original judgment

I’ll write you a poem
that praises you so well
it’ll glow in the dark.
—from “Cliff Top, East Coast,” Norman MacCaig


You and I are made
To judge each other:
Your lips are unbeautiful,
Away from mine.
And you would say,
Your face is no light
Without my sun of a heart,
One that will make you
Glow, burn restless
Like ember. I will hate you
For this, hate you
Like arrows, points sleek
Dug deep in targets
Crimson red and round.
I could say that everything
Of you is a wilted petal,
A disappointment
To the promise of blossoms.
You could hate me next,
Bring fire and brimstone
To the filth of my words.
But I could not muster
The strength of stones
To break us apart.
Because, still, you and I
Are made to judge each other:
You do not deserve this.
You deserve neither praise
Nor poem but a truth like love
That cries and glimmers for you.

the phantoms of a saturday

Two Saturdays ago, last September 22, I got to see Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical, “The Phantom of the Opera,” with my mother and sisters at the Main Theatre of the Cultural Center of the Philippines. It was something that I have expected—elaborate production, arresting acts, melodies indelible you would hum them again and again after the show. Even the famous chandelier did not fail to make an impression.

 

In this age of increasingly improving stereoscopy and high definition, the theater remains to be a stubborn art form. Though it maintains a narrative that could be both bizarre and recognizable, its telling resists the comfortable conventions of other fields of entertainment. It aims to amaze us with larger-than-life characters, impress us with excess, sometimes offer us as the audience a winking message (breaking the fourth wall) while at the same time ground us to the basic core of many stories—the human condition. Thus the theater is always unique in every experience.

 

If you seek entertainment at its purest, the theater wouldn’t disappoint. Nothing is more life-like and demanding of its gorgeous rawness than a performance on stage. (Note: the musical is extended until October 14 in the Philippines).

 

 

*

 

“It’s just a number.”

Such was the response I got from a question on how it felt like to be 26, also, two Saturdays ago, just hours before the celebrant’s birthday party. If it weren’t for a philosophy that I had clung on years ago, that numbers do not really matter, I would instantly be perplexed or insulted by this answer.

 

 

But the thing was, at the present moment, the answer stung the way how one is perplexed and insulted. It was refreshing to be dowsed (again) in this wave of optimism. Because, strangely, a year after college, I could always remember my age on application forms, registration cards, raffle tickets, and whatnots compared to years past wherein I had to do some mental backtracking or ask someone when faced with an imposing “AGE: ____.”

 

Now, age is like a phantom hiding in plain sight, always at the ready to sneer and ridicule when reminded of its actuality. Who do you want yourself to be? What have you done? What are you doing? Where are you going? Why just now? How?

 

The questions just keep on rolling. And the article “What Savings Rate You Need When Starting at Age 15, 25, 35 and 50” in TIME magazine last week was more of a downer than a booster. In an attempt to remain composed by the celebrant’s quick answer, I repeated his words. Yes. It’s just a number. As if it’s a mantra that could change lifetimes once uttered.
 

 

*

A few hours after the birthday party’s friendly ruckus and merrymaking, the phantom of ambiguity fled away. Around three in the morning the following day, some things were made clear. And for the following days, the goal is to make them clearer. It is the best way to go.

a recollection borne out of a weekend at the beach and other instances

September 14, 05:21pm
Grey clouds in the sky seemed to burst anytime soon, traffic on all major roads building up. But there was no stopping this. I finally arrived at point of destination, with a packed bag, with anticipation to see you and all. Messages and calls were unanswered. Anticipation waned with every passing minute that moved like turtle. I waited a little bit more.

September 14, 09:40pm
Our glasses were half-empty, the buckets of ice and beer perspiring as if human, as if tense under the faint yellow lights that illumined our faces. We were both good at hesitation. You had histories better left unheard but you spilled a few anyway, spilled some words. I listened, gathered them, embraced them. Accidents do happen, but they won’t be as frequent as we fear them to be if we know where to go, how all of this will go. And then you sang a Coldplay song.

September 15, 06:30am
The clouds relieved itself all over the metro since yesterday. Despite the rains that flooded once again the streets of Manila, as if this country couldn’t get enough of rain, there was no stopping this. This day was a promise of good things to come. The 22nd birthday of Mars must be held at the beach. Matabungkay, Batangas was our last resort, and I wished it wouldn’t be our last trip together.

September 15, 08:30am
We remember a lot. Old jokes, old stories, old friends with common quirks, common pratfalls of uncommon men. We were in for a long ride, approximately three hours on the road, 120 kilometers or so. We downed two or three bottles of liquor inside the van. Except for the excessive drinks and drugs, we were like characters in a Jack Kerouac novel, like we were having the time of our lives.

September 15, 10:10am
You spilled some words. And I listened, gathered them. But this time I couldn’t embrace them. They felt loaded, and there was an echo in them I was not ready to hear, especially in the company of other people. These words were jagged, hard as nails, potent as poison to the mind of a cynic. And I am one of those raised with the mind of one. I have always been good at jumping to conclusions. For instance: I believe the shell of a turtle is a lonely place.

September 15, 02:50pm
Silence had always been my default weapon of choice. And you mimicked me, and it worked for you so well. My heart did a slow clap not out of admiration but in fear of an encore.

