the jet effect

...ebeye...

2010-07-24T01:03:00.000-07:00

The counter for Continental Airlines in the airport had in front of it a long line of people with heavy luggage towed or bulky bags on their backs. I patiently waited in line for my turn, fortunate to be carrying only one small backpack. I prepared for the ordeal that was ahead of me.

“Next please!” the pretty woman at the counter said, and I moved forward. I gave her my passport and ticket, and in return she handed me my boarding pass. She had a pretty smile, and I’m guessing she’s already got a special someone, judging from how happy her smile was. I don’t know, I just related the level of happiness of someone by how pretty that someone’s smile is, and that in turn is indicative of having a special someone or not. So sue me.

I paid the hefty amount for the terminal fee, for the betterment of the airport, so they say. It must be a very small amount, because of all the people paying that amount I have yet to see the betterment that the money is supposed to bring. It then struck me; I was still in the Philippines.

“Unsa man, magbinisaya ta, or mag-ininglish ta? (So what, are we going to speak in Bisaya, or in English?)”, the immigration officer on the next line to mine asked an obviously terrified passenger. His first time maybe, and he was lucky to get a joker for an immigration officer. “Aw, Bisaya di-ay ka sir?(oh! Are you Bisaya sir?) “ asked the poor fellow. “Kanina pa kita Binibisaya, tapos tatanungin mo ‘ko kung Bisaya ako? (I’ve been speaking to you in Bisaya, then you’re asking me if I’m Bisaya?)”

I haven’t really left the Philippines yet. Clowns still abound.

After a long while of going around and around the small Duty Free section of the airport, looking at the same things over and over, I finally decided to go to the pre-departure area. There, I was met with another clown. Well, not really. The final inspection was thorough, and the lady inspector found my Bench hair gel. She got it, and said it was over the allowed volume for gels and liquids. I protested, and showed her an almost empty plastic bottle. She pointed to the marking on the container. It said 4fl. Oz. (135ml). I still protested, claiming that the actual gel content was way less than the 100ml minimum required. She said it’s not the content that they’re looking for; it’s the actual container size for these products. I thought I saw her eyes twitch as if I’m the hundredth moron to ask her that tonight. The defense had no shot of winning, so I silently conceded and went to take my seat. Defeated, I planned my revenge. Secretly, I was looking for other passengers whose case was like mine, but I was too lazy to put into action my vengeance. I pity my gel; it was denied its chance to go abroad. Instead it lay in a heap of other confiscated items. Farewell my gel, you’ve served me well.

Upon boarding the plane, I found my seat to be in between two teenage girls. Lucky me! Then the one on my right, the one seating in the aisle seat, said to her friend on the window seat, “Ay, magkahiwalay tayo! (We’re separated!)” I offered her to exchange seats with me, so that she can be next to her girlfriend. She accepted with a wide grin of a girl who had just entered puberty. I got to sit in an aisle seat, which is what I wanted in the first place had the pretty girl in the check-in counter found me one. Now I have it. Luckier me!

“Daddy, it’s gonna blast off! We’re gonna blast off now daddy, see?!” a very cute voice of a small boy rang throughout the cabin, as the plane rolled down for its take-off run. And I could hear an ensemble of soft chuckles from the passengers who heard and gave a damn. I looked to my right, and the kid was excitedly going about his chair, as the plane took to the air. He had long hair at the back that looked like a head tail, if there was such a word for it. Then I remembered I hated takeoffs, so I closed my eyes and pretended I was still on the ground.

“Sir, would you like to have the Chicken Pochero or the Pork Adobo?” the stewardess softly asked me. I startled in my half sleeping mode, and wondered for a moment if I was in Max’s. No, this is a Continental Airlines flight, and I chose the pork adobo. The two teens next to me chose the pochero. I wondered if they’d like to share or trade.

I slept for most of the flight, occasionally waking up due to a hurting neck, or an arm, or the back or for any other body part. Long flights really aren’t times for good sleep. I wonder how the stewardesses do it. Maybe they don’t. I woke up once in time for Ashton Kutcher shout “She said YES!!!” after the very doable Jessica Alba accepted his proposal for marriage. If you’ve seen the film, write the title together with the complete cast and send it to me. You win a congratulatory pat on the back. Seriously.

The stopover in Guam was quite uneventful, which is a good thing. I heard some warning days before that customs in Guam would be very tight, now that they were on orange alert level. I didn’t know what that meant, and by the speed at which I reached the pre-departure area of my next flight, I may never know.

Then came the Island Hopper.

I had been on this flight twice before, and all times including now, I still can’t be patient as the plane lands at every major airport in the Federated States of Micronesia (FSM) and the Republic of the Marshall Islands (RMI). It’s literally like a bus, stopping at every major bus stops, where people come off, and new ones come on. Only this bus is a Boeing 737-800 airplane, a huge monster compared to the very small islands it’s stopping at. There is the sea all around. All the sea I could see in my entire lifetime. The Pacific Ocean is truly one incredible flood!

I got to my stop. It’s a US Army base and a tiny dot in the map of the world. It’s called Kwajalein Atoll, in the RMI. For the trivia buffs out there reading, (why would you?), this is very near the famous Bikini Atoll, where America first did their nuclear tests. I can hear your “aahhhh”s and “oh-really”s . Yes, this is the same place where Uncle Sam still plays around with his ICBMs (intercontinental ballistic missiles). In fact, this base is called the “Reagan Missile Test Site”, we all know what that means! Star Wars!

The people in the reception area are quite intimidating, what with their service pistols showing in their holsters, as if they’re ready to pull them out and shoot. And the one loudly speaking was a woman. I was really behaved. And it’s not my first time here. I was cleared at immigration, and was escorted by an armed police to the pier, to take the barge to my final destination: Ebeye Island, the slum of the Pacific. Nice.

I got to the pier after a slow drive. Apparently they’re only allowed to run at 15mph max in the base, and being Americans as they were, they never did try to violate such rule. I wondered if we could have the same rule in the Philippines and have it followed. Nah, never gonna happen!

I got to the port, in time to see the barge about 500meters away out into the sea. I just missed it. I had to take the alternative, what they call the Water Taxi. For 10 bucks, you get your own personal yacht. No, not really. It’s a rag tag beaten down boat powered by two engines, propelling you fast into the waves. And I mean fast! If you’re seasickness prone, I do not suggest you take this. The boat pounded the waves, literally, and I was expecting the other way around. I wanted to puke, but there was nowhere to go, and my hands were clinched tight onto the railings and refuse to budge, even if my stomach wanted to go over the edge of the boat to remove its contents. So I just stayed put through the whole ordeal. I almost kissed the ground when the boat finally docked in Ebeye Island, but I decided against it knowing what is on the ground there. You don’t want to know.

Ebeye Island. Where do I begin to tell you the story of this land? I don’t know, but maybe Google can help. Let’s start with the pier where I just claimed like a Spanish conquistador. It’s the only one in the island, where most of the people come and go on barges and water taxis. If you’re waiting for someone, this is the only place to meet that someone. It has only one structure - a six post roofing that’s being slowly eaten by saltwater. On the far side of the port, there are locals fishing, the only hobby that anyone can do here. After the port, I walk toward the town center. It’s like walking in the streets of Tondo, only add the Pacific Ocean one kilometer on each side. Can you picture it? Shanties here and there, children playing in the streets naked and without footwear. Dark skinned men sitting on corners as if ready to pounce on you. All the scary stuff. But not really.

From the pier you can see the two prominent, if not iconic, structures on the island. On the left is the Triple J department store, and to the right is the Payless Supermarket. These two establishments have saved my hungry self more than once on times when I’ve worked late in the hospital. They close at around 9pm, and they are the ONLY places to get edible food after 7pm. The staff there is mostly Filipinos, and that’s a major relief in an isolated island.

Turning to the right on the next street you can find Anrohasa Hotel, the only hotel in the island. And there isn’t much to celebrate. Once a three star class hotel, it has degenerated into a flicker of a star class hotel. No, not even, I would rate it as a black hole class hotel. But beggars can’t be choosers, and there’re no other places to stay. Thank goodness they have air-conditioning and water, two things scarce on the island.

After a long island hopping flight, I am writing this blog in my room at Anrohasa Hotel. I have no TV, no other amenities, and no choice. I’m thankful though I have clean sheets, and running water. That should be enough. Tomorrow, I will try to connect to the hospital Internet, and post this blog for those who care to read. Or those who would like to send their generous donations. I accept cash.

Wish me luck in borrowing some hospital Internet access. Goodnight!

...melbourne...

2010-07-06T16:14:00.000-07:00

It’s 10:48 pm, on a Tuesday night. I am two hours into the future – at least from where I came from, I am. I don’t know, but there’s just something in time zones that my body has a trouble adjusting to. It’s like a diesel engine, needing some warming up before it operates in optimum shape. I’m not saying my body is out of shape, although that’s arguable.

I got to the airport the other day and took a flight in a Boeing 777 Time Machine. I was cramped into a small chair for eight hours just so I can be warped two hours into the future. You will catch up on my time soon.

My flight landed in Melbourne at 6:30am, and being that the scheduled training I came here for was at 9:00am, naturally I was late. I came in at 10:00am, relieved that the Aussies haven’t called the immigration yet to ask where in the world I was. I settled down, after the usual introductions and pleasantries. I think just about then I was officially in a different culture.

Lunch was one big potato sliced in strips and looked like it was given a long hot bath in boiling oil. It was paired with one fillet of fish. That was it. The locals call it Fish ‘N Chips. Apparently, this is a staple food here. From where I come from, that’s what we eat on Friday nights out painting the town red. Or pink, depending on our moods.

I am Filipino. I need rice, like morphine, or cocaine.

I spent the rest of the first training day fighting sleep. Backtracking a bit, planes never really are the ideal places to catch forty winks. I think I only got 15 and a half. I lost count when I dozed off. So my body decided to try and reclaim the other 24 and a half missing winks that afternoon. My eyes became heavy like there was an oompa-loompa sitting on the lids. But I fought it off, and survived the last four training hours. Going back into the hotel, the thought of hugging the soft satin sheets and fluffy white pillows was more tempting than any of the beautiful Melbournians that I passed by on the street. And sleep I did.

I woke up this morning at 7:00am. At least that’s what my watch said. It was a delightful sleep. And the waking up part seemed perfect. Until I realized my watch was still telling me what time it was in Manila. I forgot I how Philippine Air Lines had already warped me two hours into the future! I hurriedly got ready, but never missing any of my morning rituals. I even had breakfast like a good kid. I arrived at the office at 10:00am, like I did yesterday. The blokes didn’t ask me what happened, like it was a usual thing for them for me to be late. I simply took it as something good; I didn’t have to explain anything to anyone. But then again, something tells me that there’s something not right about it. I don’t know.

Lunch this morning was something different, a lot closer to home. Not really home, but close. The Aussies went to get a Sub, and my Asian brothers didn’t quite like more bread. Certainly no more oil bathing potatoes! So we separated from the whites like Apartheid advocates, and dragged our brown butts into an Asian restaurant two blocks away and had our hearts, err stomachs, filled with rice. Now that’s lunch.

My body had recovered enough winks already, and I think I could swear I’m a Melbournian myself. Or not. So tonight I am writing this blog in the comfort of my warm hotel room. I have heater. So the 8-degree air outside can’t bury it’s frosty bite into my warm butt tonight. I am watching Sopranos on tv, and that’s not something I usually do.

Then again, warping two hours into the future isn’t something I usually do too…

...silence...

2010-06-29T05:19:00.000-07:00

Sometimes all I need is someone to listen. No words. No sound. No anything audible. Sometimes when I want to vent out the enormous pressure that has built up inside my chest, the mouth is the only functioning appendage in my body, spewing words as they come from my thoughts. They need no response. They need no reply. Words of admonition or even praise hold no meaning at this time. Silence. That would be the best retort. Much like a volcano erupting, and man can only watch in awe from afar with cautious reflexes, I am only needing your patience.

These are the times there’s nothing you can say or do to make me feel better. Only when the gush of emotions have subsided inside me will I be fine. No amount of your language can provide any effective consequence.

I just need you to be there. Listening to me. Understanding me. Loving me. All in silence.

...when it rains it pours...

2010-06-29T03:04:00.000-07:00

I have to punish myself for always giving in to stupid clichés. But no words better describe what tumultuous times I am going through. It started this morning and would in all likelihood continue into the rest of my breathing days.

...sigh...

...deeper sigh...

i miss blogging... i wish the gods of literature send forth the rain of articulation on me...

...drive...

2008-11-23T06:21:00.000-08:00

Part 2

Peter turned on the ignition key and his Honda City purred like a stirred kitty. His hands held the steering wheel, as he sits undecided if he should go or not. He fished his cell phone from his shirt pocket and opened the message inbox. “Are we still on for lunch today?” read the message from his wife. He glanced at his wristwatch and saw it was half an hour still before 11am, enough time to think about it. Peter replied with mixed hesitation, but mostly anticipation, “m sori hon, hav emergency miting at d ofc.” He bit his lips slightly as a breath of prayer slipped past his teeth.

Peter put his car in the first gear and pulled out from his parking lot, and out the exit gate.

___________________________________________________________________

Michelle placed the check she had just signed neatly under a pile of paper on her desk. She had been signing checks the whole morning and thought maybe lunch would be a good reprieve. Her watch said it was 10:36 in the morning so she took her cell phone from her purse to read a message that had just come in. it was from her husband, telling her how some meeting at the office made him unable to fetch her for lunch. She had anticipated this, as she would have been wont to do, since her husband is a very busy man.

Michelle picked up her desk phone and asked the building bellhop to get her a cab. She grabbed her purse, her jacket and hurriedly went out of her office room, and down the elevator to her waiting taxi.

___________________________________________________________________

Peter cruised smoothly on the highway; he wasn’t in a hurry. Traffic on Edsa seemed to be cooperating today, he thought, so there’s still a lot of time. He carefully opened his date planner and rechecked his scheduled activity for lunch. It said 11:30am, but he knew it was something they use to buy them some time together. An early lunch would mean two hours with her.

Peter steered the car towards Arnaiz Avenue and parked in front of a flower shop. He thought maybe for a change we’d surprise her with some Tulips. She likes tulips, and had hinted on him that she’d love to get some on her birthday. A few days ahead wouldn’t hurt, Peter thought, he’d still give her another bouquet of tulips then.

Peter saw through the glass doors of the shop a taxi almost sideswiping his parked car. He hurriedly went out and followed with his eyes, helplessly, the speeding cab. “Hey!” he shouted.

