Thursday, February 28, 2008

sleeping with them

Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice
The Weekly Sillimanian

February 28, 2008

We are all living with intricate unsettled questions. These could not necessarily be caused by dementia, of course, but simply these are problems we all bear every day. Ever-present and ever-persistent, they create distortion and deterioration in our intellectual faculties that yield nothing more but ache in our innermost being. As humans, almost perfectly capable of intellectual thinking and speech which make us distinct and ahead of the lesser animals, we cannot depart from these moments of individualistic turmoil.

Blaming this undesired condition on things so obviously nurtured by our very own doings is frankly unconvincing. Whether it is the feeling of being so forlorn because of unrequited love, feeling guilty for situations we didn’t actually create, or simply being unreasonable in all matters of this problematic life, everything boils down to the definiteness of our decisions.

At this point in our lives, when an undesired problem is at its highest corrupting condition, the tendency to create solutions out of thin air is inevitable even in the middle of chaos; whether it is chaos in class requirements, chaos in everyday performances, or chaos in emotional-psychological fixations. And one of the many solutions that result from harried, premature decision making is to bring the whole thing to an abrupt end. In simple terms, to immediately cut off one’s lifeline. Suicide, that is. Often it is successful, sometimes it’s a failure. The number of attempts has undeniably been increasing annually, but fortunately more and more diversions are formulated to alter one’s focus and lead it out of the macabre—let it be the comfort of reading a tome by Haruki Murakami, the obligatory intake of an antidepressant, or the vigorous involvement in any sports. But the most uncomplicated, purest form of diversion is sleep. The closing of the lids, the subtle sensation of having our delicate lashes touch the bases of our eyes, and then the gradual development of evading the harshness of reality; sleep is indeed an act of breaking away.

And one of the unique branches of the science of sleeping is to carry out this practice not only at the right time and at the right place but anytime and anywhere. It is called selective narcolepsy. Characterized by excessive daytime sleepiness, the term is derived from Greek which means to be “seized by somnolence (the state of being drowsy).” Many fear this would affect one’s social and academic performance but the implications of this are often misunderstood by many. Some even identify narcoleptic symptoms as embarrassing since social isolation may result. But even though in the medical field it’s principally a sleeping disorder, to some it is the most exhilarating experience one would attain. It is sleep in the most enigmatic form.

Supposedly, sleep is the body’s respite. It is the normal intermittent suspension of consciousness during which the energy of the body is restored. Triggered by a complex group of hormones that are superiorly active and responding to the body itself and to the environment, 80 percent of sleep is actually dreamless and is known as non-rapid eye movement (NREM) sleep. It is in the other 10 percent that we encounter beings called Them. Through selective narcolepsy, especially in the rapid eye movement, we see Them whenever we want to see Them. Never mind this entire scientific spill; the achievement here is that we get to meet Them.

By undergoing selective narcoleptic, by decisively choosing to sleep when stress or whatnot hit the ceiling, we essentially sleep with Them. We envision Them as the flawless beings of comfort and safety, the surreal yet mimetic companions of security not found in the realms of reality. These dream beings embody the perfect concept of a supporter, an ally, an exceptional someone. They are believable. They are sought-after partners of affection. Therefore, we can sleep when we want to meet Them.

It is also in sleep where we discover a paradise—an unmapped wonder world where everlasting joy and overflowing pleasure are the reward for those who think deserve the spree. While magnifying its transitory beauty, which is caught in the illustriousness of our imagination and having none of any pragmatism of pain, we highly value Them. When we sleep with Them, we only shed light on perfection and we disregard the flaws.
Suddenly, we wake up. The sunlight, eternally present to highlight the truth hiding within the dark recesses of our humanity, will seek out the lies that we lustfully aspire to and illuminate them in order to eliminate them. It is inescapable that we must wake up but then we can always sleep back again. And if the instance of waking comes and I will bear witness to another veracity of disorder and hurting, I would rather go back to sleep once more, suspended in a mutual cycle of false love, imaginary peace, and bogus order in the company of Them. I will bear the cycle of sleeping and waking, lying and accepting. For only with Them I will feel my worth.

Sigh. Sob. Heave. Sleep.

something new

Because there are some things
that need a major overhaul.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

hit again

Chronicling the 25th of February
in the year 2008

HIT #1:
The two were lost. They wander the fields of green under the shadow of the century-old acacias. (5:45pm)

HIT #2:
Pasta Putanesca and Sunny Side-up Pizza at Nevas. These filled my night but not fulfilling enough to be a replacement for the missing piece. (7:00pm)

HIT #3:
Wireless technology is a great help but it also reminds us that distances are getting worse by the minute. Cellphones are not enough. (8:30pm)

HIT #4:
There are people who are like sparklers; they suddenly ignite a distinct flicker so exhilarating and engaging and then they fade, leaving you in earnest sacrifice of waiting. (9:04pm)

HIT #5:
So downtrodden, so gravely lost. It is a good thing comrades of unlimited joy are at the ready to hear our self-inflicted misery. (10:01pm)

HIT #6:
I communicated with a devil, a man involved in some ludicrous yet affective crime, and a mirror that cries. (10:35pm)

HIT #7:
It was not all sunshine that we get especially that it was night by this time. (11:15pm)