September 15, 07:30pm
It was a day of good things to come, but like practicing poetry, like organizing major events, like copywriting, like gracing the television screen with charm, like being there for each other, blowing things out of proportion must be one of our hidden talents. It shouldn’t have started that way, more so ended that way, but things became uncontrollable. Accidents do happen. Above the din of karaoke music, I continued breaking every pack of ice on the wall as if it was therapy.

September 15, 10:35pm
When push comes to shove, we know the right words to say. It has always been that easy. We could have a whole arsenal of reasons why we do what we do, but that night they were not enough. “[E]asy is not always right./ Not even enough. To ignore complexity/ is to question the generosity of the sky.//”

September 16, 02:40am
The winds and rain were howling with us, crying at the night as long and convoluted as the events taking place: emptying a bottle of whiskey, repeating a Coldplay song, breaking an umbrella, scarring and bruising our skin. A few feet away from this picture, there was a rain-drenched person by the gate, there was a person tear-drenched in bed. And then there was silence.

September 16, 10:15am
An apology was dropped and a grunt was its response. It could have a multitude of meanings, and I prefer the bright, positive ones. Outside, chips were strewn all over the place, bottles crowded on a table, glasses tipped on their sides like fishes out of water, gasping for air. This must be the aftermath of a storm we were not prepared of. And for a rest house close to the beach, we ironically ran out of water.

September 16, 03:40pm
We remember a lot. And like masters of theater breaking the fourth wall, we laughed at the disasters both natural and unnatural. We always tend to believe or show no storm could weather our spirits, but deep inside I think otherwise. This is one of the many errors I’ve grown accustomed to: Don’t believe it, think otherwise. I thought it was the best moment to think otherwise.

September 16, 08:25pm
We finally reached the city. I have always been good at jumping to conclusions: Manila was not spared with a minute of dryness the other day. I was right. Some parts of Makati were waist-deep in flood water, and possibly neck-high in frustration. We changed routes to avoid sinking deeper into unnecessary anxieties.

September 17, 01:30am
“There is no such thing as friends; we’re just together.” You heard this already, I told you a few days ago, but I had the feeling it made you all the more fretful after hearing it yourself from a friend. You just smiled like you always do. It had always been your default weapon of choice. And I mimicked you, but it didn’t work that well. Somewhere in the last remaining spots of green in the city, a turtle slipped back in its shell, the hard rain pounding on its back.

September 17, 08:45pm
We were both good at hesitation. We never really say what we truly want to say. And this is one way of learning poetry: Listen.

September 17, 10:20pm
“You’re lucky to have them,” you said, “as your friends.” I said yes. It’s true. But in my head I thought I am more than that. I am blessed. But I remain unsure if they do, too. We have fears and questions becoming stranger by the minute. This is one of the errors I’ve grown accustomed to.

the inventory of lost possessions

As if the grueling journey to Old Manila was not enough, me and my acquaintance’s beloved were lost last Saturday. Forever. One was Baki and the other one was Monroe. That we had names for them made the loss even more profound.

The former, actually, was a three-year old Canon Powershot SX200IS (but I had to shell out almost ten grand a few months ago to have it repaired) and the latter a six-month old Apple iPhone 4S. All gone. In less than 24 hours. What a way to start the long weekend.

Regardless of their age and monetary worth, it was their intrinsic value and history (short-lived or not) in our lives that we will certainly miss. After all, it is not every day that you get to unwittingly leave a camera in a taxi or have a thief pick through your bag in a rock concert.

I’ve had a fair amount of items lost last year, but try as I might to keep myself from committing the same blunder again, shit happens, and every bite of its actuality is as painful as the last. To spare anyone from bouts of self-loathing, I will deem the detailed background of how these things go poof as irrelevant.

Though ‘materialistic’ would be an easy category for me and my friend to fit in, the absence of these gadgets are honestly heartbreaking. Yes, I have driven this point home early on, but for a man who just has to document wherever and whenever he can and for a woman whose profession and lifestyle require stable connectivity, it really is.

Many would probably say that ours is mostly a generation dependent on technology, infatuated with things new, mechanical, appealing with life-like glow, and that we somehow exist with a symbiotic relationship with them. While that holds a thimble of truth, I and the rest who could attest with me believe that it is not entirely the case.

It is often viewed that technology, especially the ones that attract to the young crowd, perpetuates cultural degradation, narcissism, and a whole class of psycho-sociological studies worthy of a sci-fi or horror flick.

What is rarely considered though, if not dismissed altogether, is that our embrace for these products is a way of showing the progress of days the middle finger, saying, “Hey! I can keep up with you!” or “I am seeing and meeting them no matter what!” or “I know better than you do!”

With something as small as a camera or a phone, we gain this power to frame a moment, share an experience. How amazing is that?

Ironically, it is through this that we are reminded of our being human, that even with the clicks and presses and swipes that seem to dominate our lives, we are, in fact, in control of them. Call it denial—denial to time, denial to societal disconnectedness, denial to mortality—but I would call it living in the now. It could be as simple as that, it could be not.

But for now, allow me this short period of mourning. I will let this loss shroud me for a while and, of course, let it subside. Absence still is absence. Soon, I will bring myself to the nearest gadget store. As you know, I could replace Baki, my acquaintance could replace Monroe, and that’s how the two of us would prove we are still in control. Do not worry, we still are.

the test dream

1.

These days, I’m back again to remembering my dreams. But before anyone could slam this down as a review of ambitions and rousing inventories of B.S., let me be clear that I am referring to that reel playing in your head when you are asleep—snoring optional.