___________________________________________________________________

Michelle sat impatiently on the back seat of her taxi. She amused herself with mental notes on what the insides of this cab have, and lack. Frankly, it needs a makeover, she thought, but what can you expect from Philippine taxis. She felt uneasy being in the back; she felt uneasy riding cabs in general. The normally short drive from her office to Pasay Road seemed to take a lifetime today, what with the taxi driver being extra careful, as he had said in his just-listen-to-what-I-have-to-say chatter.

Michelle politely told the driver to speed up because she was in a hurry (to get off your stinky car, in her mind). Perhaps feeling insulted that his extra carefulness in driving wasn’t fully appreciated, the driver jerked the taxi to overtake on the right lane, with hardly an inch left in avoiding hitting a parked Honda. Michelle looked back through the taxi’s rear windshield to catch the receding image of the Honda’s owner and read his lips shout “Hey!”

...drive...

2008-08-21T23:13:00.000-07:00

PART 1
_________________________________________________________________

The brake lights on the white Nissan Sentra in front of him turned on, and Peter cautiously stepped on the brake pedal of his car. His Honda City came to a slow stop three cars away from the intersection as the traffic lights turned red on their street. Kalayaan avenue has surprisingly light traffic today, he reckoned to himself, as he checked his watch. It said 7:23 in the morning; twenty minutes had passed since he made the last turn going out of their village. It usually takes him 30 to get where he is now, at the corner of C5. A swarm of motorcycles pass him on both sides as they jockey for position in front of the stopped traffic. He was never fond of cycles, and shook his head as he watched more and more motorcycles pass him by. He thought that the lights stayed at red longer today than it did yesterday, and was suspecting that the day before the lights turned faster. Anything to amuse himself, he thought.

Peter took time to check his phone; perhaps a message or two would be there. None. Oh well, some days you get them, some days you don’t, he held this thought to himself. He thought of composing a message, if only to solicit a reply. He hesitated, and glanced at his wife asleep on the passenger seat next to him.

The cross traffic halted, and the lights on Peter’s street turned green. He shifted to first gear, slowly released the clutch pedal, and honked impatiently at the Nissan in front of him as he stepped on the pedal.

_________________________________________________________________

Michelle felt her seat shake a little, even shuddered, but decided that it wasn’t an earthquake. She was firmly aware of where she was, and from behind closed eyes she could make out the ghostly appearance of the large familiar billboard. She shifted in her seat, leaned some more on the glass pane of the passenger seat. Her seatbelt was pulling tightly on her chest, as if adding more pressure against her heavy breaths.

With much anticipation for getting out of that car, maybe because she felt uncomfortable sitting in such a confining space, or maybe because she just felt the air outside would be more comforting, Michelle looked out the window, her face hidden from her husband’s view. She watched as a white Nissan made a sudden right turn, and thought the driver was in the same hurry as her. She imagined that she was on that car, on the controls, and making that swerve.

Michelle pretended to sleep. Her husband was turning the radio stations, perhaps looking for a song familiar to him. She listened closely, trying to guess each station’s songs by the few tunes that she would hear. For some, she uttered dislikes, for most, she secretly wished her husband would hold the station longer. The station that her husband picked crooned, “…no matter what I do, it’s just a lifetime to live through…”

Michelle felt like Kalayaan Avenue was an endless road.

_________________________________________________________________

The seeming endless chatter of the radio’s more than opinionated DJ’s seem to bore Peter, so he decided to turn the dial. He didn’t really know which station to listen to, but just a station with more music, and less talk. He turned and turned until he found a song he never thought he’d like. Today was full of surprises, so he let himself listen. “…I try to smile so the hurt won’t show…”, sings the radio.

In his head, Peter reviewed his schedule for the day. He can never get it right the first time. Either there are cancellations, or a sudden change in plans would force him to move one appointment a few hours back, or totally forget to attend to them. Even in his mind, he was not certain of the day’s schedule so he reminded himself to check his planner at the next intersection. He wished that this time, the lights would stay red longer.

Peter stopped the City a few inches away from the zebra crossing. He watched for a moment as several people crossed in front of him. His wife was still motionless, and Peter decided against making a remark. He preferred to keep her asleep. She’s a lot peaceful that way. He reached in the backseat for his planner, careful not to rock the car so much so that his wife won’t wake. He looked for today’s page, and was surprised to see the item at 11:30 - Lunch with Michelle. Peter glanced at his wife, and a sly grin was pasted on his face.

...bottleneck...

2008-07-19T04:05:00.001-07:00

Things have a way of getting themselves entangled in painfully frustrating bottlenecks. James is slowly becoming a swell of emotions as he looks through his glass of Talus, and sees Nikki’s smile develop into a blur. She is looking at a couple on the other table, seemingly observing them with an enchanting pair of deep-set eyes. He wondered what her thoughts were dwelling on, or perhaps if he was any part of them. From across the table, James straightened in his seat. He was ready to talk to her, if only he knew what to say.

Nikki smiled, and took a sip of her wine. James watched in detail as her lips parted to make way for the red liquid into her mouth. He wished that he were that glass, upon which Nikki’s lips were pressed. He imagined his lips in contact with hers. And how marvelous that would have felt. James took a sip of his own wine, and found sanity to calm him down.

“Would you like more wine?” the waiter politely interrupted their séance, and when the pair nodded, poured more of the red intoxicant into each of their glasses. It was a pinot noir, particularly chosen by James to try and impress Nikki, to which she was, and complimented him on his fine choice. Nikki said it was the smoothest wine she’s ever had, and James knew she was flattering him, because she didn’t have many. Nonetheless, she joked that she could finish a whole bottle with him, and James was pleased with the “with him” part.

“Why do you like me James?” she asked with a smile, the kind that expects a cajole. James was tempted to oblige, but seized the moment to cautiously unclog the emotions swelling up inside him, like a policeman directing traffic at a busy intersection.

“I don’t really know why, Nikki. I guess if I did, then that would mean I like you only for that thing. But I don’t.

I don’t like you for your smile, which surely melts me every time you give them to me.

I don’t like you for your eyes, which surely sees my soul no matter how deep I recede into myself.

I don’t like you for your touch, which sends me into the greatest ecstasy that I have ever known or will ever know in my life!”

James placed his wine glass to his right side, away from the center of the table. The red rose that was set on the small wooden vase complimented the glitter caused by the wine glass from the light overhead. Nikki’s eyes were glistening, because they were near tears. She didn’t expect a barrage of sweet words from James, and the way he had said them had her eyes filled with the exuberant tears of bliss.

James reached his left hand out in front of him. The table was wide, and Nikki met his hands halfway through. He gave her a light squeeze, gently telling her with his hand the rest of what he wanted to say. James looked straight into her eyes, and she nervously looked back. Nikki loves James, and up until now, she was the same swell of emotions that he is.

“I like you, Nikki, because you’re you. I like you for everything that is you. And everything that is you, makes everything that is me complete. And I would give everything that is me, to be forever in love with everything that is you, Nikki.”

James felt the alcohol and the adrenaline in his blood being pumped rigorously into his brains. He wondered for a moment if excessive mixtures of both cause cardiac arrests. His sight blurred for a second and his consciousness became hazy as he heard himself speak sincere words.

“It would be a great honor if you would have me in your life, Nikki; if you would take me as your boyfriend and you as my girlfriend…”

Nikki bit her lips softly, unsure of what words to use. She has in her head a conundrum about how she would respond. She wanted it to be special; she wanted James to feel that she too, is in a billow of emotions for him. With her right hand clutched in his left, and the disinhibitor called pinot noir that she had just taken, she decided there were no sweeter ways to tell James.

“Yes! I would love to have you in my life James, and it would be my honor too, as it is yours!” Nikki uttered in a single breath, chest tightening with the excitement of this new development. She heaved a contented sigh, and gave James the sweetest smile she could ever give, and James melted like butter on a hot day.

James stared into Nikki’s eyes with the look of a happy man, and she looked back at him full of anticipation for a new chapter in her life. They both emptied their glass of Talus, just as the check arrived.

The date was March 27. It has always been since.

...the taxman...

2007-12-30T13:15:00.000-08:00

“…let me tell you how it will be, there’s one for you nineteen for me…. ‘Coz I’m the taxman…yeah, I’m the taxman…” - The Beatles, Taxman

In one of my sober moments, I had the displeasure of having a calculator on one hand, and my pay slip on the other. Apparently, I figured that this isn’t such a good combination. As I perused the contents of the said pay slip, I came across the tax deducted from me as income tax, and my geeky self immediately decided to compute for the percentage. It turned out to be 28% of my salary for that pay period.

That’s almost a third of what I earned!

I sheepishly, yet with hatred building up ever so constantly, consulted a friend of mine who is knowledgeable in the law about it. I wasn’t really going to discuss what was written in the revenue code with her, but simply to understand why it was so. Out of the discussion we had, I understood one thing - the Lifeblood Principle. As I gathered, this principle summarily says that the State, being the society that I belong to as a human being, needs the monetary contribution of its constituents to subsist. It simply means that the State, or this country, or whatever country that has an organized form of governance and society, needs its people to pay taxes for its expenditures. Fine. I concede. Without money, no form of organization can exist. That goes for the government.

But why income tax?

Apparently, she argued, that it is every citizen’s duty, mine included, to pay a certain amount to the State for the privilege to earn. And this really burst my bubble. Further, it is postulated that it is because the State allowed one to earn that one must, as a matter of obligation, be taxed for the same. The word that struck my chord was “privilege”

It is NOT my privilege to earn; IT IS MY RIGHT!

I am an individual, with specific talents that I am willingly and unselfishly contributing for the welfare of this society, and subsequently, for the State. I could have very well joined the bandwagon and exercised my talents on some foreign soil benefiting some foreign people. But no, I chose to remain in this country, and I still choose to remain in this country. My talents and skills are being used and abused for the benefit of MY State. It is therefore NOT my privilege to earn. Rather, it is now the State’s responsibility to compensate me for the service I am doing. This is my RIGHT to earn, that remuneration that I must be getting in return for my skills and talents. The State must recognize that it is the one in debt to me, and that I have no debts to pay.

Yes, I concede, taxes are important in that it brings life to the State. Tax me for buying liquor, tax me for dining out in some fancy restaurant, tax me for using the roads that the State so boisterously claim to be well maintained, tax me for all the luxuries that I can spare in life. I have no qualms about those; I can survive without those things. Those things are my PRIVILEGES, brought about my capacity to earn, in exchange for the skills and talents that I have so unselfishly sacrificed for the good of the State. Those are PRIVILEGES, not needs nor rights. Tax me all you want!

But my income, that is my right! I have worked painfully for it. I had toiled countless hours for it. I would have bled for it if I were only given a chance to do so.

Collecting income tax from the people is like asking them to pay the State for allowing them to serve the State. It is like asking them to pay more than the blood, sweat and tears that the people are already paying. Must a slave pay his master for letting him serve?

I am not opposed to the collection of taxes; taxes are the lifeblood of the State. But tax only those activities that the people enjoy because of the State. I am only opposed to income taxes. It is not a privilege. It is an individual right.

I had been vehemently convincing myself that my talents and skills are better put to use serving my own countrymen. I don’t know how much more I can fool myself.

...the conscious choice...

2007-12-30T13:11:00.000-08:00

“…tuesday came and went, as quickly as expected. I didn’t notice that I needed it to stay…” - Gabriel Mann, Lighted Up

A friend asked me in a serious tone, what love is, and I replied, wholeheartedly, what I think love is.

Love is a choice.

I remember, as it seems now a lifetime ago, I had been in a not-so-sober discussion with another close friend about how he and I differ in our views on love. Ah, love. That proverbial entity that seems to permeate every insane individual’s mind and heart. He argued that love is a choice, much to my naïve understanding of the word. He postulated that anyone could fall in love; bathe in its seemingly never-ending bliss of infatuation and that sordid state of bliss, where one can, inadvertently, overlook the other’s shortcomings and failings. He pictured love as that state after that passionate boy-meets-girl encounter, after all the glitter of he’s-so-cute or she’s-so-damn-sexy stage has waned. It’s that time after all the blindness has come to pass, when one sees the truth about the other – his oversized beer-belly, or her incessant nagging. It’s when the curtain of being in love has faded away that the clarity that is love becomes obvious.

I had argued otherwise.

But now, I seem to have shifted sides. Sober and abstemious, I now share his view on love. Love, like that blasphemous Savage Garden song, is just a collection of chemical reactions in one’s brain. Love is indeed a decision, that state where one decides if one is capable of handling the chaotic state of waking up with the same person everyday for the rest of his or her life. Love is that decision of accepting the other for everything and anything that he or she is, both the good and the worst part of his or her person. Love is that decision of being patient; love is that decision of being kind. Love is all the decision of being everything that that Bible phrase tells what love is all about.

Being in love is a wonderful feeling, and no one can be denied of that. It is most commonly the beginning of loving. As it would have been stated by now, being in love with someone and loving someone are two very different things. And how the latter differs from the former is by no means measurable by human standards.

Being in love is being blinded naturally, by that ever-guiding cosmic retribution thing that seems to favor the occult. It is like the uncontrollable urge to be with someone, like the animals in spring. Being in love is like the unwritten law that compels one to brush his or her teeth in the morning, or to use underarm deodorant. It is that forcefully being blind to the bad things that the other is doing, and the complications that it brings. It is that thing that stretches our patience to infinitesimal lengths, that we don’t even know we are capable of.

Loving, on the other hand, entails a conscious decision; a mind that is cognizant of all the consequences of that decision, emphasis on the all. Loving is a deliberate act, one that involves acceptance of the flaws of the other, as opposed to just being blind to them. Loving involves doing things because you actively want to do things, and not just simply being told to do such things. Loving involves limiting one’s imperfections, not desperately trying to change them, as a result of self-stimulation and perseverance. Loving is a selfish act.

I had been in love. It’s a wonderful thing to be in love. But I am past that stage, and I have decided to love someone. I have unconditionally devoted myself into loving this special someone, beyond the realms of infatuation or enthrallment. Yet, unexplainably, I believe I am still in love with her. And the irony that is of a conscious being in love with her, I firmly believe, can exist. I know. I feel it for her.

I am in love with you. And I promise that I will always love you, no matter what.

To my friend who asked me what love is, it seems that I do not know after all. Yet I do.

...tuesday...

2007-12-25T02:24:00.001-08:00

It’s Christmas day, and apart from the several relatives that came to visit, I feel the same. I am dressed as I would on a normal workless day, when the toils of everyday life stop for an infinitesimal second that masquerades as a day. I am in my comfy sleeveless shirt and cotton shorts. If not for the abundant food on our table, albeit the leftovers of yesterday’s Noche Buena feast, and the children that run around the house happy to have new toys from their ninongs and ninangs, I would have declared this day a Tuesday – a happy vacation Tuesday.

