the rant as a generic political campaign against discomfort

Ideas, as many a mind produces, are worthless if stale. They rot, ill with boredom, and remain uninspired that only divine intervention could take them out of mental limbo. And here I am, neither stuck in the open spaces of ingenuity nor in the confines of incapacity. Just there in the middle, flotsam-like, moving along the grains with no effort.

It doesn’t feel good.

To complain would be the worst thing to do, especially that in order to sustain the earthly things materializing in front of me twice a month, I just have to sit all day long until spiders visit me and build houses inside my head. To request, on the other hand, seems to be too coercing and besides, I once requested a minor change in the system and it took weeks to see the currents moving. Wait! It should be take weeks, present tense, because until now the waiting continues.

So what’s left right now, if ever I do have possible choices, is to yield. To Yield. Just do what’s supposed to be done and the waters will carry on, ebbing smoothly into the vast unknowns. Belch! Sorry, this food has bad aftertaste.*

See, there’s the fight against putting taxes on Coca Cola drinks in the US, the father beheaded by his own mentally-deranged son in Capiz, the tandem of Manny Villar and Willie Revillame for president and vice-president respectively in the coming elections, the skyrocketing sales of Dan Brown’s latest recycled popcorn, the upcoming December issue cover of Oprah Winfrey’s O magazine with Ellen Degeneres on it, the personal mission of finding the perfectly-structured white button-down shirt, and most of all, the movie of Vilma Santos with John Lloyd Cruz and Luiz Manzano as a gay couple, but why am I here? Why am I thinking like television reruns, like used underpants, like soap suds on the bathroom floor? Stone me to death but I repeat, why am I here?

Batuhin mo man ako ng bato o tinapay,

tatanggapin ko, wag lang crac…

I am not compelled to keep this abstract burden rested on my shoulders but let’s just see what happens next. Three more months or, if I can still hold on to my patience and sanity, intact and functioning, nine more and then off I will fly away to rainbow’s end. As of now, I am as stale as yesterday’s breakfast rice.

*clears throat at the side

see it for yourself

“Then you might see it,
but you won’t believe it…”
- Stranger to the Eyes of a Child-Man, The Republic Tigers


1. Bash
Last Thursday night, the traffic seems to be the least concern for most people going to NBC Tent. You know, for a small event that’s called the Cosmopolitan Bachelor Bash 2009, I guess it is not hard to set this problem aside. Samantha Echavez, who works for the Cosmo magazine, has invited me to this annual event ever since we’ve met in Iligan City. I turned her down before. But this time the bash can’t be missed. After all, I live minutes away from the spot and get to veer away from the humdrum of my daily office routine. The sights are strange but pleasant, and I guess I need them.

2. Spectacles
If you think this post has got nothing more to say, well, stop reading. This one goes for the pedestrian: I am wearing glasses now (cue: release the confetti). Yes, I am wearing one as of the moment, many thanks to the computer monitor that I make love with nine hours a day. But it has no grades. I visited the ophthalmologist two weeks ago to check what was wrong with my eyes; they’re aching, gritty, and always dry (sometimes, before I go to sleep at night, tears would crawl from my cheeks even though I am not feeling melodramatic). After taking a few tests with the doctor, I was given this radiation filter specs. He said I am just experiencing eye-strains so he recommended me to wear something for protection, not for treatment. With my retainers and braces, now someone’s looking like a real nerd.

3. Splash
The “Ber” months have just arrived without prior notice, starting with the appearance of wet September. Like an episode taken out from the pages of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel, the surroundings are all grey, muddy, damp and cold—the exact opposite of a sunny but dusty, dry and humid day. But honestly, I prefer the latter. I am not living in Tagbilaran or Dumaguete any more, where every distance of one place to another can easily be covered with a few tsinelas steps. Yes, this is futile because I am complaining against nature, but this is basically what the rage in my head is all about: I miss you, guys!

patambling muna ha?

"Sorry ha, pero mukha kang
fashion designer kaysa writer."

OK, I will still take that as a compliment.