Just today, without disclosing too much, I could recall last night’s story and set of images that includes a full moon, a pig pen, a high-ceilinged bedroom, a mattress, a clump of hair, a pale blue plastic barrel, a sunny morning, and dirty fingernails among many other things.

There is a narrative that strings them all, surprisingly logical, but what I could not work out is how all of these come together. Where did that come from? Why did it turn out that way?

If studies or theories are to be considered, that dreams are manifestations of desires and anxieties, then I suppose I am an alien in this planet. Such want and concern have no place in a world obsessed with expectations, order, and the elusive happy ending.

Strangely enough, dreams in our sleep further make a mockery of our dreams—of which, this time, I mean objectives, aspirations, targets. Put the fluidity and randomness of a dream next to a goal, and the latter would definitely pale in comparison based on truthfulness alone. What you are aiming at would look like a joke.

Why? As much as we want a straight, smooth path, life never has one and never will, its roads and paths and alleyways all crooked, forking, steep or narrow. Just like a dream, it is damn irregular. That is why.

For all our pessimism about how shockingly unrealistic events and people could be, about how we think our problems and privileges are worse and better than anybody else’s, it seems we are all goofing around. Real life is one, long hallucinatory ride, and there is no jumping off this train. Unless.

2.

Speaking of unrealism, I don’t get why someone could complain how unrealistic movies can be. An acquaintance who has seen Tony Gilroy’s The Bourne Legacy shares to the world (she tweeted her thoughts) that she is a bit disappointed because it is “funny” and “unrealistic.”

Funny, yes, it has its comedic moments, especially the punchline-worthy revelation of the Philippines as a crucial destination for our runaway black op member. But unrealistic? It is not a perfect film, but that raised an eyebrow.

We let slip in our collective suspension of disbelief the orcs in The Lord of the Rings trilogy, the spell-casting wands in the Harry Potter flicks or the biceps bursting in The Expendables, therefore we must not question the skill-enhancing drugs, the feverish chase, or the unlimited bullets fired in The Bourne Legacy. And above all, we must not compare the Manila in the film to the Manila we know. Remember, there’s what you call the power of editing. Like some divine gift, everything’s possible: Crash your motorcycle somewhere in Pasay and cruise next on Palawan waters in seconds!

The point is unrealism is vital to a movie. It fascinates, entertains, and brings a jumble of emotions in a viewer—whether good or bad is another story. Unrealism makes us evaluate our own reality, see what works and won’t, while feasting on the improbability-made-possible through filmmaking techniques. In some ways, a movie is an accomplished dream on screen.

So next time, dear moviegoer, never bring up unrealism as a cinematic issue. If the urge is too hard to resist, just settle with the documentaries on History Channel or National Geographic.

3.

When I can faintly recall a dream upon waking, I try to squeeze out every trace of it from my head, summon the cohesiveness that starts to materialize, and write all of it swiftly on paper, in the phone or the iPod. Every passing second is an open window for distraction, so it has to be done fast. This week alone, I manage a record of two accounts. Though they resemble less of a nightmare, I could not say they are the sweetest of dreams either. If this is a motif that would stretch on until the next few days, then allow me to say my apologies now for being as dour as ever.

4.

Contrary to popular belief, almost all of my dreams are vividly colored. Almost, because I remember one from four years ago that is in sepia. Yes, a freaking, Instagramic sepia.

5.

I’ve just suggested to someone to watch The Sopranos because it remains my all-time favorite, because I think it is one of the best products of pop-culture ever made, and because I think people better waste their time on something that does not waste their time at all. (Another example: reading).

One of the episodes of this six-season serial drama that revolves around the life of an Italian-American mobster is entitled “The Test Dream.” David Chase, writer of this particular episode, (and also the series’ creator and executive producer) explains in an interview that the title “refers to the dreams where an individual turns up late for a test in school and is wearing no clothing, meaning that the person is unprepared for a test or another task they have to face.”

It is a fine episode, as usual. And that’s all I’ve got to say. Just watch the show.

6.

If this is not a test dream, am I prepared for this?

just another excuse

Not much writing has been done lately. Reading is even shamelessly stalled in the meantime. Blame that to the weather and the television shows, “Community” and “Happy Endings” (especially the former). Comedies in general often fail to tickle me, so when I first reacted to the two the way I should supposedly be reacting to humor upon first viewing, I could not let them go. Please forgive me of my weaknesses. Also, this entry is another form of stalling (when I am supposed to be writing). I must get back to my drafts. But first, I need to see that new episode. Bye.

birthday wishes

I rarely speak of wishes, save for my wanton requests of presents for people who have the means to provide them. Yes, I am that kind of person, now judge me. As I lay in bed the other day, sick and sore on my birthday of all days, thanks to the flu or some kind of bug, random aspirations whirred before my eyes like some Egyptian vision, Hollywood-style. There are a lot more that have sprung in my head, but these are all I could recall right now:

• I wish desires are never severe.
• I wish I would know what to do with this hair.
• I wish I would start memorizing a poem in each month.
• I wish my dearest loves would have faith in a poem.
• I wish I would have faith in myself, bright and constant.
• I wish my dearest loves would curse a little bit less, if not entirely shun the habit altogether.
• I wish my dearest loves would smoke a little bit less, if not entirely shun the habit altogether.
• I wish my dearest loves would read and write more other than curse and smoke more.
• I wish I would start my own book, as what J.T. has said.
• I wish I would finish reading those books.
• I wish I would find something better soon.
• I wish I would find someone better soon.
• I wish I would be a better person.
• I wish I would be less frank.
• I wish people would be frank.
• I wish I would be healthier.
  