From the neighbors come the discordant tunes of weary videokes that had labored through the previous night. It seems that for one day in a year, unpleasant singers are given a license to belt out their hearts content with impunity, as I fall a helpless victim to their incessant crooning. The revelry does not come from a single source. As there are four corners in our house, it seems that there are also as many videoke units from our neighbors. I have yet to decide if these are from different houses, or if one household has difficulty deciding who should sing first that they have each their own videoke units. Should I even care?

As I was brutally awakened this morning by the raucous singing of our selfish neighbors, I was also held in pity for our canine housemates. Yuki and Haru, our two less than magnificent dogs, are continuously barking in pain. It must be very hard for them to take the booms and bangs of firecrackers joyfully lighted and thrown by street kids, what with their highly sensitive sense of hearing. This makes me very thankful that I wasn’t born a dog. I coo them softly, helplessly trying to explain to them that they can’t do anything about it, and neither can I. In my head I am wishing for a very bad thing about the firecrackers and their throwers. You know what I mean, you sheepish little devil you.

From across the street and even further down it, I catch a glimpse of male individuals congregating around a wooden table, haphazardly laid down where the first felt like laying it down. In the middle of that table sits Johnny Walker, black label, and still unopened. It’s now 3pm, and the continued celebration from the previous night is about to start for yet another night. To their right on the ground lay the patron saint of alcoholics, San Miguel. I tried to no avail to avoid them, but there is only one street in our village, and to get to the store I must pass them. So shot after another shot, I went to the store to buy myself Coke, to be used as an after-shot chaser for the trip home.

Like I said, today is a Tuesday, like any other workless Tuesdays in my life. The godforsaken singing, the rowdy and noisy street kids who never fail to find ways to annoy, and of course, the ever flowing alcohol that is measured by the gallons. Today is a Tuesday, and it’s Christmas. What they do today, they do in moderation for the rest of the year.

Merry Christmas everyone!

...travelogue...

2007-12-12T08:15:00.000-08:00

The old adage goes, “life is a journey, not a destination.” I could have sworn it was Steven Tyler that said that. Looking back, I must have been born with this thought in mind.

I love to travel. My birth certificate might as well had come with a passport to save them the trouble of identifying me. My favorite documents include boarding passes, plane or boat tickets, and tollway receipts. Travel, by any means – land, sea, and air – seems to be my curse, or blessing.

My first conscious travel happened when I had the chance to repair a machine in Roxas City, Capiz. That was my first travel alone, in a (domestically) foreign land. That was the first time, I remember, that I had to bring out my diplomatic skills in interacting with a different culture, one that is apart from the chaotic one I am used to in Manila. It turned out well, and I came back alive, thank God.

Since then, I have had the chance to see the beauty that is the Philippines. I had been to, or did almost all the items mentioned in the proverbial Department of Tourism WOW Philippines campaign song. “Tara na, biyahe tayo…”

Yes, I had been to the Penafrancia in Naga, been up to Antipolo, but sadly I have yet to dance in Obando. I bet Sharon Cuneta hasn’t either. I’m not unusual.

There are only a few other places in the Philippines that I have yet to conquer, but someday I will. I love being a tourist, a local one at best. And I take the best chance that I get to be an international one.

My first step outside of the country happened a few years ago, when business matters warranted me to go to Singapore for a week. The word “alien” had a whole new meaning for me, and the adrenalin surged in my travel-hungry self. There I had the chance to experience “chicken lice!” a meal of warm white rice with soy chicken toppings. At first I thought of the little ticks that I squish to death from our chicken farm of old. Fortunately, something was only lost in pronunciation.

Singapore was followed by Melbourne, Australia, and then by Taipei, Taiwan. Four times had I been to Shanghai, China since then, and the place is getting warm for me with each visit.

And, now this. I am writing this blog from the pre-departure area of the airport in Guam. I had just spent three days here, after four days in Majuro, Marshall Islands. And my plane is about to board.

I guess the continuation will be in Manila, when I remember to write more. I thank the man upstairs for all the blessing of travel, and I pray that I can return the favor in some way within my capacity. Until then, I wonder what the in-flight movie will be…

...antiquities...

2007-11-21T11:38:00.000-08:00

Of late, I had been musing myself with the past – the have-been’s and the should’ve-been’s. I had been digging up recollections of what life used to be twenty long years ago. I had been transporting myself back into that time when khaki brown shorts, white polo shirt and white knee-high socks covered in black shoes were my daily fashion. The scent of a sweaty child freshly baked in the hot afternoon sun was my standard aroma. And the life of a child in grade school was what I was living.

Looking at that almost faded photo, I could only laugh at myself. How did I survive those years looking so scrawny and feeble? And along stride my then classmates, I could only laugh some more. It was just like yesterday, as the memories of the fun I had in grade school comes showering back like a faucet on a hot tub. It steams.

I went into grade one in 1984, which gives the math geeks out there a chance to instantly compute my age. I only have sporadic memories of that grade level, but I’m sure the stress of the first day in school was nerve-racking. I never went to nursery or preparatory school, so grade one was literally my first day in school. I was so afraid of being alone in a room of strangers that I followed my mom who was buying books at the shop four blocks away. How she was surprised to see me come up to her when she was thinking I was in class! I guess that was the first time I ever cut class.

Then I met friends. And playmates. And more.

Grade school was Tom and Michael, two kids I considered best friends. I never did understand what it is that brings people to be friends, nor did I bother if they’d consider me the way I’d considered them. Doesn’t matter now. Ours was friendship of developing souls, caught at a time when grade school mattered. I could almost swear we were always together, but that’s just me. They might have remembered things differently. Tom introduced me to Fra Lippo Lippi. I can never forget that. We were laughing at him for always bringing up this new British pop act that none of us had ever heard of before. Then, about two months after, the pop duo hit big in Manila. Séance?

Grade school was fear of third grade, where the teacher has a notorious reputation of punishing students, even to the extensive imagination of pre-puberty kids that she would do all wonderfully hideous things to naughty students. I can still remember how her voice sounded as she screams “you get out-chide! now!”, and that’s not a typo.

The rest of the grade levels were the awkward stages. I remember this was where boy met girl, and (probably) the birds and the bees, although I fought myself really hard to use that cliché. It was a time of first crushes, of second ones, and false heartaches. It was a time of misunderstood understandings, misdirected and yet innocent affections, the prototype of love. It was a time of stupid foundation days where someone with a handcuff pairs you with the one you have a crush on, upon paid instructions by your so-called friends who’d let you be dumped into the snake pit. It was a time of volleyball games and basketball tournaments on intramural days where one can show off to impress the opposite sex. It was a time of educational field trips where each would jockey against the other for the seating arrangements inside the bus, hoping one would get seated next to his or her crush. You might think that I had done all these. Yes, go ahead and think that way.

Sixth grade was probably the most difficult of all. It was a time when one had to make a choice – of staying a child, or facing the reality of growing up. It was this decision making time that defined us. It was a signal that grade school is over. And the fun that came along with it must also bid us farewell. Old crushes would give way to new ones and new friends would replace old ones in high school. And the memories of those I knew in grade school slowly drifted towards the back of my mind, as I had occupied most of my brain with the new challenges that beset me. New challenges – mature decisions, tougher tests, life itself – became my priorities. I had to live life now, not only as a mere spectator, a child with cotton candy on one hand and a G.I Joe action figure on the other, but as an active participant.

Then came the pictures, the silent frozen reminders that I was once part of grade school. I see them now, and I relive all the moments that I had unknowingly saved in the corners of my memories. I see my old friends’ faces, some of them I have no name to put on. But most of them, their names are still intact. I see old crushes; some of them have families of their own now, with loving husbands and a horde of squiggly kids. Others have remained single, yet blissfully content. Some have gone to greener pastures, as that stupid cliché goes, in foreign lands, where I hope they’re not alone. Still others have stayed in the country, either by choice or by lack of enthusiasm. I have stayed because of the former.

I have not seen most of them for twenty years. My last recollection of some of them was on that last day of sixth grade, the graduation day. All of them were smiling, happy to have conquered six years of childhood humiliation and utter academic terror. We had given each other our contact details, and the promise to stay in touch after grade school. Apparently, none of us was keen on fulfilling that promise, so much so that twenty years have passed and yet none has attempted to contact each other, save for some.

I will see my old friends soon. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology and that social phenomenon called Friendster, I had found some of my grade school friends. Soon, when the vectors of chance are again aligned in favor of us all, we shall have the opportunity to reminisce together the times we had spent in grade school. Because we have our own lives to lead, reminiscing is all that is left for us to do.

That is all we can do.

...too much of hollywood...

2007-09-20T07:07:00.000-07:00

I have had too much of Hollywood.

I imagine myself saying the words so playfully coined by Ari Gold, his half witted remarks doubled up or tripled up, more than make up for the profanity that they actually convey. I imagine myself the beauty that is Vincent Chase, followed maniacally by hordes of pretty women like the Pied Piper of Hollywood, lulling the ladies with a smile.

Sometimes I am Turtle, relaxed, content with being behind the limelight of it all, and yet always the one everybody else falls back to. At other times I am Johnny “Drama” Chase, the boisterous has-been-television-series-star-turned-movie-hero-wannabe who is still running after his almost shinning fame. I have a few dreams that I’d like to see lived through, in this lifetime.

But often times, I am Eric Murphy. Loyal, trusting, hardworking, and always on the lookout for true love. Minus of course the fact that he can’t get laid without stringing himself up with the girl. Have I ever thought I could be Lloyd?

Never.

I am lost in my fantasy of living the highly strung life of Hollywood, the glitter that it brings, and of how easy things would be if your worries are when your next movie will be released, or which car dealer would you give in to today, Mercedes or Bohemian? It would be so nice walking down the streets of LA with an entourage of my own. And then I look down on my two feet. They’re no longer on the ground.

There are times when I think that there had been a mistake in how and where I was born. My intended birthplace is really Hollywood, but someone made a blunder and had me chopping wood instead. I feel I am comfortable with brushing elbows with the Dennis Hopper, or raising a glass to Steven Spielberg. I can easily fit in the clubs frequented by Paris, while throngs line up outside, envious of me. This kind of life, I was made for.

But then again, I fall back to reality. The closest I could ever come to this life is through the remote control.

I have had too much of Hollywood.

...a new evolution...

2007-09-17T05:43:00.000-07:00

“…book me up a new evolution, ‘cause this one is a lie…”
Learn To Fly,
FOO FIGHTERS

I hate this world.

I woke up to the incessant nagging of a persistent alarm clock. 6:30 am it says, like it’s my fault time moves so fast. It seemed that I had just closed my eyes and bid everyone goodnight, when it’s already time to greet the sun for another day. I hate the world for it.

Moving around half awake, I finally managed to do my rituals faithfully. I had, of course, my usual cursing and cussing with an un-open-able toothpaste cap, or a door that would love to bump my elbow, or keys that elected to play hide and seek with an unwilling me. The heat is always attempting to kill me, if the humidity doesn’t do that first. I hate the world for all of it.

Driving around the streets of Manila, I find new reasons to hate the world. Everyday, I see poverty, pain, and reckless imprudence of stupid drivers, especially the public commute types. A little girl with a bunch of flowers which looks like it’s about to decay comes up to my window asking for change. She never even offered me to buy her flowers, and I thought this was taught to her by a sorry excuse for her mother. She couldn’t be more than 5 years old, and she’s spending her time trading her wares, instead of trying to be a child. I pitifully buy her bunch, and told her to go home. My words fell on non-understanding ears, and she happily hops away with her loot.

Further ahead, I drive past shanties by the railroad, and more shanties under the bridge, people living in subhuman conditions right in front of our fat rich eyes. I paste a grin on my face as I notice a black BMW X5 zoom past in contrast to the forlorn background of makeshift houses. An old lady guiding a blind fellow starts to work when the traffic light turns red, putting forward the empty tin can they carry for people in fancy cars to spare them a peso. The first three cars they tried had their tints very dark, and I doubt that the occupants even notice the couple begging. I doubt if they ever see anything at all behind that dark tint. I wish they’d just cross the railroad and let the train drag them to kingdom come. The light turns green and the old couple goes back to the island where they await the next chance to ask for a few salvation. I cranked up my window close as I drive past them, feeling sorry that the lights didn’t stay red enough for them to reach me.

I remembered the news report on the television this morning as I was hurriedly trying to finish my hot coffee in one gulp. It wasn’t good. It was about a crime that happened last night in some part of the city, where the lights are off and the eyes and ears of those nearest are miraculously shut. With a population density of about a hundred people per square meters, it’s such amazing to know that there are still places where your body can be dumped without anyone noticing. The deaf and the blind are everywhere there is crime.

I cannot believe in a god that would allow these things to happen. I cannot reconcile to my values the thought of leaving man to fend off for himself, and to defend himself against himself. I was brought up to the sole belief that everything happens according to the will of one heavenly divine being, and a good one at that. My faith came crashing down when I realized that pain, hate and all other inhuman traits are so prevalent, it couldn’t be his will alone. There must be some area of human activities that he has no power over, that man himself has overruled his dominion.

I reached my destination with a heavy heart, as I always do. I go through every day thinking this day is yet another forsaken day for the unfortunate. Life is only fair and wonderful for the affluent and the pretentious. I don’t belong to either. And 8 million other people in my country don’t either, the same 8 million people that wonder everyday when their salvation will come. I go about my work, unappreciated and unthanked, like the other 8 million laborers I share this city with, plus the others who carry faded flowers and small empty tin cans.

I drive home seeing the same sorry things I see the morning before. I don’t think they work in shifts, it’s actually them again, or still. They work twenty-four hours a day because their hunger is a twenty-four hour thing. I throw them an I’m-so-sorry-for-your-state-and-I-wish-I-could-help look, and imagine whipping myself in the back as penance for my helplessness. I hate the world for this.

I go to sleep at night, tired and feeling abused. But still cursing and cussing over unceremonious things like the stupid traffic jams, late night bad news on the television, and that fucking un-open-able toothpaste cap. Lately, I had been debating if I should be thankful for being alive another day, or be so ill-fated enough that I should wish for this world to stop existing. I’ll open my eyes tomorrow to the incessantly nagging alarm clock, and I will hate the world yet again.

...the other man...

2007-08-24T09:01:00.000-07:00

inspired by recent thoughts on The Love Clinic, with Dr. Love, Tom Alvarez, late nights on Monster Radio RX 93.1

Dear Dr. Love,

I imagine there is a lot to be said about the other woman. The hate-filled words and all the expletives that this indifferent world hurls at herm are more than enough to char her name. But I wonder, what does one say about the other man?

Jessica and I are teammates in our corporate world. Trapped in tiresome board meetings that stretch for ungodly hours, we would often find ourselves chatting on coffee-breaks, or after-meeting late night dinners. At times, I would give her a ride home when I would insist the streets aren’t safe for a pretty woman alone at night. At other times she would repay the thought with a hearty lunch.

