The most ambitious book I ever dared reading. Notwithstanding its notoriety in Muslim religion, Rushdie is a hard read that demands much from his reader. Although in the end it is all worth it.

Ipod

Be it a congested street or attack of migraine or just plain boredom, my Ipod was always there to save the day. Presently, I am still thinking though how to spend its 80 Giga capacity. Currently still at 20 Giga usage rate. (Note: 3000++ songs already!)

Zsa Zsa Zaturnah Ze Muzikale

A very funny and witty play by Carlo Vergara that would almost make you think problems are non-existent. Giddy for the Part II. Hope it would be Eula Valdez again.

Delightful mornings

For two months, I had the most delightful mornings via an exclusive view of my uber cute roommate's morning erections. What a way to start the day! He did not know I was stripping him naked on my mind. Oh well, I could only confess to the bathroom. We never had intimate moments though. The closest we had was finding him sort of embracing me, his wet, red lips inches away from mine. Till now, I still remember how warm his breath was. Till now, I am still wondering if he was asleep or pretending to sleep then.

Medical malady moments

Hemorrhoids. Denture. Astigmatism. Hyperacidity. Never had a year that was so medically malignant.

Aumerized. Stockholders' Meeting.

I never thought that organizing a despedida could be that stressful! From planning, organizing and juggling tasks while keeping a firm foot and sane mind was a tough work. Conducting interviews, finding caterer, editing videos, coordinating with people, freebies, food, music, time, timing, money, ornaments. Hay! It was like a penance. While everyone was observing Lent, I was busy learning how to edit video for presentation. Glad it turned out just fine.

Stockholders' Meeting is a different story. Despedida ends after the party. STKM doesnt. Tons of reports! Penalties for typo errors! A 10-minute rule reporting, otherwise P50K penalty. And the stockholders! Gosh, when I first heard the word, I had coats and ties on my mind. I had business conversations. I had class. I had snob.

The armada of stockholders that barged into the 47th floor of the building that day turned out to be Coleman and plastic-bag totting, loud-mouthed people, with their eyes intently affixed at the food we prepared for them. The meeting was bordering carnivalesque. Questions and comments were incredibly far-fetched, otherwise irrelevant. I was ready to faint when someone whispered to me that it was just normal. Normal! Every stockholders' meeting is sort of like that. And these are the people that owns shares of the Company.

Learnings: a.) Wealth doesn't always result in breeding. You could be damn rich but you could still remain greedy (reality); b) That everything that we own here are owned by US as confidently and stubbornly claimed by one stockholder. (dizzy) c.) When you say Stockholders' Meeting, it means managing a pack of rabid dogs (catatonic)

The Joy of Post it Notes

For twenty two years I survived with my brain acting as a reminder of every schedule, every task yet to be finished, theories and ideas to be memorized and understood. I could even go to a marketplace without shopping list because it was easy for me to remember the voluminous items that my grandmother asked me to buy. I though I had a mind that could absorb everything until I met my Boss. My first few weeks, I was completely dislocated, disheveled.

She does not repeat anything she said. The phone rings, I say hello, and there goes her do-this and do-that, then beep. I was as dead as a plugged-out phone. It was then that I discovered the purpose of post-it notes-- a thing I once pronounced only fit for mediocre and secretaries. The cocky me slapped hard right at the cheek there. I need post-it notes! I bought several of these sacred blank squares and immediately results were clear. Every time the phone rings, I automatically grab the post-it notes in case my Boss calls and gives me a tirade of advice and tasks. It turned out that I could write faster than the devil!

Cute office mates

One thing I really find extremely fulfilling and unbearble with my current post is my transactions and dealings with cute officemates. Another reason why my job demands a samurai-like discipline and temperance.

Meeting Sanipas classmates after 13 years

Elementary has been the missing jigsaw piece of my life. I was in Grade 5 when Lahar buried our village, and so my memories. The tragedy did not render me amnesiac but somehow the ravaging brown flood washed away some significant emotions that greatly affected my formative years. Neurosis, schizophrenic, short elation moments in between long period of withdrawal and anti-social tendencies. I was like a cast away victim who could not share my pain and fears to anyone. Only a fellow victim could only understand that. And someone did, after thirteen years. One of the miracles of Friendster, I searched Nhiga, viola!. And the rest is history. We will have a reunion in December. Most of my elementary classmates will attend.Can't wait!