HIT #8:
A lot of people said I do not deserve this agonizing state but what can I do, binary oppositions must be applied. If there’s hot and cold, dim and bright, soft and hard, there must be joy and sadness. One has to succumb to desolation in order to achieve balance. (11:25pm)

HIT #9:
I was blind. I just didn’t get why some messages, no matter how short they were, pierce us the way the speeding dart hit the center of the board. “ Okei, ___ :) ” (11:34pm)

HIT #10:
I will forever treasure the craft of tying a knot. And tonight, I will give you one and hang it at a corner of your room. Let this be a reminder that for a moment I really think of you. (12:11am)


Friday, February 22, 2008

with someone

It is by sleeping with them that we favor
the momentary illustriousness of bogus perfection
and disregard the realism of chaos
and undermined pain.
Feb 22 / 08 (02:11am)

Sunday, February 17, 2008

feeling honored

The sky seemed to contradict our festive plans; it expressed itself through occasional rain shower and donned in sullen grey looks. Nevertheless, it actually didn’t interfere our main objective of the day: to attend the 50th Annual Honor’s Day Convocation at the Claire McGil Luce Auditorium last Feburary 15, 2008—in overly-prepared get-ups.

This year’s guest speaker added more truth to the adage, “small is terrible.” Indeed, Ms. Mikaela Irene Fudolig is one little woman you would fear crossing paths when it comes to the intricacies of Physics. Well, she was just a UP-Diliman summa cum laude graduate in Physics at the age of 17. One thing I was really glad at that afternoon was her short speech. Thank goodness we didn’t have to bear longer, sitting on those cold metal chairs, listening to dull miles-long speeches like in the previous years. I enjoyed her metaphoric tale about the grass (yes, the weeds) in relation to our attitude. It’s hard to explain everything in here so it’s up to you to connect the two.

I was also particularly happy on the fact that, finally, my course had already been recognized! Unlike in the last two years the announcer would just say this: “Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice… Arts!” Heck, I have a proper course! I am Creative Writing major for three straight years. And last Friday, they had just pulled off the right thing except for two things that made my sudden elation collapse: Ms. Annabelle Paa mispronounced my third name (Michael instead of Mikhail—that’s “meek-heyl”), and the people of the world just misspelled the same name on my certificate. Damn it!

With all the minor bluffs that occurred that day, I simply forget them. Maybe with my unsolicited angst the Lord won’t give me any chances of sitting inside the auditorium again! No, please, no.

(photos 1 and 3 by Godwin Lim)

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

some similarities

It sure is funny seeing these two giant magazines having the same (well, not exactly the same) concept and theme for their covers. Perhaps love makes us all think sympathetically alike. Nevertheless, I had a lot of fun reading them especially Reader’s Digest article, “What They Did For Love”; and Time magazine's "Why We Love" by Jeffrey Kluger and "Are Gay Relationships Different?" by John Cloud.


Sunday, February 10, 2008

silence of the bullfrog II

It is hard to accept that the quietness of the world envelopes you, much more if there’s no other thing you can find that could break the deafening silence now creeping into every crevices of your body. The knife-like stabs of noiselessness, the itch of eternal longing for raucous laughter, the hunger for your words—these are the things you have always searched in the time of isolation.

Maybe this is just of those days when you must find bliss in the midst of gloom settling above my being; just like this particular day which happened to me before.

Okay, pardon me for the tendency of being too sweeping when it comes to misery but I admit I miss the days when sheaves of little rectangular plastics were skillfully dealt with snickers and gossips upon the table where l gathered them and searched for the lonely King of Hearts. That's all.

strange coincidence


A heart
can only be a heart
if it knows
how to maintain
the blood that lives to it
and let go
of the same fluid
when needed
or when it is ineffective.


It must accept that
it can never keep
that enters into its
walls perpetually.

-written last Feb. 14, 2007 (2:24pm)

I made this poem last year, on the month of February. Well, I just made it up for the sake of flowing along with the whimsicalities of the season, the sweet-nonsense flittering in the air. That was it—no more, no less. It must be the loss of the “advantage” of not having someone to celebrate the date with that I suddenly came up with this poem but, nevertheless, it was a fair work. But upon further studying this work today, as I stumbled on this old post when I scanned this blog, I just realized I must be a seer. Right now, I have to fully internalize that the heart “can never keep anything that enters into its walls perpetually.”

Yes, I do believe that pain is inevitable and misery is only optional but how do you determine which is which when everything in you is so blurred? As of the moment, I am still looking forward to that day when smiles are supposedly meant to be used for its appropriate purpose. Advance Valentines, everyone.

Thursday, February 07, 2008


"The aging ships, the noisy thin children, the wind-beaten birds, the graying pier, everything seemed to be in constant harmony to how she felt. As the sun slowly shed its final set of rays as it dipped into the sea making it illuminate with some sickly orange glow, May continued to sit for a few minutes and waited for her friend. Late again, she mumbled to herself. Suddenly, cold tears ran down on her face. In the middle of things, while facing the sea, she thought she could never go on like this being wedged in the center of all trouble. Hours of confusion turned to days, days turned to weeks, and then weeks turned to months. While waiting for her friend, it made her particularly more miserable that even in calendars she was stuck between April and June."

-an excerpt from a longer work