We got so comfortable with each other, Dr. Love, that we shared more than corporate matters between us. She’s a mother of an insanely adorable one-year-old, and enjoys most of the same things that tickle my fancy. She is married, but whether happily is something I cannot say. She would oftentimes flood me with the problems of her troubled domestic life and of how she had patiently tried to fix them. What they were, she would not say, and I am in no position to elaborate.

In recent times, my empathy for her turned into something else. I think I am falling in love with Jessica.

Dr. Love, I foolishly think that her marital dispute is a window of opportunity for me to snatch her away from her husband. I am seriously considering ending her misery with him and start a new life with me. She seems to be more than willing to acquiesce.

I don’t want to be the other man, Dr. Love, the one who would wreck her legal home. I know is should be helping her sort things out and not encourage her to come with me. But I know how I feel, and although I still am with infantile emotions, I know I can grow into genuine love.

Help me, Dr. Love. Should I pursue my immoral endeavor? Or should I just walk away? Perhaps you could start by letting 38 Special croon to their sentimental words in “Second Chance” as my love cure song. She could have said these words herself.

Thank you and may your words of advice, or reprimand, strike some sense into me.

Yours,
Jem

...the first inquirer...

2007-08-19T23:26:00.000-07:00

After a passing conversation with a butt-light carrying insect (an alitaptap in the vernacular), I made up the postulate of the first inquirer. With much inspiration from the big screen ad of some daily spread, I poised to ask: who was indeed the first inquirer? Who dared ask the first question?

Eve.

The biblical female who, in the book of genesis, is faulted with the first sin of god’s beloved man, is probably also painted in a demeaning light. Trains of thoughts have since took voyage in my mind after my sunday afternoon epiphany and as I would expect, also a lot of what if’s.

If indeed angels had the disability to compare their squalid state of blind obedience and their existence is oblivious to the popular human emotions of envy, greed, and insatiable desire, then the morning star would not have had the idea that man is favored over his kind (unless of course, he too has taken the bite of the fruit of the infamous tree. but where would he get the idea in the first place). He would not have started the heavenly Star Wars and there wouldn’t be any consequential temptation of Eve by the snake.

Given this highly presumptuous theory, Eve would then be imbibed with curiosity looking at the ominous tree in the middle of the Garden of Eden. The bible tells of how Eve offered the fruit to her companion (not spouse, as the sacrament of marriage then was still nonexistent) Adam. What prompted her to take the fruit, without serpentine influence, could be her mind asking simple questions about the irregularities of the premature god.

Why were we forbidden to eat the fruit of the tree?

Why was it in the middle of the garden, in plain sight, readily accessible to every animal ever created?

Why was it placed strategically where it can tempt the most?

Was it place deliberately to test how much I can take, or if I will buckle?

Why was I ever punished for exercising my greatest right – free will?

Eve’s brain must be a chaotic mess, and her heart must be pounding every beat as she searched for answers. And as the deity who made them only speaks to his male companion, Eve must be battling her wits moreover. To add to the temptation, the answer she seeks is right there in front of her, taunting her, begging her to be eaten.

As a footnote to this absurdly wonderful theory, the first and the greatest cover-up in history was also committed. Man was not to be blamed, as he is as the maker is, so is he also perfect. Free will was a gift not given by mistake, but instead a very vulnerable point in man, which can either cause him to suffer, or be rewarded. Evil was the cause of man’s downfall. Evil. An entity created when an unfeeling angel decided God stepped over the line.

...sunday evening epiphany...

2007-08-05T22:08:00.000-07:00

The brightly colored ceiling of that ominous structure seemed pale at that moment when I lifted my head from sporadic sleep. Sitting in that monoblock chair while listening to a man garbed in white talk about how earthly possessions are of no use in the afterlife, I feel like I was intoxicated with sleep serum.

Then it hit me.

In times like these, I consider myself one of two things – either I am greatly blessed with the gift of an open mind and great reason, or I am simply greatly insane. Either way, I can tell my brain cells are at work again, and that senility is just around the corner, having consumed so much of these little critters that I think none is left in the insides of my skull.

I was staring at the man in white, hearing him speak, but not really listening, or at least trying to. Out of nothingness, I felt somebody behind me (which of course is just the wall, cue twilight zone theme) whisper. I felt the demons of this church were at work, looking out for those yawning, or balancing their checkbooks. I was simply questioning what the man in white was saying, about the things you shouldn’t and should do. I was probably interesting enough for these demons that one chose to talk to me (albeit of course, I was only talking to myself) The conversation, at least I think it was one, went like this:

Me (M): I know you’re there… what do you want?
Demon (matt?? Hehehe): (nothing, just silence…)

(at this point, I think I was having a monologue…)

M: hindi mo ako masasapian, hindi kita pinapayagan! (you cannot make sapi to me, I am not giving you permission!)

Anong gagawin mo? Tatakutin mo ako? Bakit mo ako tatakutin, e dapat nga kinukumbinsi mo ako para sumali sa army nyo laban sa diyos. (what are you going to do? Scare me? Why would you scare me, when you should be recruiting me to join you in your army against god?)

O baka naman talaga yan ang trabaho mo? Manakot. Magparusa. Kung ganon nga, you are still under the service of God! (or maybe that is really your job? To scare. To punish. If so, you are still under the service of God!)

What if, your new job is really to punish. And that you are part of the grand –rewards-punishment scheme of the universe!

Ha! Hindi na ako takot sa iyo! (I’m no longer scared of you!)

Thus my epiphany that night. It occurred to me that Lucifer, after all these time, could not, and would not ask for forgiveness from the man upstairs. Why? Speculations abound, but that night, I was convinced that he didn’t need to. He was “transferred” to a new role, from the bearer of light, the morning star, to the one called Satan, Belzeebub, and all other hideous names which man has come to call him. He now handles the punishment part of the scheme. And that without him, or the thought of hell, the souls of man will not follow the righteous way of the scriptures.

He is there to keep us all in line. I now have little belief that there ever was a great heavenly war, between angels and angels over the existence of men. The whole bad image of demons and the underworld was created to keep us in fear, fearful of the immense punishment that awaits the wicked. Eternal damnation for the bad.

On the other side of the epiphany, this is perhaps the ultimate revenge the angels have on the weakling called man created by the man upstairs with the gift of free will, and endowed with immeasurable mercy and understanding.

I pity the angels. Their existence is one of servitude and obedience, BUT with the conscious knowledge that another creature, made after them, enjoys a whole lot of freedom, with the option of making mistakes and then being forgiven simply by repenting. Theirs must be a life of continuous hell…

...sensible quote...

2007-05-08T01:10:00.000-07:00

"Revenge sex is NOT the answer!" - meredith grey

damn! i haven't even heard of the question... have you?

...baby cockroaches in my bed...

2007-05-07T23:10:00.000-07:00

Sitting here wasted and wounded, at this old piano
Trying hard to capture the moment, this morning I don’t know…

I think Jon Bon Jovi is misunderstood. This is exactly how I am feeling right now. The coldness in my room from an overworked air-conditioner seems to numb not only my skin but the intellectual in me as well. My usually active neurons are still curled up nicely in their neurotic beds somewhere inside my head. Surprisingly, I seem to be thinking with my fingers. Fancy that! My appendages have a mind of their own!

And you think you could expect much from this entry, didn’t you?

I missed blogging. And not to add more to this pining, a slim whale just summarized in his blog what bloggers actually (it’s rather more a matter of opinion) feel about blogging. Geez, I never thought I could use three derivative forms of the word “blog” in a sentence. Congratulations to me!

Seriously though. Much credit should be given to bloggers. They promote voyeurism in a world where nothing much can be seen. They are the ultimate exhibitionists in the pseudo-sexual world. It takes a lot of courage to actually bare one’s self for others to criticize and lambaste, as appropriately stated by that hormonally-imbued whale “I have stripped my clothes off in this blog, both figuratively and literally, to expose my soul. You have, so far, been seeing me in all my nakedness, excess hair and all. The sublime and the hideous have all been mixed up here like jello and mud, each enhancing the flavor of the other.” Whatever that shit means.

Or simply they are just over-excited self-centered good-for-nothing mothafuckers who think the world revolves around them, and that civilization is benefitting from their extensive narcissism.

I think I belong to the latter.

He walks with a purpose, in his sneakers, down the street.
He had many questions, like children often do.

There seems to be a serious lack of patience these days, so serious that it can be declared an epidemic. Blame it on the scorching 40 degree heat that’s cooking half of the people in the city. The other half (including me) is comfortably soaking their white rich asses inside air-conditioned rooms while intently awaiting footages of Paris Hilton’s prison cell on E! channel. Now, MY patience seemed to suddenly run low.

I’m sorry. There. I had been pervertedly impatient with you. I should, and I know I can, give you more than the usual dose of patience that you deserve. And that ever highly-misregarded favor called understanding. I have been immersed in this lifelong fantasy that what ever I give, I expect to get back in return, much like banking investment. And I am wrong. I have realized this not just recently, but for the longest time I can remember; I am only insistently stupid and selfish not to accept it. And I am sorry.

Yes, you’re right. You are only human. And that is the best excuse you can possibly give. And just as you are right, I am only human too. And this is the best excuse I can possibly offer. It is yours to welcome.

I have to block out thoughts of you so I don’t lose my head. They crawl in like a cockroach, leaving babies in my bed…

And the cockroaches have returned…

...red wine, gay friends and marriage proposals...

2006-12-22T04:14:00.000-08:00

I just found out that a dear friend of mine is gay.

With boisterous laughter ricocheting all around her placidly conjured smile, this dear friend declared “Guess what? I’m gay!” A timid smile followed. And for a split second of an eternity I stood there wary of my reaction. The words that flew out of my mouth didn’t strike me as anywhere within the vicinity of polite.

“It’s written all over you tonight.” And that same meek smile of hers resurfaced. Or was it ever expunged at all?

Within the same breath of that nighttime air, only several minutes apart, another friend had confessed in lengthy detail of the phenomenon that is his life, including the romance of his marriage proposal to his then girlfriend and now fiancé, coupled with the turmoil that haunts both of them since.

And I blame all these on three intoxicating glasses of California red wine.

I did not, do not, will not mention any of your names, because I cannot do so. As I am sworn to secrecy, only your reactions to this prose shall ever fan the flames of curiosity of those who are curious, and might in the long run validate their long-standing suspicions about your identities.

It’s just that I cannot be expected to hold so much information with a tied tongue. And although I am keeping my lips sealed, as the stupid cliché goes, modern technology has enabled me to course my ramblings through with unbound fingers and a DSL connection. It is only a question of who is reading.

Keep the grapes fermenting. There will never be enough red wine on earth to untangle a tongue that holds a treacherous secret.

...starbucks 101...

2006-11-09T06:28:00.000-08:00

As I stood in line here in this crowded coffee shop, Seal blasts some words of motivation through the earphones of my iPod. “…there’s so much a man can tell you, so much he can say…”, he goes, as if the words were pervasively written for pseudo-sentimental writers like me stuck on a gloomy afternoon inside a roomful of adolescent socialites enjoying the rush of commercial caffeine in their brains. Seal can’t even hope to spark my opinion now.

In my attempt to strip this mini-society around me and psychoanalyze the people in it, I am facing a blank wall. “…hearts and thoughts, they fade, fade away…” Eddie Vedder softly croons as his song goes into fade, much like the fleeting anti-social opinion I am harboring for these individuals. I get distracted by boisterous laughter, or a whispered gossip from four tables away.

There is many a lesson in psychology to be learned in a place like Starbucks. The new culture that our young have unwittingly created is an experimental haven for psychoanalysis and research. Imagine, a pre-teener whose pubic anatomies have just barely started to manifest, cavorting with fellow pre-teeners while discussing such important world-changing topics as hair gel, or the latest issue of Cosmopolitan Magazine. All these they do over a 200-peso sandwich drowned by a 150-peso caffeine-deficient coffee drink. That’s more than what an average worker earns in a day. In this coffee shop, that amount buys only half an hour. If there’s a new entry on their resume, it’ll be for special skills – able to spend money they never earned in the first place.

And let me tell you about the place itself. Never had commercialism been more influential in our society than when Starbucks was conceptualized. How on earth were we made to believe that a predominantly sugar and foam concoction can be tantamount to Starbucks coffee, and sold at a price roughly equivalent to the GNP per capita of some impoverished central African nation. We really must have placed Starbucks at a very high social regard for it to still continue its existence in the market.

“…can’t stop, addicted to the shindig…” yells Anthony Keidis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, as if on cue when I mentally asked the question, what makes this almost caffeine anemic assemblage click? The lethal combination of a highly commercialized capitalist entity leading an obligingly clueless society is enough reason for us to re-evaluate our values and outlooks as communal beings. It doesn’t take a genius to know that this partnership translates to more money and societal standards degradation.

“Sir,” the darn barista woke me from my trance, “your Caramel Macchiato, will that be Tall or Grande?”

...beggars can't be choosers...

2006-11-08T07:33:00.000-08:00

It is in melancholy times that I find myself wallowing in my state. In between the hustles of my everyday life that I take small breaths and ponder on what I am, what I had led myself into, and what I might expect at the next turn. My life’s roller coaster is in its downswing at the moment, but only half of the car has turned downward, the rest is in an anticipating stage of curve. I am seated in the first seat and I can see the deep plunge ahead. I am sporting a scream that can’t seem to find its sound yet. The anticipation of falling while seeing to where one is falling to.

My professional life is at a crossroad, one that doesn’t have any direction marks at the corners, neither are there any crossing guards to ask directions from. It is in the middle of a vast land called nowhere. Well, that’s an exaggeration, but a close approximation though. Several weeks from now, I will know where this crossroad would have led me, and whether my decision, if ever and when I finally make one, was leaning towards the better or the worse. I hate this feeling, of not knowing what will happen, or how it will happen, or worse, when. It is like I am being held hostage, or that seven days of waiting for the next episode of my favorite weekly television show.

And yet, on the one hand, I cannot complain. The situation is out of my control, and I am but a simple leaf floating in the gutter after a rain. I am a beggar who doesn’t have the luxury of a choice. This fact, however, instead of consoling, makes everything – the whole situation - all the more exhilarating and agonizing. Now that’s another exaggeration.

On the other hand, I do have a little choice. Even though I cannot choose the scraps that fall off someone else’s table to help me last the day, I can in fact choose which table to wait under. I can choose to stay under this table now, where I am fully aware of the kind of stuff that falls, and be content with its occasional sallowness. Or, I can find shelter under a different table, one where the shoes of those dining are as shiny as my bathroom mirror. There I can surely expect better scrap to fall from the table. Healthy, tasty and more luxurious.

Beggars can’t be choosers, but they definitely can choose where to beg.