• I wish I would find the right reason that I should smile a lot more.
• I wish I would be good at remembering names.
• I wish I would be good at remembering directions.
• I wish I know where I want to go.
• I wish I know where to look.
• I wish people would be more perceptive.
• I wish people would be honest at the right place, at the right time.
• I wish people would be more respecting of each other.
• I wish people would know what needs to be kept and what needs to shared.
• I wish the ghosts would transfer to another house, to another memory.
• I wish memory would be less invasive.
• I wish I would be more humble.
• I wish my grip on forgiveness would be less unbending.
• I wish I would smile a lot more (if needed).
• I wish I would finally start learning how to play a musical instrument. (Piano-widow doesn’t count).
• I wish I would keep some of my complaints to myself.
• I wish people would just shut up.
• I wish I would travel a lot more.
• I wish I would read a lot more.
• I wish I would write a lot more.
• I wish I would stop thinking that something is wrong.
• I wish I would know when to stop.
• I wish I would know when to start.
• I wish I would accomplish something very significant soon.
• I wish for a month of zero discontent at the soonest time possible.
• I wish everyone a month of zero discontent.
• I wish all of us would relish this month of zero discontent.
• I wish my thoughts are bearable.
• I wish the world is fine, bearable.
• I wish the thought of you is bearable.
• I wish you are fine, always.

perennially lonely

The entire weekend could have ended with a ho-hum sigh of discontent if not for an invitation to an art fair somewhere in Makati. After I handed my broken, beloved camera to its service center (which begs for a different post) late Saturday afternoon, I met up with Sara, ogle at quirky things in the said gathering of buyers and sellers, until both of us thought we have better things to do. Like have a couple of drinks and talk about better things to do.

In the course of the night, Yas from Alabang joined us at a pub near SaGuijo, a café-cum-bar wedged in the maze of San Antonio Village. Eva was supposed to be with us but she had “spiels” to do, Sam was practicing how to drive (and joy-riding the entire night), and Philip was happily in love and could not even respond to our calls. Also, someone long thought to be a ghost of the past apparated from somewhere nearby. The latter was a proof of the dangers of proximity. It all happened, unplanned, but it was nonetheless charming. I guess spontaneity is that one rare gem of occasions.

To commemorate the 555th post of this schizophrenic blog, here are some of the things that make up our banter:

• How a broken compass works as embodied by a person who does not want to read maps.
• How camera repair service costs as much as a new camera.
• How a camera is needed in every occasion.
• How a camera captures what you miss in the blur of an occasion.
• How people could have beautiful cars at such a young age.
• How people do not want to have beautiful cars in a lifetime.
• How that long weekend in June could be the perfect opportunity for trying out that new car.
• How people need a beautiful beach in every vacation.
• How rhum becomes the training ground for beginners in a little city somewhere in the Visayas.
• How most of us face a computer for hours at work.
  
• How sub-zero beer works like magic.
• How three bottles of beer could get you an extra-large shirt.
• How a family name could scatter all over the country.
• How a name could sound truly Filipino based on semantics, syntax, and pak! factor.
• How a name could be pretentious.
• How a name, a face of the person behind that name that is plastered on a book , which is edited by the person with that name could be the ultimate form of pretentiousness.
• How that could be a result of miscommunication and graduation gift surprises.
• How artifice and pretention could easily make an event.
• How artifice and pretention differ from art and preservation.
• How some people need to attend the annual Cosmopolitan Bachelor Bash.
• How some people need to attend the annual FHM’s 100 Sexiest Women.
• How saddening it could be when a friend who organizes or sponsors these two events forgets to give you your VIP pass.
  
• How cigarette differs from electronic cigarette.
• How an electronic cigarette could only provide a thin feel of smoke.
• How nicotine makes you addicted to cigarette.
• How nicotine gum fails at replacing the cigarette.
• How a climb to Mount Pulag, Luzon’s highest peak, makes you regret of smoking cigarettes.
• How a climb could be risky.
• How people take risks.
• How people should take risks more often.
• How people keep themselves away from risks.
• How people see themselves as risks.
• How any small house, dilapidated or not, could be a venue for emerging, indie bands.
• How doing so could further establish one’s indie cred.
• How reconnecting with an old acquaintance sparks new connections.
• How reconnecting with an old-recent(?) acquaintance sparks something more than connection.
• How connections should have never been established in the first place.
• How social media hide in a veil of goals to connect people.
• How social media perpetuate a culture of delays, especially in writing.
• How social media sate our human desire to be liked, mentioned, relevant, on the loop.
• How social media could be a seed for art.
• How art should always be separated from religion even if it touches on one.
• How limiting and selfish one’s take on art could be.
• How artists should be torchbearers of production and not polarization.
• How polarization could be a fuel for production.
• How many workshops need funding, as usual.
• How plagiarism could be a result of subconscious idolization of the text being read.
• How idolization blurs the line between praise and indolence.
• How much themes could business owners think to refresh their line of motels.
• How motels could offer perks with a frequenter’s card. For example, an umbrella.
• How dental braces perfect and ruin a smile.
• How longganisa tastes like when dipped in soup.
• How a face registers to other people, as exemplified by this concern: “I hope he finds someone. Gusto ko siya makitang happy. Parang perennially lonely itong batang ‘to.”