DLSU GSB: A Series of Sarcasm

2008-10-20T18:06:00.018+08:00

1
Visitors' Counter
Ah, the green gate!
I could almost hear the walls, the lobby, the posts raving:
Animo La Salle! Animo La Salle!
I was ready to join them,
but alas, the chant was cut short
by the sharp retort of a guard
asking for my ID,
eyeing my book-full bag with suspicion.

2
Graduate School Office Part 1
She acknowledged my presence
by a slight of hand and a smile
too angular it is rehearsed.
"Certified Thru Copy of Grades only?", she nosed,
pointing not to the dry seal but to the 4.0 mark
I got for my Comm 1 class.

Graduate School Office Part 2
The nagging phones kept disturbing her
recital of the list of requirements
and schedule of activities.
"Really, have you had 3 years of work experience? Really?"
I smiled, taking that as compliment
while I was already drilling my pencil on her head
as seamlessly as a needle passing through a cloth.

Graduate School Office Part 3
"From UP?", two letters: A pout, a gasp of air---U; A smirk, a blank space in between the lips--P: UP
"Why are you here?", she asked, suspending the unsaid in the air.
"M-B-A", I replied, as if my purpose just occured to me that moment.And that very moment, I asked
"Why am I here?"

3
Lobby
Between the draft of vaccum
and the rushing footfalls
of tardy students, there is a space--- a lush garden
where men loitered like stiff trees
teeming with fruits:
Oh! Chinese pomelo, Italian chicco d'uva,
Look! Spanish cacao, French la fraise.

On my way to the Accounting Office,
I imagine myself insisting the role of Eve
plucking each and every fruit,
blending them into a
multi-cultural shake
refreshing my parched throat.

4.
Accounting Office
The committee of windows
that looks like a cross between pigeon holes
and prison cells speaks silently but clearly:
Monnies, like migratory birds,
would always find their way home
here.

5.
Graduate School Office Part 4
Ms. Certified Thru Copy immediately asked for the official receipt
as if it is something I would deprive her with.
She signed, stamped, and stapled.
I smiled, sighed, and slouched
after she handed me the precious "test kit"
that was more of a manila envelope
identical to the one I bought hours earlier.
November 22- Test schedule.
"Good luck", she said
and she really meant it this time.

6.
October 20 and November 22
How many October 20's do I have to endure
and November 22's to dread and pass
in order to validate my life?
Answer: Heaps!
This is my existence:
To achieve something,
and earn it through struggle.

Speaking with the Ghosts

2008-09-24T19:23:00.001+08:00

I wanted to convince myself that it was the stomachfull-stomachempty effect of booze and coffee that soured the conversation. I wanted to make it appear vapid in retrospect. In fact, I wanted it to dry up like a well. But I cannot. It is not possible.

It all happened last Saturday night at Partyplace. Me, Nhiga, Maridol, Pol (Maridol's hubby), Johara, and Mark (Johara's beau) idled and pretended to enjoy the odd combination of the joyless singing of videoke level performance of the feautured band and the appalling video marathon of World's Most Amazing Videos. played repeatedly among stationed LCD monitors.

One song and we forgot the existence of the gyrating lead singer. The pair of white knee-high boots are a winner!, I blurted out. And the attention ended there. What followed was just a wave of drone of a tantric monk or a possessed sibyl communicating with the higher beings or Emily Rose being exorcised. You pick.

Anyways, we displaced our horror on the fondue. Everyone seemed to be very hungry. In fairness, the shrimp and beef steak were actually good! Goodbye healthy diet! Welcome cholesterol! In interval of picture taking, barely audible short conversations and meat-tearing, I downed two bottles of booze. Maridol and Nhiga had mango shake and booze. Pol had 2 red horse. Johara and Mark one bottle each.