In time, this sentimental embellishment might come to pass, or it might not. Still that decision has to be made. And I must weather this lonesome state I am in, until finally somebody tells me the storm has passed. But right now, I must hold tightly on to the rail handles, hold my breath deep, and ready myself for the eventual fall ahead.

This roller coaster is moving.

...friendship 102...

2006-10-30T16:46:00.000-08:00

I have, just as of this evening, come to a conclusion that friendship is an obligatory relationship much like love. As being the product of chemical reactions in one’s brain a commonality between love and friendship, so is the fact that to consummate friendship, one must enter a reciprocated state, one being described as a “two-way street”. Thus, it is further defined that one party is entitled to demand the same level of attention and affection as is given the other party.

Friendship should be in the highest form of mutual understanding, with the unwritten consent of both parties for equal manifestations of compassion, concern and commitment. I cannot be a friend to you unless you agree that you will be a friend to me. For as long as I find reason for you to be a friend to me, I cannot resign being a friend to you. This is one option friendship simply does not allow me to do. Thus I will continue to provide you with the services a friend gives, with all expectation that you will continue to do the same.

But with the way things are going on between us lately, I just might be forced to abandon this concept.

...hate me...

2006-10-27T20:26:00.000-07:00

i'm a sucker for good words in songs. as i am a lyricist by heart, sans the music, songs like this one never fail to catch my attention. and as i am a very generous person, i'd like to impart with you what this song wanted to say. should you find that you share my passion for intolerably sensitive and icky-ly mushy songs, well, this is one that'll tickle your lyrical palate. look for the mp3, or i can send it to you... hit me back.

HATE ME
Blue October

i have to block out thoughts of you so i won't lose my head
they crawl in like a cockroach, leaving babies in my bed
dropping little reels of tape to remind me that i'm alone
playing movies in my head that make a porno feel like home
there's a burning in my pride, a nervous bleeding in my brain
an ounce of peace is all i want for you. will you never call again?
and will you never say that you love me just to put it in my face?
and will you never try to reach me? it is i that wanted space

Hate Me Today
Hate Me Tomorrow
Hate Me For All The Things I Didn't Do For You
Hate Me In Ways
Yeah, Ways Hard To Swallow
Hate Me So You Can Finally See What's Good For You

i'm sober now for three whole months; it's one accomplishment that you help me with
the one thing that always tore us apart is the one thing i won't touch again
in a sick way i want to thank you for holding my head up late at night
while i was busy waging wars on myself, you were trying to stop the fight
you never doubted my warped opinions on things like suicidal hate
you made me compliment myself when it was way too hard to take
so i'll drive so fucking far away that i never cross your mind
and do whatever it takes in your heart to leave me behind

Hate Me Today
Hate Me Tomorrow
Hate Me For All The Things I Didn't Do For You
Hate Me In Ways
Yeah, Ways Hard To Swallow
Hate Me So You Can Finally See What's Good For You

and with a sad heart i say bye to you and wave
kicking shadows on the street for every mistake that i had made
and like a baby boy i never was a man
until i saw your blue eyes crying and i held your face in my hand
and then i fell down yelling, "make it go away!"
just make a smile come back and shine, just like it used to be
and then she whispered "how can you do this to me?"

Hate Me Today
Hate Me Tomorrow
Hate Me For All The Things I Didn't Do For You
Hate Me In Ways
Yeah, Ways Hard To Swallow
Hate Me So You Can Finally See What's Good For You

For You
For You
For You

...comfort zone...

2006-10-24T09:09:00.000-07:00

How big a zone must I create to feel comfortable? And what shape must it take for it to function as it should? People I know almost always would tell me that they have already defined their comfort zone. It was only a matter of shyness on my part to ask if I was ever inside it. Not that I really cared. Nor did it really matter. I cannot really find use for some information I do not understand.

It’s a funny thing, this zone is. I imagine it to be an osmotic barrier, invisible though, but can only filter in one direction, with much difficulty at that. Things tend to pass through it by natural selection, and not by choice of those that created the barrier. It’s an emotional filter that brings the protected some level of security – emotional or otherwise – but at the same time provides immeasurable degrees of transparency. Friends come and go, not necessarily through that zone, but they do come and go. Family exhibits the same.

I asked a friend not long ago to shed light on her comfort zone for me, how big it is, what shape it has taken and who is in it. There was little convincing on her answer on what it was, or what’s inside it. However, it was definitely clear to me what was outside it. The absence of things gives more definition to their existence.

I do not know how big your comfort zone is, but it’s starting to feel like I’m outside of it. This chaos in my mind, this uncertainty in my feelings, this madness in my thoughts – all these make me think that I have gone at least an inch away from your borough. And being outside, we both have moments that are no longer ours, but separately yours and mine alone. Take me back in; let me bask in that comfort which you bring. If I must beg of you, then I will, if only to savor again the refuge I find with you next to me.

Or is it you who has gone outside of my comfort zone?

note: inspired by recent conversations with lysistrata (http://perfectlytarnished.blogspot.com)

...surrender...

2006-10-16T08:52:00.000-07:00

There is numbing pain that’s enveloping my heart. It’s a silent monster that creeps slowly, masked by a deep longing for you. And then it finally broke free, and every vein in my body ceases to respond. The heart is next.

You patiently tell me bedtime stories about how your life had been without me. My hand is clasped into yours as you slowly, yet unknowingly, attempt to break the battle that is waging inside of me. Like kids’ in a quarrel over whose turn it is on the swing, you push me off it. And as I lay half soaked in mud, this seething pain in me begins to unravel.

Words do not make dents anymore. And helpless as though I am looking up to you on that swing from the soft ground that I had fallen, you still are the angel in my eyes.

And heaven takes me. Or hell.

...linger...

2006-09-07T10:43:00.000-07:00

Note: the following work of fiction is inspired by The Love Clinic with Dr. Love, Tom Alvarez, late nights on Monster Radio RX93.1

If you, if you could return,
Don’t let it burn, don’t let it fade…

Dear Dr. Love.

I am not wont to tell my story to someone other than who I dearly trust, but seeing as I am about to lose hope in finding the right thing to do, and as you are technically a stranger, I have decided, perhaps you can help me. I have, as they would say, a case of desperation. But don’t worry, Dr. Love, my story is a simple case of confusion. That is why I need you to tell me something - anything - that might help me straighten things out. I am sure you will help me, because if you can’t, then no one else can.

Dr. Love, my heart is split, but not exactly down the middle. A larger part of it is rooting for Larry. He is a dear friend whom I share a passion for. We started dating a few months back, and we both found a lot of common interests. Somewhere within those endless nights of being together under the moonlit sky, and of sleepless conversations, I fell for him. I had just come from a failed relationship with someone else, but after two years, I believe I am now ready for another. And Larry was it. He would, as the cliché-ic movie says, complete me, Dr. Love. Seriously. After five months or so of constant dating, I was eager for him to pop the question. I so wanted him to be my boyfriend.

It’s tearing me apart. it’s ruining everything.
I swore, I swore I would be true
But honey, so did you…

But then there is Derrek, the one who holds the other half of my split heart. A common friend introduced us at a party, and click was hardly the word to describe it. Dr. Love, we both felt like there was a whole lot of history behind the two of us, even though we talked for just a few hours that night. That first meeting was succeeded by another, and then another, and still another, until there were so many that I stopped counting. Derrek has this indelible charm that made me weak in the knees. If there was the “you complete me” movie dialogue for Larry, Derrek would definitely be the “you had me at hello” part.

So why are you holding her hand?
Is that the way we stand?

Dr. Love, this is where my confusion begins. I am standing at a pinnacle of decision-making. Larry just popped the question a few days ago, but to my surprise, I was mum. I couldn’t give him the answer I was so hoping to tell him before. I know I like him, a lot, and he loves me more than I can possibly love him. But my eyes are set on Derrek right now. And my emotions are screaming for him. If only I could possibly know what he is thinking. He would never give me any hints about his feelings for me, other than what I deem them to be. I fear, that I might be unreciprocated.

Dr. Love, I don’t want to lose Larry, but with my attitude lately, I might eventually. I am running out of excuses for not being able to go with him. I don’t want to continue dangling his hopes in front of him like an apple in front of a donkey. Soon he will tire, and that would break me. But I just can’t give in to him yet. Not with Derrek around. And he is like an addiction that I can’t find will to elude.

I am caught in between the one who loves me, and the one I desire. Please help me Dr. Love, to at least knock me into my senses. I would like to ask you for The Cranberries’ Linger as my love cure song. Thank you very much, and I do hope I find solace in you.

Yours Sincerely,
Sapphire

But I’m in so deep
You know I’m such a fool for you.
You’ve got me wrapped around your finger.
Do you have to let it linger?
Do you have to?

Do you have to let it linger?

...nothing compares to you...

2006-09-02T03:24:00.000-07:00

Sinead O’connor once sang of wisdom-filled words that went, “..since you’ve been gone, I can do whatever I want…” Yes, I can stay home whenever I choose, and I can indeed eat my dinner in a fancy restaurant. But are those really what I want? Sometimes I find myself alone, but not necessarily lonely. That’s because I have you in even the slightest crevices of my thoughts. It’s those times when I want you physically next to me that I really have this propensity to cry, because the loneliness just eats me up from inside, like a glutton chewing every part of me. I wish the deadly sins would take its effect a whole lot swifter and take this glutton of loneliness away to loneliness hell.

A friend wrote, not a few moments ago, and I quote, “always make your absence felt, in such a way that somebody misses you…” You surely have made your absence felt everyday, since you went far away. I’ve never known this much longing before. I’ve grown so accustomed to having you next to me that this alien feeling of you nowhere near is hard to bear. End my misery and return to me, if you deem me worthy of having you back again. The same friend continues, and I quote, “…but don’t let your absence be so long that somebody starts learning to live without you.”

Now learning to live without you, I’m sure, is something I do not have even the slightest will to do.

Not now.

Not ever.

...se7en...

2006-09-02T03:19:00.000-07:00

I just finished watching this two-hour long movie about the seven deadly sins, which of course, according to Catholicism, are supposed to ensure your one-way ticket to hell. It left me with more questions than answers, and more “what the hell?” than “oh I see.” But in all, this really makes the brain cells work.

Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Lust, Pride, Envy and Wrath. They need not be in any significant order, but they definitely can be in conjunction with one or all of the others, a sort of a canonical Combo Meal. At one point or another in my life, I have had a brush with a few of these sins, and taking the doctrines, I have bought for myself several tickets to hell. Now, thinking this ticket can be refunded, I have second thoughts. I am wondering what I paid them with? And what kind of remuneration can I get as a refund? Like everything else in this world, this thought scares me.

Just like Kevin Spacey said, we tolerate these sins because they are so common. It happens right from under our noses and yet we do nothing. We take them as everyday occurrences, like norms or holidays. I am knee-deep in shit hoping that maybe, just maybe, the reason why we do these sins would come crashing into our laps, and not through our brains. I’ve been trying to understand for the longest time, that I am beginning to feel I just can live without ever knowing at all.

There is indeed a fine line between acceptance and surrender. And neither appeals to me right now.

...cosmic can of worms...

2006-08-25T04:46:00.000-07:00

Isiah 45:7 “I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the LORD do all these things.” King James’ version of the Bible.

http://www.hti.umich.edu/cgi/k/kjv/kjv-idx?type=citation&book=Isaiah&chapno=45&startverse=7&endverse=

sometimes it makes me think that the so-called biblical tree of knowledge is just a big cosmic can of worms, and that there isn’t any can bigger to contain it… so we just devour the worms. or they devour us, whichever happens first. frankly, I wouldn’t mind having worm soup.

...i hate ian wright...

2006-08-21T09:57:00.000-07:00

I hate Ian Wright!

Well, not actually. Seeing him on the tele today made me want to be in his shoes. His usual stints in Globe Trekker really make me so envious. Today, he was in Austria, home of Beethoven, Mozart, Freud and Schwarzenegger, dancing The Waltz in a grand ball inside some Austrian Castle at the foot of the Alps. And he gets paid to do all those wonderful things.

I love traveling, and I could probably be the greatest advocate of the scarred saying “life is a journey, not a destination.” I realize that all of the trips I had were made interesting by the travel going there, and not entirely of what I will find when I get there.

I had been fortunate enough to have gone to several places around our country. I’ve been in the far north, and to the even farther south. I have immersed myself in different Filipino cultures, eaten different local food, conversed with (though with much difficulties) different regional tongues, and gotten drunk from different provincial liquors. I had also been to several neighboring countries, like Singapore, Australia, Taiwan and China. I’ve been into totally different cultures, and learned quite a few new ones. But the need to travel and explore some more is like a cancer in me, growing with every moment that I stay idle.

And Ian Wright isn’t doing me any good.

Oftentimes I would think that I’d be very happy with a job like his, albeit very tired of course. When I was young, I would watch airplanes taking off from the nearby international airport. And I would memorize their decals on their bodies, and imagine them landing on their destinations. In a matter of hours they’d be in another country, another continent. As a young child, I created this dream that I would travel the world, sans 88 days. Whenever planes are landing, I would envy them for coming from another country, another continent. Someday, I will live out my dream. And I would take Emily with me. She would love it, I know, perhaps even more than I would.

And maybe then, I wouldn’t have to hate Ian Wright so much.

when you're gone

2006-07-07T23:21:00.000-07:00

And in the day, everything's complex
There's nothing simple, when I'm not around you

But, I miss you when you're gone
That is what I do....
And it's going to carry on,
That is what I knew...

I woke up today not remembering any dreams I had. Or if I ever did, they were lost the next waking second. I miss you. It was like a vacuum that suddenly sucked everything about you into my mind the moment I woke. Everything that was my fantasy, everything that might have brought wild visions in my brain during my sleep was vanquished by the mere thought of missing you. I long to hold you in the morning, to feel you skin against mine. I long to see your eyes still closed as I open mine. Or see you staring at me, watching me, as I open my eyes. These sheets are alien to me now that you’re not in them. This room feels like a cold cavern that I cannot fill. Not without you.

Hold on to my hands, I feel I'm sinking
Sinking without you
And to my mind, everything's stinking
Stinking without you

I woke up today to Dolores O’Riordan wailing about missing you. She hit the words right. I never thought I could sway to their music other than heavy head bopping. Now my heart rides the waves of thoughts that this person has brought. And I am riding tough like a surfer against a very big wave. I miss you.

And in the night, I could be helpless
I could be lonely, sleeping without you
And in the day everything's complex

Tonight I shall go to sleep feeling the same thing. Perhaps I had conquered another day. Perhaps I had accomplished a lot of significant things. Perhaps I did a good job. But all of that does not buy your presence. All of that doesn’t bring you back. All I can do is wait. And little by little, be consumed by this intensely growing sentiment of being incomplete without you.