And that, people, is how good friends who have never seen each other in a long time talk and backstab at each other from five o’clock in the afternoon to five o’clock in the morning. Yes, we are varsity players in this game of talking too much without really saying that much. Or so it seems.

the lost verve in reading

It is gone, I think. That fiery wanting to finish whatever you’ve got to do just to pull that one book from the shelf, a box, the bed, inside a drawer, and crack it open to get immersed in its milieu, its characters’ psyches, or simply its wondrous wrought imagination. In my elementary days, there is the Harry Potter series by Jo Rowling. In high school, there are Jonathan Stroud’s The Bartimaeus Trilogy and Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. In college, there are Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s The Shadow of the Wind, and Yann Martel’s The Life of Pi.

Typically an enumeration of commercial literature in their respective times, but this is indeed the handful of books that have caught me in a hook like pleasurable traps of the mind. After the education years, I find myself speculating are the books available today repellent to my taste? Or has my taste gotten so much low and ancient it repels the books available today? Or have I just lost the interest in reading? I fear for all three, of course. Partiality, at times, must be feared.

Yes, there are the short story collections Feast and Famine by Rosario Cruz Lucero and Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri. There is Emma Donoghue’s Room. Maybe even Miguel Syjuco’s Ilustrado, for its ambitious take on steering as far away as possible from the tropes of what represents a work of Philippine literature. The premise of each calls for vigilant curiosity, and I have gladly taken the demands of the text. There are hits and misses but nevertheless they are all interesting.

But none of these has offered me that pull, that incessant voice in the head, that gravity synonymous of what a crazed lover possesses for his object of affection. I have tackled them on and off, stretch each for days on end, unlike those that I have read in my school years where the pages fly by.

Recently, I have expected to reawaken this sensation with the massively publicized doorstopper that is Haruki Murakami’s 1Q84. His short stories are fascinating, and many I know religiously adore his previous novels. But like many expectations, it is but a spark from a little matchstick. The interest comes and then in it goes, instantly. The tome now sits next to a pile of other scorned books.

Aside from the three speculations that are mentioned earlier, I come up with other factors, or should I say, excuses: Is it time? Anxiety? Diminishing attention span? Distraction? Exhaustion? With television, cinema, internet, smartphone, and a slew of other technological advancements, have I been culturally desensitized, becoming callous, mechanical?

The hypothesis is a bitter pill: It could be everything.

I guess I simply miss the symbiotic devotion that comes with the activity: I have to read, the book has to be read. All is well. With no clear answers to the questions that have bombarded me as early as six this morning, I might as well pick up another book and see where it takes me.

And I hope it would be a joyful ride.

the october project (otherwise known as 'why being out of the radar is particularly needed')

I am overwhelmed by its power of persuasion. One must login, one must update, one must share. Regularly. If not, you are of least significance to the (net/cit)izen. Of course, that is, or more appropriately, could be the whole point. Facebook, the social networking site with a number of users close to a billion, is a tool for communication, and a tool only works when there’s a hand that controls it. In retrospect, I willingly dipped my hands back in 2007 and I was amazed, maybe even inspired, to its apparent seamlessness and the brilliance one often sees in something novel like any technological breakthroughs.

Until last month.

The site is a victim of a constant facelift, changing with the times, encouraging more people to try it, but the entire experience I have first felt almost four years ago has lost its novelty. Rather, it is now (exhaust/annoy)ing. It is a chore visiting the welcome page alone. The tool is working me, maybe even working us without our knowledge.

And this is not without a couple of reasons.

It takes a huge chunk of our time, we only realizing it when we witness our live newsfeeds and walls being rarely updated no matter how many times we hit the refresh button. And that Ticker Box is out of the question. One might say, like many other sites, it is not a matter of “must” but of “can,” yet I stand on the idea that we are actually all bound to the former instead of the volitional and decisive “can” since even the suggestion that we could self-regulate is an excuse brought about by the desires of “must.”

In our attempts to slake this desire, we have become too willing, too agreeable. Because of this we are (allowed/faced) with a bombardment of personal trivialities. Then strangely enough we become more skeptical of the people we are trying to connect to: Is he for real? Does she really have to say that? Why do people like that post? Why do people not like my post?

We have delved far into the virtual (bio/togo)graphy of relationships it makes it hard to scale back to the very core of what this apparatus (is/should be) all about: the human connection. Real, honest, flawed. In social networking sites, everyone (tries to be/is) perfect. Thus, the distances and alienation are much more felt despite of how frequent we interact with each other—whether through messages, chats, status updates, photo comments, likes—because our very own errors, defects, and blemishes (are/could be) magnified, subsequently stoking our inner shame, spreading like wildfire.

Once again, this sheds light on the fact that everything is not what it seems to be. Nothing is quite sensible, nothing is quite true.

And in this site’s hodgepodge of opinion and information circulating from point A to point B to points CDEFG, everything is instant, expected to be instant. That is why even when a message is delayed, deferred, or not sent at all, one easily wonders: Why is he missing in action? Is there something I do not know? Have I done something wrong?

It is easy to say we have unconsciously bred a culture of impatience, planted a seed of anxiety on the very wrong soil. As a tool for communication, a social networking site works effectively. But as tool for understanding the human condition, it falls smack on the ground limp.

And this is not what I need. I think I already have enough messages sent, received, and unre(ciproca/qui)ted. To put it more bluntly, missing some things and most specially someone is a one-way effort. It drains you.