Around 11pm we decided to call it a night. It was way way way too early! But we could not withstand any longer Ms. Tantric Singer. We decided to have coffee and bread at Pan De Manila.

Johara and Mark decided to hit the sheets (in separate beds). Nhiga, Dol, Pol and I were to head at North Walk. The girls decided to make a pit stop at the restroom first, leaving Pol and I. It was a little bit awkward starting a conversation with a half-stranger who claims tolerance for gays but nonetheless could not support the same. I decided to kill the time by amusing myself with the real estate broker brochures littering the pavement.

After seemingly a gazillion years, the girls emerged from their comfort temple, lips freshly glossed, face powdered, and sauntered all the way to Pan De Manila as if all the invisible cameras were focused on them.

Anyways, the moment I sat for my coffee, I immediately sensed something was utterly wrong. From the equally joyless Michael Learns to Rock music blaring hard to the flavorless coffee, to how Pol smirked when I asked Nhiga if she took Philosophy class during her UP days.

Nhiga and I were discussing about the word "ego" when Pol interjected "You could never learn what ego means because you are a gay." Oh! If the coffee was not able to wake me up. This one did.

"What is your basis for that?", I asked calmly, although fuming inside, and added a saccharine smile-- as an acknoweldgement of something I was not prepared to deal with.

He retorted confidently, "Beause you are a gay. That's it. You'll never never be able to understand the meaning of ego because there are certain feelings that a "real" man could only feel."

Inside my mind, I was already unsheathing a knife, ready to carve M-A-N-shaped wounds on his still smirking face.

His equally dense wife, Dol, added "Yeah! It has to be accepted. This is how society understands it." (What does she mean by that?)

"Why?", i asked, hoping they could support the big words.

What they gave me were committee of unfounded, fallacious and narrow-minded arguments and claims (that mostly had nothing to do with my question).

"You have to act and speak as mandated by Society to be accepted"

"Those who deviate always lose"

"Although you know what is right and what is wrong, you have to do what is wrong to learn."

"Ego is for male only."

"People do things because of their insecurity"

"It is not correct to do what is right if society thinks it is wrong."

All the while I was faking poker face but inside I wanted to walk out albeit downpour. I was sinking deeper and deeper in some wretched quagmire. Nhiga must had sensed the tension.

She quipped "But I guess ego cannot be directly correlated with sex or gender for that matter. It can be attributed to the background, culture and personal experiences of the person."

I must admit that it was the first time that I decided to remain silent. I usually enjoy debates and exchanges of views. But not this one. I was lost for words, literally. I could not name the feeling. It was almost a blackhole sucking everything in. I could not believe it was possible. To accept society as the murderer of the man. I only stared, lips parted as if I just witnessed a catastophe.

Yes. In a way I was beaten. Not by the situation or by their arguments but by their acceptance of the dissent of man to anonymity, to homogeneity as if it is some inanimate matter. I gave Nhiga a barely conceivable pained look. She understood.

She said, "Putang inang discussion yan!" Just like that. Putang Ina. Son of a bitch.

Society is the bitch that stole the man away from man, to echo Van Acamedia's "Distance is the bitch that stole you away from me."

They laughed. I mustered all my will to keep my shoulders from sagging. I drank the scroching coffee in one straight gulp.

Thereafter, conversation veered to ghost stories. Just fitting. The stories about departed, those who left us.

Was it not what I just witnessed earlier? Them, dying without knowing it.

An Afterthought: I think they could pass as ghosts haunting the alive.

Cine Europa

2008-09-23T10:12:00.003+08:00

A week of Cine Europa (queue, wait, movie, run, ticket, queue, wait, movie, run, ticket queue), and the midnight bus ride home thereafter left me exhausted, pimply and dandruff-crowned; notwithstanding, Atlas Shrugged tight-lipped for a week.

No regrets though. I was able to watch 4 movies and had the delightful chance to eye some candymen (most in pairs).