There's nothing simple, when I'm not around you
Hold on to love, that is what I do

But, I miss you when you're gone
That is what I do....
And it's going to carry on,
That is what I knew...

indifference

2006-07-07T12:05:00.000-07:00

Had I known you did not and still do not share my enthusiasm for being friends, I would have stopped ages ago. You should have known me better than you’re showing me now. I never ever said a word that I had even the slightest chance of regretting the next day, when the alcohol in our brains have subsided, and when sanity regains control of our thoughts. You, on the other hand, had exhibited far less discretion on that department. On several occasions, when I thought your words were enough to hold on to, they would be rebuked by the reality that they were indeed said under the influence of alcohol.

Several times have you cried on my shoulders, both literally and metaphorically. Several times have I been witness to your confessions about how your life had been, or is being. Several times had I fallen victim unwittingly of course, to your nonsensical ramblings about things that never would come true. Your life is a fantasy, that I thought I could live. I thought that I could ride the waves you brought like a surfer against a very big tide. But no. I’ve fallen every time.

What was it that you claim I said about you? Have you heard me deny it? You gave me the license to say it the moment you betrayed the trust I had in your words. I should have never put so much faith in what you say. But I did. And that’s a compliment to you. Surely it would take much effort on your part to understand that. All you heard was what I said, but never put consideration on why it was said.

I treated you as a friend. I treated you with civility. I treated you like I knew you. It turns out, you never even bothered knowing me at all. We had the good times, yes, but that’s all we were ever good for.

So to you, who I thought could be a significant part of me, I bid you good luck. May you find your happiness in whatever form you may find it. I shall take no part in it, as I had already tried. But failed.

The indifference I am showing you now is more than enough testimony of what we could have been.

the passionate wait

2006-07-05T12:12:00.000-07:00

the swirling clouds are above me
the trees rustle their leaves in the wind
and I am imprisoned in this chair
with bare feet on the cold concrete floor
i wait for your touch to unbind me.
your touch to remind me
to find me
my eyes follow your footsteps until
they are consumed by the sand
my hearing fails me; your voice is lost in the wailing wind
i cower, and brace myself from the onslaught of your absence
wanting more for you to reclaim me
for you to proclaim me
to tame me

ramified poetry

2006-07-02T08:31:00.000-07:00

“Hello?”
“Chris? I know it’s you. Don’t hang up, please. Let me just get this one out. I know I’ve promised you many things, promises I just couldn’t keep. I don’t know how to say I’m sorry, but I am. I really am.”
“Tell me it’s not you, Jim…”

God knows how much I wanted that conversation to stop. I couldn’t stand it, the pain his voice brings. I can barely remember his face, but flashbacks from my yesteryears gave me a glimpse of how he looked. He was from long ago, a very long time ago. My name was still Tin-tin back then. We were two young souls growing in the hustle-bustle of Paranaque. He was my playmate, my friend, and a little time later, my first love. They say first loves die hard. I guess it’s only true when you remember him with joy, happiness and love.

“Tell me it’s not you Jim. Please. It’s not the same anymore.”
“Chris, it is me. I want us to be back like we were before.”
“There is no us, Jim. There never was. I only made it up.”

Throughout my high school life he was there; my confidante at times my teacher embarrass me at classs, my researcher for my assignments, my constant lunch date, even my streetcrossing companion. Maybe that was when I fell for him. In college, there wasn’t much I could do to tell him what I felt. One time or two, when he was drunk, he would tell me things I’d rather him say when he was sober. In anyway, it still made my heart jump.
I loved him then. I remember now. I did. He was the world to me; he was everything that mattered. The day he said he loved me too was the sweetest day I could remember. My birthday didn’t even come close. It was a day I thought would last forever. Regrettably, it didn’t.

“There never was an ‘us’, Jim. I created it out of my own imagination. I pulled it out of the clouds. You were never there.”
“But Christine, there were just too many things I couldn’t handle. Things both of us never thought would happen.”

The next scene that flashed before me was something that squeezed my heart tight. It was almost Christmas, my first Christmas after college. My life was perfect then. I had a good job, I had a good apartment, and I had Jim. And I had the perfect gift for him that Christmas. Yet, that day was the day that his knife struck my life. There was just cold ice in my stare on what I saw as I opened his apartment’s door. It was some other woman wrapped around my man’s arm. Jim. My Jim.
That was the last I saw him. That day left a mark on my heart so indelible that hate was hardly the word to describe what I’ve sown and tendered into full bloom. It made a scar so deep that no amount of time could ever heal it. I had the perfect gift for him, wrapped by my body.

“No, Jim.”
“Chris, I know you could find it in your heart to forgive me. I love you Chris. I know you still love me too. Just give me another chance. Please, I’m begging you, please.”
“Six years is long enough. I’ve already turned the pages, Jim. Leave me alone.”

“Why are you crying, mommy? Who was that?”
“Nobody, sweetie. Nobody.”

I had the perfect gift for you, Jim --- your son.

far behind

2006-06-23T23:22:00.000-07:00

Now maybe
I didn’t mean to treat you bad,
But I did it anyway

David let his right arm rest on the sheets next to him. He felt the smooth silk rub against his skin. His clock says its 5:58 in the morning, two whole minutes before the time he set it to sound off. He closed his eyes, imagined that Claire was still there in that empty space on his bed that he woke up to today. But she was nowhere there.

His head ached, probably from lack of liquid, water perhaps. He tried to remember where he was the night before. Oh yes, he went drinking, for no apparent reasons, except that he was lonely, and alone. He lay there on his bed long after the alarm had sounded off. He listened to it a little, admiring the rhythmic melody alarm clocks make in the heads of half-awakes. Then he slammed his fist on it to shut it up. It didn’t break though, and he didn’t want it too. It wasn’t its fault that Claire wasn’t there next to him.

Now maybe
Some would say your life was sad
But you lived it anyway

David washed his head with cold water. He looked at himself in the mirror, letting the droplets trickle down his cheeks. What he saw was horrible. His eyes had grown deep, and hollow orbs stood in their places. It’s been four months now since he last heard from Claire. Her last words were spoken at a higher decibel level than he had remembered, and then silence, except for the sound of her car speeding away. In the reflection in the mirror David can see where her right hand landed as a token of her last affection for him. It still hurts, even after three months. But the pain wasn’t in the flesh: it was in his heart.

So maybe
Your friends will stand around, they’ll watch you crumble
As you falter to the ground

He reached for his phone and checked if there were any messages. There were no new ones, only sympathetic forwarded messages from friends telling him how strong a rock he should be, or how a new morning will come for him, or how they’re going to meet up tonight for some time in the bar and pick up chicks. I’m still lucky, he thought, that there are still people dumb enough to send me messages, somehow that consoles. But it was Claire he wanted. It was her messages that David wished he was reading. It was her he wanted on the other side of that phone talking to him. But there was silence. Unwelcome silence.

And then someday we could take our time
To brush the leaves aside so you can reach us
Yeah but you left me far behind

Now maybe, didn’t mean to treat you oh so bad
But I did it anyway
Now maybe
Some would say you’re left with what you have
But you couldn’t share the pain yeah no no no

David stepped into a brand new shirt and pants, and into a new pair of shoes he had just bought. He had to close this chapter of his life, and start a new one. Because he’s sure, Claire had stepped out.

but you left me far behind
left me far behind
left me far behind

untitled: all i can do was shake my head and smile

2006-06-13T08:17:00.000-07:00

Jason stretched his legs on the green grass. He stared at the small pond in front of him, squinted a little when the light glistening on its surface reflected into his eyes. The sun was beating down on everything around him, and the shade of that big tree gave him shelter. At least he was safe even temporarily. But he has something else beating down on him, one that he cannot find shelter from no matter where he goes. Jason was suffering the pain of someone leaving, someone who took part of him away. He can never be whole again.

Jason leaned back, his two legs out in front and his weight rested on his two outstretched arms at the back. He let his face against a soft breeze that came from the pond. He imagined them to be Cathy’s breath and a soft kiss would follow. There was no kiss, just a rustle of grass. Near the shore Jason counted little waves that hit like seconds passing. Like him, time was only waiting to be finished.

He fished a small locket from his left pocket. He let it dangle in his fingers for a while, staring at it and playing with it like a little boy with a spider on a stick. He watched as the locket swung on its chain. It was a silver likeness of a dolphin that has just hopped out of the water. Cathy had a thing for dolphins, and this was hers. Jason remembered how she had given him this locket, to be a remembrance of sorts. But it turned out to be a goodbye token, something that Jason found too heavy to drag along. He opened it, and inside was her name scratched on it. Cathy scratched it herself, adding that it would be more personal, more intimate, more sincere.

“It’s over now Cathy.” Jason said under an incomplete breath. He stared straight into nowhere, his mind somewhere else, drowned in thoughts of her. He saw her there, running on the grass, wading on the shore next to the tied up boat. She would glance on him, and her hair would fly with the wind. She was very beautiful, that even a rainy day seemed perfect for a picnic. Cathy would simply light the whole world up. His visions of her brought tears to his eyes, and he closed them just in time before some fell. He cannot cry, must not cry. He promised her that. He would take it like a man, and be strong. His loneliness is eating him inside.

Jason wiped his eyes with his forehand, still clutching the locket in his left palm. He laid the locket down on the grass to his right, and the single red rose that he had brought along. “I will never forget you, and I will never stop loving you. But now, I have to move on.” Jason bent down and kissed the ground. A tear fell on Cathy’s grave.

He stood up and walked away.

writers note: the above story is fictitious and bears no reference to any real person or events. any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

Desiderata

2006-05-30T04:42:00.000-07:00

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantmentit is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

(Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952) thanks to tiffany salazar

the distance that breaks us

2006-05-19T09:50:00.000-07:00

It started with a simple crack; something that we proudly said could be patched up easily. And so we did. Then another crack. And another. Until the thing that binds us is blotched with packaging tape kind of patches. We hold on believing that the weak bonds will keep us through.

Then it breaks, and we’re lost.

A hundred miles away from home, I try not to cry, even though deep inside my tears are ready for a revolution. My heart is breaking, and the pressure it is causing is almost bursting through my chest. There are a hundred thousand thoughts swimming in my mind. I cannot release them through the spoken word because I am alone. The questions that I have all start with “why”, and the answers all end with your name.

I miss you so much. I long for you every waking moment. And in my dreams I restlessly wander the earth trying to find you so I can bring you near.

I want to hold you, feel your skin on mine. I want to inhale the breath that you give. I want to see your eyes, your smile, your hair. I want to hear your laugh, the sound of your voice. I want you, the whole of you right now right here. My wants turn to need. And my needs turn to requisites.

But you do not reciprocate. And I am left wondering why…

solace: chapter 3

2006-05-13T20:56:00.000-07:00

From: +639154030782
Subject: I rili wntd 2 tok 2 u. wanna tel u samtng.
Date: 27/03/2006
Time: 00:45 am
Type: Text Message

From: +639215555894
Subject: S it abt us?
Date: 27/03/2006
Time: 00:48 am
Type: Text Message

From: +639154030782
Subject: Yes.
Date: 27/03/2006
Time: 00:50 am
Type: Text Message

From: +639215555894
Subject: Dnt do dis. Am nt ready yet.
Date: 27/03/2006
Time: 00:51 am
Type: Text Message

From: +639154030782
Subject: Huh? U dnt evn knw wat am gonna say.
Date: 27/03/2006
Time: 00:55 am
Type: Text Message

From: +639215555894
Subject: I knw. I felt d same way 2.
Date: 27/03/2006
Time: 00:57 am
Type: Text Message

From: +639154030782
Subject: Den y wnt u let m say it?
Date: 27/03/2006
Time: 00:59 am
Type: Text Message

From: +639215555894
Subject: Bcoz wer nt goin 2 get anywer wid it.
Date: 27/03/2006
Time: 1:05 am
Type: Text Message

From: +639154030782
Subject: Ur d best thng dat evr hapnt 2 me.jst giv m d chance.
Date: 27/03/2006
Time: 1:07 am
Type: Text Message

From: +639215555894
Subject: U knw wat? I think ur probably d ryt luv 4 me, bt dis isn’t d ryt tym.
Date: 27/03/2006
Time: 1:15 am
Type: Text Message

From: +639154030782
Subject: Y not?
Date: 27/03/2006
Time: 1:17 am
Type: Text Message

From: +639215555894
Subject: Bcoz am stil holdng on 2 d wrng lov.
Date: 27/03/2006
Time: 1:23 am
Type: Text Message

From: +639154030782
Subject: Dats s2pid!
Date: 27/03/2006
Time: 1:25 am
Type: Text Message

From: +639215555894
Subject: Yah I knw. Tis enuf 2 un-complicate thngs. Let it go Jason..
Date: 27/03/2006
Time: 1:33 am
Type: Text Message

Jason felt a strong tap on his right shoulder. It was Cathy, holding out her glass to him for a toast. Her indelible smile ran across her face and her eyes were happy. Jason looked at her like the first time he ever saw her. A smile darted across his face, and he picked up his bottle to reciprocate her offer. Cathy knew Jason understood what she meant. “We’re better off this way Jason. Friends?” Jason thought for a second, but reconsidered. He knew he had to surrender, and that there was no point resisting. He gave Cathy an affirmative nod, raised his bottle to her and said, “Happy Birthday!”

Kip and Brad looked at each other, and then to Jason. Their eyes were inquisitive, but not enough to look interested. There were many things among them four that went unspoken, and whatever Jason and Cathy meant by their last conversation was one of those unspoken things. Cathy turned to them, she knew what was on their minds. “Relax guys, we’re all friends here!” and she raised glasses and bottles with the boys in their manly ritual of affirmation.

Writer’s note: this is NOT a true story

solace: chapter 2

2006-04-13T06:57:00.000-07:00

Kip mindlessly counted the cigarette butts on the ashtray in the middle of the table. There were many, and he tried to guess which ones are his and which ones are Brad’s. He found this pathetically childish, and worried that this lonesome waiting was not about to end soon. It wasn’t that he minded Brad’s presence or the fact that he was waiting with him. It was because of whom they were waiting for. He picked up another cigarette and lighted it quickly. He motioned to the waiter for another ashtray, determined to keep track of how many cigarette butts were his. He checked the time: it was a quarter until midnight. Now is a perfect time to arrive, he thought, wishing that the one he was waiting for would barge through the front door and with that ever charming smile of hers pasted on her face, sit directly in the empty chair he had set in front of him. Now he was imagining, and he found himself more pathetic than he was a couple of minutes ago. So he returned to counting the cigarette butts.