That is why I am on a hiatus. My goal, I insist to believe, is to discipline my primate wanting for connection, information, and even attention. I have deactivated my Facebook account since October 6. I am on indefinite leave on Twitter since October 9. To further underscore this attempt, I actually cutoff my regular text-messaging of rough verses or lines of pseudo-poetry to all contacts in my cellphone way before the aforementioned sites. I stop sending last October 3.

More than a month has passed.

Unsurprisingly, the concerns, the wonderings, and the speculations of the absence mostly settle on one matter: Why are you not on Facebook?! How come you’re silent in Twitter?! Where are you in these sites?! Yes, the interrobangs in there are throbbing. As for the text-messages, the worry is close to none. What surprises me is that this little percentage comes from the unlikeliest of people.

Not that I am expecting a landslide of interest to the latter. After all, Literature versus The Websites is an altogether different story. It deserves another discussion.

Amidst these overblown ruminations, I have come to one conclusion that lately I am easily overwhelmed not only of the nuances of Facebook or Twitter but of things as small and delicate as silence, among many others, could easily break (anyone/us/me) apart.

small notes of a big trip

Traveling can be an excuse to escape the humdrum of anything that you’ve been currently in (unless, of course, you’re lucky and happy on where you’re currently in). But that might be the point of it all. Traveling, local or not, gives us the momentary thrill and newfound sense of familiarity of discovering foreign tastes, places, and people. Or basically the exact opposite of things we relentlessly complain about.

That is why from March 31 to April 3, the usual culprits grab their packed bags and put on their happy-joy-joy smiles, all giddy for the B.I.G. trip (that’s Bacolod-Iloilo-Guimaras for us who love to put a silly spin on our expeditions). But for such a short period of time, especially for three major destinations, we only had little snippets of experiences of the spots visited.

I am not particularly sure with the rest of my peers but the experience altogether is sufficient for the writing project I’ve been brewing on for the last couple of months. Yes, a personal project that involves a lot of traveling and a lot of cashing out, so that makes me half-mature for discipline and half-juvenile for indulgence. And for all the Amazing Race jaunting we had just to cover every inch of every new territory (for some), here is what I have got to say:

Bacolod

It’s still the same, the last time I have visited it eleven months ago, and the first time four years ago. There is a changed degree of busyness in the streets but the blanketing quietude is still there. A companion wondered where all the skyscrapers are. Fact one: despite the absence of tall buildings and towering billboards, Bacolod is one thriving city of cultural and business progression in Negros Occidental. And for me, fact two, the place is all about food. For our budgeted time, we had to settle to Chicken House for their inasal, Café Bob’s for their disturbingly reasonable top-notch coffee drinks, and Calea, of which it never failed in making me a sucker for their cakes and pastries. Hands down it’s one of the best.

After all the food binging, off we went to Talisay City’s The Ruins. Since no amount of sun-dance could bring the fiery sun out of the clouds, we remained thankful that the day did not offer us rain instead. (Fact three: locals shared that we were lucky—days and weeks before we arrived the province was washed in almost-ceaseless downpour, morning until evening). Story of the skeletal grand house replayed in my head but our guide, who was supposed to be enjoying his day-off if not for our timely appearance, is a comedic historian in a positive way. We listened to Roger, who impeccably pronounced his name as ‘Row-Jhur,’ even if I heard it all in the past. Time was running fast, so we purchased our mandatory pasalubong at Bong-Bong’s before rushing on to our next trip.

Guimaras

Though Iloilo supposedly followed in the chronology of our B-I-G Trip, we only got to linger in this city for a couple of minutes, in transit for the moment. But after our stay in Guimaras, we will have Iloilo City all by ourselves for one night and one morning before we all fly back to Manila.

We arrived at Guimaras’s Jordan Wharf in the Municipality of Jordan (it’s not a joke, though they articulate it as ‘hor-dan’) in the early afternoon of April 1. Between our twenty-to-thirty minute ride via multicab to Kenyama Beach Resort, we stopped over at a local dry market to raid boxes upon boxes of the island province’s world-famous mangoes. And here’s one important tip for future visitors: make sure the fruit stall where you’ll be buying your mangoes has a license or permit of something. This way you can assure yourselves of the sweetest carabao mangoes that appeared on the pages of the Guinness Book of World Records in 1995.

Not to dampen anyone’s spirits but one has to be as compliant as ever when it comes to accommodations. Some resorts basically had no 24/7 electricity and running water, so ours can be considered luxury at its best. Though the night was always young in Guimaras, seconds moving in turtle pace, we got some shuteye by twelve midnight to visit the white sand beaches in some nearby coves, caves especially one where you can drink water that drips from its stalactites, and the lonely lighthouse that sits on the edge of a cliff. Before six in the evening, we all returned to Jordan Wharf as the sun set, the pier turning gold like the island’s mangoes.

Iloilo

We were back in Iloilo, and I have never seen a province, or a city at that, packed with so much malls and department stores. Imagine, if I am not mistaken, three SM Malls! What is even more interesting to note is that they do not look cramped and crowded like other [over]developed counterparts.

Whether it is due to the looming flight back to Manila or the settling of exhaustion in our bodies, we find that the place seemed to be in a constant rush, people somewhat dressed for a special occasion, with nightlife throbbing at Smallville, a Western Visayas version of Eastwood City, Libis. But no one was complaining. We got to visit one mall for a pair of slippers and a headband, bought another set of pasalubong at Biscocho House, and dined at Ted’s for their piping hot bowl of special batchoy. After a few rounds of drinks at JAQ’s, coffee and buns at KopiRoti (yes, we specifically had to visit this branch in Iloilo), chatter, and more chatter, the grouped returned to Riverside Inn for a much-needed quick nap.