My favorite is Anand Tucker's tearjerker take on Blake Morrison's memoirs, And When Did You Last See Your Father?. Ok, ok. It is a sappy movie, bordering Ophra-ish. Nonetheless, I cried. Cried more than I should. But not enough to compete with the drippy handerkerchiefs and snots of my fellow viewers. It is the plot that hit me. The father-son relationship which I could definitely relate with. Not to mention the young Blake portrayed by the cute Matthew Beard. Someone blurted out "Ay! Moffats look-a-like!" For those who have any idea who the shoosh are the Moffats, follow this link. Of course at your own risk.

Anyways, oh God! I was almost choking when Arthur (played by the great Jim Broadbent) and Grown up Blake (played by Colin Firth) embraced on the next last scene. Sheesshh, I am actually having goosebumps again just remembering Tucker's pitch. You should watch it! It is highly visual that translating it in letters would violently violate it.

One thing very evident throughout the film though is the use and abuse of mirror to create dimension and nuances. My understanding of the recurring use of mirrors is simple: Reflection. To see your reflection and to reflect what is inside. The movie is indeed a series of reflection, with Blake swinging memories like pendulum now gauged by the finality of Arthur's last moments. You would see Grown up Blake fixing his bow, Young Blake cursing his father, Grown up Blake listening to his father. All in front of a mirror. The mirrors are strategically placed in such a way that only one camera is needed to capture everything, to include the reflection of other characters that could not fit in the camera. Many scenes appear multiangular too (if there is such a word).

But the best scene for me was the Driving Lesson at the Beach scene where Tucker slowmoed Blake throttling the vintage car while the aria was in full blast. Artur, wideeyed, widemouthed, unaudible now. There was something so beautiful in that scene that struck an unknown chord inside my chest, pulling something I could name.

Probably it is a memory that could be translated to a longingness of a father who should have taught me how -to drive too.

I equally enjoyed the comic film Un Franco, 14 Pesetas (Crossing Borders) starring Carlos Iglesias and Javier Guttierez. Madrid! Makes me want to snatch my grandmother's cascading skirts and dance the flamenco. Yes, rose please for my ear. The language sounds so explicitly passionate. I am just wondering how would it feel having sex using Spanish pervert words. Anyone?

And then Switzerland! I would love to milk the cows myself! Oooohh, it looks so appealing. And the barefooted children, the nudist's lake, and the harsh winter. Just lovely.

The movie, although lighly peppered with drama, is convincing. It is a very straightforward film that every Filipino could relate with. It is about immigrating to find better paying jobs. It is about a wife's struggle and issues with in-laws, home economics and social climbing. It is a culturally confused child neither Spanish or Swiss. Ask him where does a baby come from. He would insist, from France via stork. Ask him about education. He would say the priests slap.

It was a laid back film. I was ready to leave smiling, relishing the wrinkled forehead of Carlos Iglesias, when Gil Portes bickered almost non-sensically about this-and-that that had no relation with the film. He even promoted his upcoming film, saying he remembered how he got the inspiration light years ago while riding a train. A Train! The only connection between the film and his film. I have no qualms about Gil Portes as a Director and Writer. He is one of the most respected and senior in the industry. He has written and directed a string of excellent films. I do not even have the right to challenge his competency. But...

I wish he could have just discussed the technicality of the film. What he felt about the characters. Or just plain, "Thank you for watching". But hell no. He even had to mention he watched it the night before so that he could give reasonable review. Blah! Review, for him, woodywoodpeckering our head, for us.

A majority of the audience left, obviously uninterested. Yeah, it was rude. But I could not blame them. Gil Portes disappointed us by giving a wormy tomato-ish review. Sad.

I left soon after, descended the slowpoke escalators of Shang, walked its empty hall, crossed the street, hailed a bus, and imagined death sitting beside me, asking "And when did you last see father?"

Lehman Woes

2008-09-22T16:26:00.001+08:00

The world was devastated. Lehman Bros. filed for Chapter 11, otherwise known as Bankruptcy Code of the United States Constitution.