Kip checked his phone, and was surprised to find a message in it. He wondered why he didn’t hear the message warning, but shoved it aside. He fished his phone and read the message. “b ther soon. Gotta do somthng.” It was from Jason, and a hint of disappointment surfaced in his eyes. He didn’t feel the need to reply. He thought he wasn’t interested and yes, it was the shortest most valid text message that Jason could compose. He let go of the chance to inquire. Instead, he got his bottle of beer and took a very big gulp. “pare, Jason has something to do daw, baka matagalan. Text mo nga, baka makulitan. Sabihin mo bilisan nya.” He said to Brad, to which his friend complied.

Kip’s mind was floating again. He thought of something, then of another, and still of another until his thoughts were a myriad of incoherent thoughts. He slapped himself silly so that he could wake up and focus on something. It couldn’t be the alcohol, I only had two so far, he reasoned with himself. So he picked up his phone and composed a message. This time it’s an invitation. “pare, r u stil up? Maybe ud lyk a bottle r 2?”. As he pressed the send button, he thought that there was something he should have said but couldn’t remember what it was. “Oh shit!”, he blurted out loud, and made Brad swing his head into Kip’s direction. Kip had forgotten the Happy Birthday part.

___________________________________________________________________

The traffic light burned bright red and Cathy was amused by the way it reflected on the roof of the blue car in front of her. Farther away, she could make out the familiar neon sign of Gloria Jean’s coffee. She could almost taste the coffee now, and caffeine would definitely help her tonight. Her attention returned to the traffic light as she became impatient for it to turn green. She remembered she still had a text message to reply to so she took this time to do so. She silently whispered to the traffic light to delay its turning green. “Ey thanks pare. Yep, am driving around. Watup?”, she wrote and pressed the send button.

The traffic light cooperatively turned green and Cathy shifted to drive, stepped on the pedal, and proceeded straight down the road to that coffee flavor she imagined in her lips. She chanced upon her watch, it showed 12:05. “No way!”, she thought, “I missed midnight? Aw shucks, and I didn’t get to greet myself earlier…” she sported a frown on her face that made her even more adorable. And as suddenly as the frown was, it was replaced by a childlike smile, a happy face that celebrates a birthday. She was officially 24 then. If only she had someone to share that night with, maybe over a joyous bottle of beer or two. Then she remembered Kip and his invitation. Girls do change their minds, and she was no exception. Cathy composed a message for Kip, “ey, r u still there? Am n my way.”

Cathy passed by the coffee shop, the taste of coffee no longer in her lips. In its stead was the taste of cold beer. She turned to look at the people inside the shop, and noticed a girl with a funny hat at the counter ordering. The girl had long hair and a short skirt, and looked like she probably came from a night of partying. Cathy examined herself, and concluded that although she also has long hair and tiny skirts, she wouldn’t be caught dead with that funny hat. A smile again crossed her face as she continued down the road towards Kip and Brad.

Another message came into her phone, and she read, “wer to? Wid whom? Was wondrin mayb ud lyk 2 go out tnyt. It’s Friday.” The devil’s message again, she quipped. Amusement never seemed to stop for her tonight. That’s one sweet devil of course, and she thought Jason was indeed one. On the other hand, another idea came to mind. If Jason, Kip and Brad were together, why would they invite her separately? Hmmm, the boys are on to something. She replied to Jason, “am on my way there, Kip already invited me. R u nt 2gther?”

___________________________________________________________________

Kip waved for the waiter, and asked for additional beer. “And wait,” he said, “bring a glass with lots of ice.” Kip remembered this little fact. Subtle maybe, but he’s sure Cathy would notice it. He slid back on his chair, still holding his phone, and smiled a bit. Brad looked at him inquisitively. Finally he asked, “what are you smiling about?” Kip told Brad about Cathy’s message, that she was on her way there, and this made Brad’s face light up. That’s good, he thought, and anxiety almost filled his face. Brad took the ashtray near Kip and shoved aside the old one next to him. He dunked his cigarette in and got the pack for a new stick. He paused, thought of something, then lighted the cigarette slowly. He sucked in the smoke, and heaved it out like he was sighing. He grabbed his beer and took a sip.

The loud club music blared all over the room, just the way they all liked it. But particularly this night, Kip wished they would quiet down. He somehow wanted to be somewhere else more serene, perhaps where they could really talk, and not shout to each other just so they could be heard. He imagined that they were on a beach perhaps, with the sun setting and casting a golden red color across the horizon. Then he would find him with Cathy talking while sitting on the sand, the waves barely reaching their feet. They would have a bottle of beer each on their one hand and a good smoke on their other hands. He pictured this perfectly, because it was what Cathy told him when he asked her what her perfect get away scenario would be. He hadn’t forgotten since.

___________________________________________________________________

The girl on the counter turned her head slowly towards him, and Jason was quick enough to turn away. He didn’t get caught; he was sure of it. He was interested however, on where the girl was going, or where she had just come from. He thought it funny that someone would wear a hat like that at this time of the night. The hat had pineapple prints in it and was shaped like one too. Or he could be just imagining it. Either way, it was sure to catch attention. But other than the hat, Jason’s attention was caught by how the girl looked from behind: long hair that touches her bra line, a very sexy figure and that distinctively small skirt that rides high above the knee. Way up! This reminded him of someone – someone he had hoped would be next to him tonight.

He checked his phone, and saw an incoming text message. He eagerly read it, “am on my way there, Kip already invited me. R u nt 2gther?” His face turned to dismay. He should have known Kip better to not only invite him, but Cathy as well. He had hoped for a different thing tonight, one that didn’t involve alcohol consumption. Well, he reconsidered, maybe a little alcohol and after a long talk of course. Jason couldn’t think of anything to say back to that message. He knew that there would be no convincing her otherwise, short of pleading to her and telling her his true reason for the invitation. He regretted having erased that last line in his last message to her. Now he has no choice but to follow the gang into that smoke filled cavern if he wanted to see Cathy tonight.

He stood up from his seat which had been home for about two hours. He wanted to say goodbye to the man next to him and tell him to go home, she’s not coming whomever you’re waiting for. But of course he didn’t. As he was going out the front door, he consciously avoided looking at the girl with the funny hat. He can feel her staring at him. Maybe she knew he was looking earlier, or maybe she knew that he had an opinion about her. Or her hat. Jason stopped a few steps down the stairs out front. His gaze followed a red Toyota Vios passing by. His eyes were fixated on the car’s license plate. It read VCN 968. He knew whose it was.

solace: chapter 1

2006-04-06T05:50:00.000-07:00

“Excuse me, do you have the time?” the man seated on the next table said as Jason broke from his trance. Jason obediently looked at his wristwatch and replied, “It’s eleven thirty.” He was half amazed at how slow time must have gone since he planted himself in that quaint coffee shop. His thoughts must have run rather far because he felt like he’s been sitting there for years. He instinctively reached for his coffee and felt the side of the paper cup. It was still warm and that brought him relief. He conjured an almost autistic smile and toyed with the question of whether or not the man seated next to him thanked him for the time. It doesn’t matter, he concluded; he needed to be snapped back to reality anyway. He should even thank him. But it was unnecessary, he thought, and never proceeded to do so.

Around him Jason noticed a bevy of people busy living their lives that night. There was the man next to him who, judging from his anxiety and interest in the time, may already had been stood up by his date. In one corner a group of youngsters were busy enjoying their adolescence while in another corner a couple was having their after-movie-or-dinner-date date. Still, other people’s lives were flashed before him and Jason suddenly wished he could have his own life flashed before him. He wanted to know answers to simple questions like why he was alone in that shop.

Or why Cathy is not there with him.

His cell phone sounded off a message alarm. He fished it from his pocket and started to find the message. His heart thumped a bit harder and he felt his body rushed with adrenalin. But to his disappointment, it was Kip. He read the message: “Pare, wer u na? D2 na kmi hangout. Dala k yosi. Madami.Bilis!” It’s Friday, Jason reckoned, and Kip and Brad are waiting for him at their weekly brotherly asphyxiation through cigarette smoke and beer. He whispered to himself, “be with you a little later guys.” He was about to compose a reply to Kip’s message when a new message arrived. And it was what his heart thumped a bit harder for.

___________________________________________________________________

Cathy blew the lighted matchstick with closed eyes, pretending that it was a birthday candle and that she was entitled to one wish. It was after all a few hours before her birthday. She opened her eyes slowly and the light from the candle on the table next to her bed blinded her. She had turned off the ceiling light and the lone candle lighted the whole room. Cathy had just climbed to her bed, but still not in the right emotional level to sleep. Her mind was filled with random thoughts that are becoming disturbing to her only because she was entertaining them. She couldn’t do otherwise, she reasoned with herself, and she felt more confused. Tomorrow is her birthday, and she’s alone. Her boyfriend Joseph is miles away on a completely different continent. Strangely though, she wasn’t so anxious about the expected midnight call from him, and she never did expect any. It was one of those thoughts that bothered her.

Cathy reached for her mirror lying on the desk next to her bed. She looked at herself and asked, “what’s wrong with you?” She examined her face, scouted for facial lines that might be showing already. At 24 there couldn’t be many, if there are any at all. She was pleased, and she smiled a bit. “You need a drink young lady.” She told herself, as she looked straight at her reflection’s eyes. They were dark, round spheres that seemed unfilled. That’s no problem that a good drink wouldn’t fix, she concluded. Cathy got up, hurriedly changed clothes for a pre-birthday night, probably alone. Nonetheless, she liked the idea of being alone tonight. It’ll be for a change. She got her cell phone and her keys and went directly out the door. As she was about to turn the knob, her phone sounded off a message. It was from Kip, and it read, “pare, r u stil up? Maybe ud lyk a bottle r 2?” Cathy felt amused. She remembered she should have half expected her three best boy friends to be out on a drink. And it’s always an open invitation for her. Not tonight boys, she said to herself, I’m on a one-girl night-out.

Cathy lazily cruised along the main thoroughfare, still undecided if she’d try out one of her fantasy. Yes, she could say that. It was indeed a fantasy for her: driving all the way up to Antipolo and parking her car right where she could have nice view of the city lights below. She’d very much like that, if only she wasn’t so afraid to do it alone. And besides, Jason would really freak out if he knew she did it. Jason, yes Jason would be much concerned about it. She suddenly had a funny inkling to go immediately to where the boys are. But she brushed it aside. Then her cell phone sounded off again. “well, what do you know? Speak of the devil and the devil sends you a message.” She playfully said aloud. It was from Jason, and it read “ey pare, hapi bday. R u out?”

___________________________________________________________________

Brad slid back on his seat. He took a sip from his beer bottle and took a cigarette to light. He searched for the lighter from his pocket, and accidentally shoved his bottle on the table. He clumsily picked it up and wiped the spilled beer with some table napkin. Kip was laughing all the time. “You clumsy oaf!” Kip handed Brad the lighter that he was holding all along. Once settled, Brad threw a piece of crumpled tissue on Kip, saying “pare, are they coming?” Kip shook his shoulders, and with head shaking, inhaled a large amount of smoke. “I dunno. They ought to, it’s Friday. Let me check.” Kip fished out his cell phone and proceeded to compose a message. His first thought was Cathy, but hesitated. Suddenly he didn’t know what to say, so he decided to send Jason a message first. “Where can you be tonight?” he asked himself. He wrote, “Pare, wer u na? D2 na kmi hangout. Dala k yosi. Madami.Bilis!” and immediately pressed the send button. Kip suddenly had a strange feeling, and imagined that Jason was with Cathy. This made him uneasy, and Brad noticed him stare straight into the wall in front of him. He knew there was something in his friend’s mind, but was already sure what it was. He didn’t bother asking him, but instead raised his bottle towards Kip and teasingly dared him to go straight up. Kip snapped back to reality, and politely obliged. Then having emptied their bottles, Kip signaled to the waiter for another round.

___________________________________________________________________

“ey thanks pare. Yep, am driving around. Watup?” Jason read the message. He was somehow alarmed at the implications of that message. Was she driving alone? And where to? She’d probably be going to some date or with girl friends like she usually does. But what kind of a date would let her drive and not pick her up at her house? Jason’s head was filled with questions again, and he wanted answers for each of them. It was becoming more often that when it comes to Cathy he was always bothered. This has to stop, he thought, and fast! “wer to? Wid whom? Was wondrin mayb ud lyk 2 go out tnyt. Wid me.”As Jason typed the last letter, he fidgeted. His thumb cannot seem to press the send key. That’s too bold, he thought, she’d never fall for that. So he erased the last part, “wer to? Wid whom? Was wondrin mayb ud lyk 2 go out tnyt. It’s Friday.” That’s better. And finally his thumb hit the send button.

Jason took a sip of his coffee, and celebrated that it was still warm. It’s amazing what 100% recycled paper can do. And he patiently waited for the reply. He remembered Kip and Brad, probably slowly growing irritated at him for not showing up. He felt he needed to explain, so he composed another message for his two friends. He typed, “b ther soon. Gotta do somthng.” That should do it; after all, it’s the shortest most valid reason ever. No questions can possibly come after that. He heaved a sigh of satisfaction at having rid of the need to hurry up to them. Now what he needs is another message from her.

alcoholism

2005-12-29T08:48:00.000-08:00

It’s an old adage that explains alcohol is the best disinhibitor. Drinking several bottles of liquor that’s at least six per cent alcohol by volume loosens the tongue. That’s scary. It reminds me of the tortures ignorant people used to do in the medieval times, where they do all sorts of things just to make one talk, never mind if it’s the truth or not. Nowadays, bars are filled with poisonous smoke from different branded cigarettes and poisonous words from different drunken tongues. Loud noises, seething through one’s ears as though the lies are meant for one.

It is in this same pretext that I find some people unworthy of ever imbibing alcohol. Sure they’re fun to be with when in a drinking spree, cracking jokes, laughing for the slightest reasons, even making up instant comedies. They are the best of friends. But when I listen intently, there’s nothing in words they utter. No substance holds their thoughts coursed through their tongue. And oftentimes, their words lose their meaning come morning. And the whole denial stage is being performed again. Half of what was said was because of the alcohol. The other half was because of the night, and the smoke.

In moderation, alcohol can be your ally, letting favorable words slip easily from your mouth, or even through the written word. Many wonderful love letters were written under the faithful guidance of alcohol, when the heart is not hindered by hesitations of the mind. Many emotions were made known by the removal of the inhibitions brought about by fear, anxiety and uncertainties of the logical mind. All in all, alcohol consumption should be limited to such an amount as when the mouth still speaks what the mind wants.

In contrast, excessive consumption of alcohol causes delirium. People speak of imaginations, of fantasies, of self-gratification, of wants and desires, of things that have yet to come to past, and of things that never will. Some would travel great lengths to improve self-grandeur, others would simply magnify self-worth. Still others would intrude to where others are and conjure words that’ll pull them down from their clouds. This is how fights and brawls start. Worse, this is also how friendships are broken, hearts are scarred, and the possibility of eternal love shattered. Alcohol now induces lies. The truth gets buried in a pile of bullshit make-believes.