By 6:45 in the morning of April 3, we found ourselves in a plane cabin, all worn out but with smiles on our faces, that rare kind of smile that could only come across in days spent with the right people at the right time. Today’s Thursday, we are back to our office grind.

birthdays are (not) surprising

Rarely does it matter to me, my birthday. If gifts are present (yes, pun intended), I’d gladly receive them. Gifts or no gifts, life moves on, and I just let the great aging world spin on its tired old orbit.

But yesterday unfolded and fulfilled some of my wishes. Whether it was caused by some cosmic malfunction or that the fates were playing tricks on me, all I can say right now is that it is the greatest malfunction or the most arresting trick I have ever experienced or witnessed. Plus after another plus. And days before the birthday, there are some interesting instances too.

Seriously, it was all unbelievable.

Perhaps this is a long overdue reward, a compensation for whatever good I’ve done? Nah, can’t even recall a single case, so let’s scrap that out. (Or cleaning my bedroom windows last weekend counts?). Anyway, I was thankful, because being thankful is better than questioning a blessing. And three of the most cherished gifts I received yesterday (and the days before that) were:

1) Greetings from people that matter to me and those who try to be. It was a given that my parents’ call and messages were important and the top of them all, but there was one thing that stuck out in a positive way: a handwritten letter sent to me through courier. That was quaint and touching.

2) “Weights,” my first ever poem that is not critiqued by a professor or a patient reader, is published in the Philippines Free Press (March 26 issue).

3) “Morning Prayer,” my short fiction attempt at trying to be sacrilegious, of which I eventually change everything save for the first paragraph, is published in the Philippines Graphic (April 2 issue). It just affirms that I should do without blasphemy.

observations

Two weeks ago, with the television turned on the usual primetime news channel circling on the latest crime reports and casualties of typhoon Juan (International Name: Megi), my seven-year-old nephew sat on the couch, eyes looking straight at the screen, and suddenly asked in a loud voice: “Why is there plenty of bad news on the news?” It sounded funny but the question’s thought caught me unprepared for an answer.

*

I went to Subic last weekend, the detoxification deemed extremely necessary. It was late in the afternoon when I arrived in this house to hear a lot of squawking noise in the backyard. I checked it, and to my surprise, there was a flock of green-yellow parrots crowding the branches of a duhat tree (Java Plum). I, of course, couldn’t believe it, but I knew what I saw. They were the same birds that I had once owned, just one though, teaching it how to whistle and say hello. I approached the tree, but with the littlest breaking sound of a twig under my heels, the birds flew, and I wished they stayed to greet my presence a sweet hello. Well, I thought, they are better out there in the sky than in a cage.


*

I was back in the office after a long weekend (but it was not long enough). I could not wait for lunch break so I went out earlier than the rest. I entered the lift with our purchasing department’s supplier at the same time, and noticing me, he cleared his throat and said, “Has someone already mistaken you as Arnel Pineda?” I responded, “You’re the first one!” I was not sure if that was a compliment but I still gave him a smile. It must be the hair. Finally, after countless occasions of being called “ma’am” in malls and restaurants and other public places, I can at least reassure my physiology as being the lead singer of Journey.

twenty plus

“In this hour of acceptance...
I am not seeing what I wanted to see.”
29 March 2008 (SMS sent at 03:14am)

It is just one of those days in each year when one reflects occurring changes around: How does it feel? How do they taste now? What is that scent? Seeing things? Hearing voices?

Pardon for crushing your assumptions on mental struggles, but this is not a case of dementia. I may have numerous outbursts on matters both interesting and not, but I am too young for that. Young. Ah, the word…

How does it feel now?
“Young” seems to be a hobby these days rather than a natural stage in life. If one wants to feel a rush of thrill, go zip-lining. Or if one wants to feel nostalgic, check hundreds of albums in Facebook and satiate those longings. Youthfulness is available right then and there, pronto.

How do they taste now?
If the differentiation is based between the infant days and the now, of course, the distinction is epic. The tongue is an iconoclast now—sweet, sour, salty, and bitter are passé—there are umami, tangy, spicy, and the considerable sixth taste receptor for fat now. And if there’s one thing about taste right at this moment that is deeply relevant, it is the taste of success. Like wine, it enhances as it matures.

What scent is that?
It must be the stink from the cloud of pollution that aims to annihilate the lungs. The practicalities of making a living, after the episodic years of being sheltered in schools, from elementary to college, enforces the privileged man to find his own privileges, five days a week, nine hours a day, in a forest of smoke and scum.

Hearing voices?
Conversations inside the head just keep getting louder and louder. If the ruckus is not enough, another voice joins in from out of nowhere, and the overlapping discussions on pros and cons persist. Day by day, the fight between the logical, the irrational, and the safely unconditional grows bigger. And at this time, it is already Round 28,999.

Seeing things?

Youth is but a chunk of biceps here, a continent of a chest there, and a wad of cash somewhere. Wrinkles? Pond’s age defying cream or Nivea anti-aging skin care can take care of that. With consumable income at hand, one can see the bounties of youth in a blink of an eye (or if it’s through Pond’s or Nivea, in seven weeks). Never has the sin of vanity so highly esteemed and germane, I find the idea cute but strange.