Simply put, when a business files for Chapter 11, it is unable to service its debt or pay its creditors and is seeking the protection of the bankruptcy court. Unlike Chapter 7 where the business entirely ceases operations, Chapter 11 is an attempt to stay in business while the Bankruptcy court supervises the reorganization or restructuring of the distressed company's obligations. That if the the company is to be sold, it be sold as a whole and not limb by limb like a slaughtered pig.

Further simply put, Lehman Bros. is still holding on, covering its lacerated chest with its palm, hoping to stop the bleeding. But 10 out of 10 doctors would agree that an immediate clinical attention is needed to tend the wound.

But blood is the magnet that drags everyone. The next day, all major stock exchanges worldwide bled. For road signs, green means go, red means stop. For the Big Board, it is a condition that spells D-I-S-A-S-T-E-R. And then F-*-C-K becomes a chewy word in between your teeth. F*uck started with a gasp. A half-breath. Then it became a murmur. Then cascaded to an almost a battlecry echoing from cubicle to cubicle, towards the bronze door, toppling the bull sculpture like a toothpick, to the Wall Street, and then ricocheting everywhere. Soon, we would hear f*ck f*ck f*ck in English, German, Japanese, Dutch, Swiss, Spanish, French, Chinese, and then

Leche! (you know the cruder PI word but I prefer using this one). Welcome to the Philippines Lehman! Mabuhay (newspaper confetti, cue brass band)

Lehman Brothers became the Corporate World's demi-god Pinoy Big Brother.

Panic filtered down like a sticky slime last Tuesday morning. The Big Rabbit, the Kohl Eyed Mistress and the EVPs, all wide-eyed and husky voiced now, were discussing the Lehman F*ck.

"Lehman bankruptcy exposed us by so-so million dollars.", said one balding EVP.
Translation: "F*ck the Lehman F*ck!"

"Oh yes! If not for that mark-to-market. It could be easier for Lehman's to recover. If only I could suggest to lift the regulation", said Kohl Eyed Mistress
Translation: "Now! I am poorer by so-so million dollars! Damn it!"

"We have to set for provisioning asap" replied Big Rabbit
Translation: Lagot! Lagot! Oh well, at least my brother has greater exposure.

And then they started discussing the impact of the bankruptcy with terms and situations that I could not grasp. I usually shift to stoic mode whenever they discuss something I am entirely clueless with. I would be sashaying at the meadows of my childhood or fulfilling my sexual fantasies with someone inside my mind, otherwise observing Kohl Eyed Mistress matching accessories or Big Rabbit's cute dimples, all the while pretending to listen.

But not this time. I was completely alert this time albeit not understanding a big chunk of what they were saying. It was almost like watching a foreign film without subtitle and still cry or laugh at the right moment.

I could feel their shoulders burdened by invisible boulders. Yet, they could not show weakness or defeat. These people I have always considered the Atlas Acknowledged, for their efforts and achievements, now dealt with a red road sign. Green Means Go. Red Means Stop. But they could not stop. They have to keep going.

The meeting was filled with occasional bitchy retorts. This time I did not scribble them like a GMRC instructor to include among my 2008's quotable quotes. A good crisp PI. That was what they need this time, I thought. To shout PI, fill and vandalize the room with PI.

PI! PI! PI!

But they could not. PI would not make the road any clearer. A drunk father could abuse that word in front of his family and would feel relieved of the day's toll or a bully could pick on an unsuspecting dog or weakling to deny his own inferiority.

While the most they could say or do as acknowledgement of their own pain was to reprimand a seasoned driver by being a minute late, or the secretary for bringing a coffee one degree colder, or just be more critical to all recommendations. They could only come in terms with their pain by hurting themselves more. To still think on how to improve or clear things, that is their acceptance of pain. They could not be wasted. They could only remain straight-backed and result oriented while the boulders on their shoulders pressed them lower. They could not be irrational even in times of greatest panic and confusion.

"Not this time", I heard myself, catching another tirade of you-should-do-this, you-must-do-this, how-terrible-no!-come-back-next-week-after-the-revision of Kohl Eyed Mistress. "Not this time. I would not record the fear. The obvious but unnamed in open.

Last week, I was flirting with the idea of writing an entry for Kohl Eyed Mistress. Not this time.