I cannot fathom what you want to say anymore, because I cannot hear your own voice. Sometimes, even when you’re not drunk, I still do not know who is talking. Is it you? Or is it the alcohol?

You ran away from me now. I can never believe you again.

mispronounced

2005-11-24T01:06:00.000-08:00

Love burdens itself with a whole lot of things – from the (yes, perhaps I could admit a little) truly important to the out rightly insane. For such a small word, love has come to mean the universe for some people, and yet, absolutely nothing for others.

I fall in the in-between.

People say love reside in the heart, and that the heart is the one part of the human body that is capable of loving, of understanding what it meant to love and be loved. They say it is where the human soul rests, and that it is the greatest gift one can possibly offer to another. By giving one’s heart away, one is giving out love.

An anatomist would disagree. There is nothing in the heart that can closely, even remotely, be capable of loving. It is simply a muscle, an organic pump that brings blood to where it is needed most to stay alive. To demystify it further, the heart has no other function other than that. There are no chemical processes that allow it to understand love, much less to give it away.

So why all the fuss about the heart? It is the heart that beats, signifying that the body is still alive. It is the one that aches when we feel something bad, or lonely, or sad. It is also the one that comes alive with excitement over some cute guy or a lovely girl. It is the one that pumps blood into our faces when we blush. It is also the one that doesn’t pump blood enough when we faint. It is the refuge of emotions that the brain cannot process with all the reason and logic it was programmed to do. The brain is much like a computer, processing information by standard logic, maybe a little arithmetic, and a lot of the man-made reasons. But like all equations, there are difficulties, and sometimes-undefined results. These are the emotions brought about by infatuation, anxiety, or longing for someone. And it is the heart that gets blamed for all these emotions.

Love is not logic. Love is not reason. It is for these reasons that love sometimes is not welcome in our minds. The brain cannot process the chemical reactions that produce love. That is why as an outcast, it needs to find a different venue for expressing itself. And love chose the heart.

The heart as a home of love is an idiom, one that is collecting dust. We do not, cannot, and perhaps even with a million years of evolution, will not think with our hearts.

“mind over heart. but in truth, you sometimes allow yourself to lead with your heart.” A friend once wrote of these wisdom-filled words. She could have changed the last word. We oftentimes allow ourselves to be led by LOVE.

why are we here?

2005-11-15T03:45:00.000-08:00

Today I read a couple of good blogs. A couple that fails my taste for intellectuality. And still a couple that simply falls under absurd. It makes me think though, what are really blogs for?

A: entertainment. But whose? The blogger’s or the reader’s? I simply cannot dismiss the playful thought that someone could amuse himself with writing passionately for hours on end, about the same incident, and on the same emotional level every time. Don’t they have doctors for this? If I could convince myself that it is indeed for the blogger’s entertainment that blogs were created, then I must reconcile to myself that perversion is rampant, and that self gratification has evolved into the cyber kind. It’s scary. But if I could convince myself that it is for the reader’s entertainment that blogs exist, then by all means, the selfless souls who write for other’s joy are growing in numbers, and that probably the end of the world is not too far away… that’s even scarier!

Do not argue for the in betweens! It can only be either one or the other, never both. Otherwise, go somewhere else and plant something, like camote maybe?

B: expression. Who the fuck cares!?!? Since the so-called liberation of the Philippines from twenty years of imagined oppression, never have the words “freedom of expression” been so irritating. Wars have been triggered by expression. Families have been destroyed by expression. An eternal conflict between the religions of the world can never be quelled because of that freedom to express one’s ideology. Ideas are born out of other people’s opinion, or even an unknowing remark. The whole world can end with a simple expression of emotion – a profession of faith, or a criticism for fashion. Surely blogs aren’t created to ignite the next world war.

C: cultural exchange. The only exchange coursed through blogs is the knowledge that everyone else is as sick as you are. It’s more of a domination of one culture over another. There is hardly an exchange in culture, but a proliferation of the dominant one. It is like a virus – the only way to spread is to find readers to convert and start their own blog sites.

D: money making scheme for the thousands of computer geeks passionately writing computer codes to make and unmake a new blog site. If indeed blogsite hosting is that profitable, the stocks would have skyrocketed in the Dow Jones. E-bay has a bigger stock in its warehouses than all the blogsites combined.

There MUST be something else, something that drives the intellectual to continue pounding on the hapless computer keyboard.

I cannot think of any more reasons why people are so addicted to blogging, or why blogs sites exist. Surely there must be a logical reason. It’s sad to classify this dilemma with the one about the existence of flies, mosquitoes, terrorists and other pests that in all logic and reason shouldn’t even have evolved but somehow did. Whatever your reason for blogging, stay firm to it. You have the last true ideology of this century, you are part of the last remaining souls that will inherit the earth. You will live long after all the bacteria have disintegrated. Your legacy will endure forevermore!

After all, some freaky scientist who probably blew up his high school chemistry lab would find someday undeniable proof that blogging is genetic. The human genome shall need re-writing once again.

oxymorons

2005-11-08T01:44:00.000-08:00

There is joy to be found in sadness. There is closure in between sobs and tears that trickle down your cheeks. Within that single second, you find yourself stronger than you were the second before.

There is unity to be found in loneliness. In being alone, you become one with yourself, with the emptiness that envelopes you, and with the void that you forcefully keep at bay, not letting in to your heart. There is no one to hurt you, no one to hurt, and no one to blame.

There is satisfaction to be found in longing. Anticipation is an end by itself. Every second that come and go brings you closer to that moment when your life’s wishes and wants are obtained. It is a step higher into that stairway to your stars.

There is truth to be found in lying. This one… I cannot explain.

shanghai nights

2005-10-15T19:18:00.000-07:00

It had been a very busy week. Work started at 8, and ended at 6, everyday since I got here. Add to it the stress brought about by difficulty in communicating with a handful of different nationalities – Japanese, Thai, Australian, Korean, Chinese, and the French. I can feel the language barrier almost as high as the Great Wall. What to eat is a burden we face every lunch and dinner.

And then comes Friday.

For someone like me who is used to saying thanks to the Almighty for creating the weekend, this day was a much anticipated event. The day started with much hopes for a more relaxing night. After all, this IS Shanghai, nicknamed the Paris of the East. The Shanghainese must know how to party.

The night turned out to be a bore. From where we were staying, there wasn’t a bar for miles – the nearest cool place is 50 minutes drive away, and that’s far. With the way
Shanghai taxi drivers drive, that could take you halfway around the world! There were just some restaurants that serve almost inedible food from other countries, and a supermarket. All closes early. Thank God for the convenience store on the next block that’s up all night!

Saturday.

I hadn’t given up hope for the shanghainese. Probably they don’t go out much on a Friday, but Saturday couldn’t be an exception. So we went out, took a couple of pictures at Nanjing Road for posterity, dodged the ever persistent market hawkers at Xiangyang Market (hello! You wanna buy Rolex? Very cheap! What do you want? Come take a look, no problem!), and lined at McDonald’s because it’s the only place we know safe to eat without a Chinese guide. We were then taken to what they said was the nightlife district. So it was. Bars of all sorts lined up the street. But amazingly, so do the cops! Policemen in Chinese uniforms were everywhere, reminding us probably that this is still China, and not Amsterdam. We chose a bar, where Coca Cola was sponsoring. At the entrance, that communication barrier was up again. It took us about 30 minutes just trying to understand what was going on inside. Turns out, we paid 30RMB each for entrance, and 48RMB for a bottle of beer. Tables cost 480RMB to sit in, so we chose to sit near the bar. Inside, NOTHING was happening, just a thousand Chinese speaking to each other, and a couple of loud Europeans. I felt like the tower of babel just fell.

And so we went back to our hotel, dismayed and disappointed. I really would have half expected my first shanghai weekend to be more exciting than it was. I guess I was wrong.

I learned that to enjoy shanghai, you must have somebody with you who knows the place, and who knows how to speak Chinese. Come Monday, our hosts in the company said they’ll take us to Hooters. Monday. And we’ll be out on a party? Let it be. That’s the way the cookie crumbles here in China!

the problems we choose

2005-09-24T07:14:00.000-07:00

today i found myself in the middle of an unseen war.

it started early in the day with the laundry. there was a tall pile of it in one corner of my room that it wasn't unnoticeable. i was forcibly taken out of my loving bed and into the washroom where the violent turning of the washing machine whirrsss its terrible sound. i felt the pain suffered by the clothes as they seemingly, helplessly tumble and drown. it's their necessary pain. not mine. i only reap the benefits - clean underwear, for one. but the sheer number of things to wash is overwhelming. and sleep is biting its pangs into my system. it's seven o'clock, how can i help it? my day, apparently, was made even before it started.

i chose to ignore it.

sometimes, a second or two kept to oneself saves a lot of trouble for the world. that mere second changes one's outlook in life. a deep breath might even save your life. i did what i had to do, nothing more. instead of being grouchy and ill-tempered, and make a total jerk of my day, i stayed calm, took a deep breath, and patiently carried out the task of washing two-week old dirty laundry. i won that invisible battle for my right being. i probably saved my sanity with that choice. and the work was done, i got to go back to sleep.

until of course some other job required my attention... and the skirmishes begin again.

PMS

2005-09-22T04:32:00.000-07:00

"after the beep, you know what to do..." click. beeeeeeeeeep.

everyone knows what that is. it's an answering machine, one that is tired of explaining that you should leave your name and number, and to state your purpose or die. then again, you might just be lucky we'll get back to you if we feel like it. it's getting to be a staple response from most answering machines these days.

the same warning should be installed in women that prompts us guys every month.

i was recently handed by my girlfriend an article in Cosmo (strategically, a woman's magazine!) about a guy succumbing to the pitfalls of PMS. she was, in all sincerity, hoping that i'd be "enlightened" as to the ordeals women go through every month. in the article, the writer, apparently a man, tells his readers to just let things be when it comes to PMS. paraphrasing, i would say that PMS is just like the rising of the sun, or the changing of the tides - let it be.

i haven't the strength of will to do just that. so sue me. whatever course of evolution made woen what they are is the same course of evolution that'll make men understand why women are what they are. i'd still need the early warning device every month.

still, even with that device on, i'd need an anti-lock braking system and a good airbag to help me survive the inevitable collision.

"...the number you have dialed is not yet a telephone, please talk to yourself for the moment..."

the jet effect

2005-09-16T10:13:00.000-07:00

Picture this.

It’s a nice warm day, and you spend it walking around the mall. Suddenly, hunger gets to you. So you decide to stop by the nearest fast food store. You happily enter the store as you notice that you’re the only one in line. You order your food and give the cute cashier a dainty smile as she hands you your change and receipt. You take your tray away and find a nice cozy spot where you could eat your meal in peace. In the middle of your transitory avarice with your two-piece chicken, you have the need for extra rice. You raise your head up to scout the cashier, only to find that the line to the order counter had grown almost beyond the store’s entrance!

Then what do you do?

It is often a puzzle to an inquisitive mind like mine when phenomenon like the above described happen. I myself have been in the situation several times. In fact, I have encountered such dilemma that I started wondering what to call such an event. Hungry for something to name it with (and to perhaps douse a little the flame of my eagerness and curiosity) I asked my friends if they know, in any language, what such event is called. From the Ilocanos of the north, to the Bisayas of the Central Philippines, to the people of Sulu, no one can provide the answer. So, I felt it is my moral and even divine responsibility to christen such event with a name.

In such case, what I would have done is to just sit back, return to devouring my chicken, wear a grin on my face and say, “it’s the Jet effect”.

waiting

2005-09-13T03:22:00.000-07:00

it's still 37 minutes before 7 in the evening, before i could go out and drive again in the streets, before the unseen chains of the MMDA's coding scheme release me from my prison.

i seem to have started a nasty habit of hating having to wait.

and my typing is getting slow. i'm drifting to nothingness, just waiting for the clock to move closer to seven. and it did. it's now 6: 25pm.

what an improvement! i could almost rejoice! without the bounce of course...

but i have to resign to the fact that i am still destined to wait. because everything is beyond my control. everything is beyond my will. everything is bey- wait! it's 6:27 already! yehey!

the steady pace of time progresses, and i am starting to enjoy this tedious waiting, if not only because of the tiny seconds that pass ba, as if trickling drops from a water spout. tip tap tip tap they say.

i'm getting my head examined tomorrow. perhaps a funeral or two for some brain cells i killed today... tip tap tip tap... there they go again!.... tip tap tip tap....

6:29

6:30...

tip tap tip tap....

i hate sunsets

2005-08-20T19:19:00.000-07:00

i hate sunsets. for me, they are the saddest thing ever. every demise of the sun seems a parallel demise of my soul, waning of the light into an unknown darkness. it is that time of day that i find myself blind. the light that ought to have hit my eyes and bring colors around me are consumed by the imminent nothingness... i turn on my headlight, but there is nothing in front of me. but the sunset.

every sunrise is a different day apart from the one that the sunset has ended. i can never take back that day. i grow older with each sunset. and yesterday is nothing more than a memory. a memory lodged in one of my brain cells that will die and never pass on that memory to another brain cell. it is gone forever by the coming of the next sunrise.

i hate sunsets. it paints a perfect picture of life. but it never assesses how the day had been, nor how tomorrow might be. it heralds the night. and i am alone again.

i hate sunsets, particularly now, when i know you're somewhere beyond that fiery sea. your sun is just about to rise, mine is about to sleep. i want to be that sun, setting here, but rising to where you are.

i hate sunsets. now it's kissing your cheeks. and i can't.

after a while

2005-08-20T11:46:00.000-07:00

after a while, it gets to you...

sometimes, i find myself alone. thinking. this is one of those sometimes. but unlike any other sometimes, this sometime is eternity. my head is filled with words, but it the channeling to my mouth that's having problems.could it be my tongue? is it impaired that it has to delegate all the speaking to my fingers, hammering mercilessly upon the helpless keyboard? i would call myself pathetic. the deaf and the mute are more interesting than i am. i write words that no one in my lifetime can ever fathom, or simply read. silent sanctuaries for sometimes like this one.

and then it happens. my head dries up. no more words are scrambling to be out first. no more ideas. just letters. incoherent letters, as if stricken by dyslexia. i take a pain killer, hoping that the brutal attack on my brain cells might awaken some of them into making more ideas. nothing. just a deafening silence that only i can hear. an echo ricochets in my head, hollow.

there is no chance for brain freeze. one cannot freeze what one does not have. it has gotten to me. it finally did...

the first step

2005-08-16T17:14:00.000-07:00

and so i take the first step in this long journey ahead... let's both take a walk.