Probably, next time.
When she swore in front of everyone like she normally does.

Homecoming

2008-09-15T13:31:00.001+08:00

Homecoming

The kites are lower
than you used to know, Amir.
Lower
than the bowed head
of a Hazara who just lost
a finger,
or life maybe.
Quit looking up. Down
at your feet, Agha Sahib.Kites. Kites
do crawl and scuttle
like rats without ratholes.
The tattered kites
sans spools and strings.
Skeletal kites skirting
your feet in a limbo
not earth
neither sky.
The air too thick
with gunpowder, the earth
with riots of unanswered prayers.
Not much room is left
for dreams anymore. Nothing
in a country where memories
dig their own graves
leaving emptiness more lifeless
than death itself.
Everything above
is just dust and impossibilities.
Brother,
this is not the city you left years ago:
Kabul is somewhere far, far distant
where kites do fly. Yes, kites fly
--where pain is something
cherished between
the thumb and forefinger;
something that melts
within you
like snowflakes
under a blue, blue sky.

People of the Philippines vs. Echomarks

2008-09-13T16:30:00.001+08:00

I do not feel remorse. I am guiltless. I admit it all. I am damned.

It started three years ago.

I could still feel its odd cold weight. The package. The beebox of Sylvia. Oh! And the smirk, ladies and gentlemen, the smirk of of Mr. Hyde. A supressed evil giggle.

Stealthily, slowly, I opened the box. Slooowwwwlllyyy....

It is there right?, I asked myself. Its gunmetal color. Its silence, like a slumbering wolf.

If I had known Sweeny Todd then, I could shout "At last! My arm is complete!" But I did not. Just a warm feeling of peripherally looking at the dead, expecting the nonliving to return the stare.

At last!My first camphone!

The weapon for killing.

And there began my wandering, stealing a shot from unsuspecting strangers. I, a natural-stalker-bordering-maniac, find this particularly appealling. It is the closest thing to genocide. I began taking unsolicited photos of strangers, of the object of my lust, of nothingness and of oddities.

My phone is a warm gun, to borrow from Beatles.

It is always releasing invisible smoke. And I, people of the court, am a culprit. And this is unquenchable!

Here are some of my delightful victims

I feel uneasy with this picture. I think the baby knew.

Madonna and Child

Oh! A Leprosac Skirt?

Legolike Commerce

I hate this person. I waited 4 hellish hours to have the songs I wanted! There he is, smoking nonchallantly while I was plotting his untimely demise

In reality, this lady was fluid. But look at her here. She looks like an Adolf Hitler saluting

One of my favorites! Like father like son!

An old man waiting for a jeepney

Aerial view of lovers. So Sweet!

A sleepy man

This tree looks creepy here

The cemetery at the side of a church in province

Trojan Horse

Light and Watermarks

WTF! Talking about public urinal

Look! the green one spoons the blue one!

Tower of Babel ala Capitalism

ooohh... he looks so exhausted and tired

and my favorite part of the house

September 11

2008-09-11T08:01:00.001+08:00

Around past midnight, I received some forwarded message from someone I really do not particularly like.

Sheessh! I beseeched like some American teenager. Don't these people ever get sleep! I read the text though. It says,

Chavit Singson? The jueteng lord? He's now the deputy national security adviser? I pity this country. I'll go on leave tomorrow and apply for a Schengen visa so I could just stay in Switzerland.

~Inday

I knew it was not a joke although TV-less, radio-less and all. "But this is all bullshit!" I said, borrowing again from the chickflicks. "Dont these people ever learn subtleties or what!" I hurled my mobile phone, my ever shock-absorber phone, muttered some more things I could not remember and then fell asleep. Just like that.

xxx

Today is September 11.

It is Sam's birthday. Oh! Just greeting him brought back memories.

How he would climb a tree to flirt with the ever-nocturnal signal of Sun Cell.

How he came in Manila unannounced. How we were caught by the Metrobank guard smooching torridly at the dimlighted part of the bank's parking lot.

How tingly it felt. It was like being at the center of a galaxy, watching how it swirls, dragging everything in. It was as immense as that. It was also as minute as the pinch of a grapes squirting inside the mouth, or some other parts I would not have thought capable of tasting.

How it was followed by a committee of sex.

How it complicated things.

And one by one, the memories came back like migratory birds. They came pecking my window:

When he missed his flight to Leyte because we had sex hours before and overslept from exhaustion.

When he had his worst scar while frying longganisa.

When I would write him letters I never had the courage to send.

When I first fell in love with collared shirt and khakis.

When we argued about price indices from Cubao all the way to MOA. (He is a Med Tech and I am a Management graduate.) But he argued stubbornly nevertheless. Shoving away my litany about inflation rate and relationship of money supply and interest.

He was always like that.

He could be obstinate at times. Too obstinate to admit weakness, mistakes or lesson learned.

Probably that was one of the reasons why we fell apart. We were similar in so many ways. Just like jigsaw puzzles with identical shape thus we could not fit in with each other.

That was three years ago.

He went to Ireland, only to return early this year. I moved from one pad to another, from one work to another. A lot of things changed like his thriving goatee, my refractive error, his whatsoevers, my whatsoevers.

Silence really makes the heart fonder and ponder.

We are not friends but still he is assured of a special corner inside my heart. How could you forget the person who first broke your heart. And you were not even officially lovers then. Just like learning how to ride a bicycle. After all the bruises and wounds, after all the stumbles and gutter falls, it is nice to look back and recall the bittersweet feeling of the wind against your face.

And I think there is an equivalent if not reciprocal feeling inside him he would surely not acknowledge. Who would forget the person who caused him his worst scar and the one he kissed at the stairs of Edsa shrine along the most congested road in the country. The shade of kalachuchi tree hiding what could be considered obscene in the eyes of commuting public.

Happy Birthday Sam!

xxx

September 11

The day when the world died for a period longer than a moment. The seemingly formidable, once haughty, Twin Towers of New York, the World Trade Center came crumbling down as if supported by a toothpick. American Airlines Flight 11 struck Tower 1, United Airlines Flight 175 struck Tower 2. Thousands of people died. It was state of emergency. It was the number for emergency call.

911.

I could not recall what I was doing that time but I remember the goosebumps and sudden stream of tears cried for no one.

Terrorism became a domestic word. It became an overused and abused word.

Spielberg's adaptation of H.G. Wells' War of the Worlds is heavily laden with reminiscence of the World Trade Center tragedy, from the ashes, garments falling, airplane crashing, among others.

I remember Dakota Fanning's whiny rendition of "Are they terrorists!" and "This is my space!" starkly reflects how Americans generally felt towards any bushed-Islamic looking person.

And there goes the domino.

We have seen Afghanistan. We have seen Iraq. We have seen the rise of Brazil, Russia, India and China. We have seen writers claim we are now living a Post-American period. We have seen Olympics.

We will see so much more.

xxx

Anchors Away

2008-09-09T12:45:00.001+08:00

Finally! A new home. Unlike my first blog (which I intend to abandon), this blog is more attuned to my surroundings. It would not focus much with my musing, and study of my every action as it happened. (mind the tense)

This blog is like a me-as-part-of-a-bigger-picture thing. It is my life as affected, influenced, probably distressed, at times tortured, but nevertheless shaped by the society I live in.

Just like Darwin's theory of evolution, I am continuously changing and adapting my environment.

Here is a snapshot of my old home.

Of course, it would be more fun! Dropping the snob topics about academic approach to arts and philosophy this time. Do not be mistaken though. I am not trying to attract more attention and hoping to accumulate a zillion number of tags or comments. I am not aspiring for popularity.

I just refuse to bore myself.

So, here goes.

(all set? suitcase packed? compass? maps? (oh you do not really need them now), your favorite porn magazine? ditch your past!)

And like a pouting Kate Winslet surverying Titanic for the first time, unaware of the forthcoming disaster but giddy for hot romance, I imagine myself pouting my own chapped lips, squinting from the sun, the brim of my laced hat glinting with excitement.

Anchors away!