* * *

Year after year, the senses become susceptible even to the littlest details. I do not want to assume that this is brought about from being a year wiser now—I still find that pompous. A year doubtful, perhaps, because I think it is better to be questioning at first than being ostentatiously sharp then outwitted next. Nothing beats the inquisitive mind.

And by the way, birthdays are birthdays. Digging up a glorified meaning in my annual numbers game will always be debatable and subjective. Whatever the turnout is, I am on the affirmative axioms of the optimist side.

Cheers.


(this entry is posted three days earlier since this account will be deactivated on the Day of Taking Another Step on the Flight of Stairs)

shook

After that occurrence that lasted for approximately five seconds (just my estimates), here are some interesting accounts from people that popped up in my cellphone, Twitter and Plurk accounts. These were people who were so immersed in their respective works, not so mindful that some parts of Luzon experienced a 6.1 magnitude quake at 1:29pm this afternoon:

“I was playing a video game while talking to one of the directors of the commission of human rights, and then I felt dizzy.”
- Robert

“…naalis antok ko!”
- Yas

“While listening to Black Eyed Peas, my chair shook back and forth, thinking my officemate was kidding around again, when I saw everyone standing up confused, and I thought, I am in the 38th floor!”
- Jordan (Ako)

“Woot! Earthquake! And I thought it was just me tapping my foot to Telephone.”
- Marck

black and white

These are the events that happened yesterday. Try as I might to whip up as many as I can, I only managed to bring out five things here. Maybe they have more bearing than the motorcycle my brother has lost. But why black and white? It’s self-explanatory—go figure.

1. I enjoyed reading Ricky Lee’s latest work, Para Kay B. The novel’s prose is funny, dialogues are contemporarily street-smart. If it is considered popcorn—meaning it’s enjoyable but keeps you asking for more airy tummy-filler—it is one bucket of popcorn glazed with the best caramel in town. This is only me speaking who has a hard time reading Tagalog literature. You read and decide. (White)

2. Thanks to my Father, my two sisters have new phones. Yes, he is generous but he is the perpetrator of what happened in the bullet that follows this. (White)

3. Two of my beloved companions left me (or more appropriately, forced to leave me). One I grew up with since my elementary days and the other I usually called Tsukoy and would approach me with a healthy meow always at the ready to comfort me. Goodbye to my mimings who, I believe, have witnessed more happenings of the Carnice family than anyone else in the world. (Black)

4. The departure of these two mammals stirred a bad combination of feelings in me, thus, the birth of a five-lined stanza. I am not posting it here yet; it is barely even a poem, and I can never show any works of mine that is young and easy to stumble. I guess I have clearly understood my poetics by now. (Black and White)

5. I am back to my original love: Nokia. After three years of courting Motorola, it finally put everything into an end and proves to me we are never compatible. Well, good luck to this American. I love mine Finish. (White)

parentless

March 13, before Valentine’s Day, was honors day. Luckily, on my fourth year, I still made it to the roster of nanings. You know what a naming is? This is a kind of breed who works very hard to achieve what’s supposed to be achieved for our parents and significant others to be proud of their spent hard-earned monthly salaries. This sounds too negative but positive nevertheless.

But wait. Yesterday, I was lonely. My parents didn’t arrive. Due to weather conditions that troubled daring sea fastcrafts to be slow, my mother and sister went back to their homes in Tagbilaran and called me that they can’t come see me do the walk in the Claire Isabel McGill Luce Auditorium. Their trip was cancelled. Okay, I still have my acquaintances to cheer me up. Well, so much for my anticipation to see mum’s face, complaining about my new hairdo.

And yes, my hairdo. This is a blatant projection of narcissism but I just adore the way people stare at it. I may have a few minutes to show it off on stage (and pat SU President Ben S. Malayang at the back for an inside joke) but the cameras, whispers, cheers, and hollers love me. Eat that you boring people!

Next stop: Graduation day.

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tress adieu

The Bullfrog says goodbye. Not to anyone in particular that you know but to his long dark locks. I bid farewell to my hair. It has been four months, trying out style after style until it is tamed by the splendor of cheap headbands. Yes, the red, black, and white ones. The classics. Though some literally cringe at its sight, I have all the pride in the world to flaunt it, parade it for all the people to see every day. Of course, the hair is everyone’s crowning glory and mine is just as precious. But why cut it? I guess it has its fifteen minutes of fame by now. And I need something new to pull off this February. Yes, something extraordinary, something bizarre. Oh, just wait and see.

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out of site

When was the last time I posted something here? Ages. Yes, ages. I don’t know what to say anymore. My brain is deep-fried! Papers here, university registrar failure there, and plans here, graduation there, I am mentally and physically exhausted that putting in a short blog is one glorious achievement. And the result of such strenuous activities? I am officially an asthmatic after knowing that wheezing sounds in the chest and heavy dark bags under my eyes don’t go well together. This is inaugurated last February 23 in the midst of a commissioned painting exhibit, an upcoming literary folio launching, a responsibility in the forthcoming Arts Month celebration and a tiresome thesis workout. Well, good luck to me. I just wish I could get through this all well and above average.*

*sounding a bit like Darth Vader.

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skeletal

This is not how I look for this brand new year. Actually, it’s the opposite. What is skeletal right now is this paper that I have been trying to work on for the past months. In a few hours, I’ll be back in Dumaguete to face three more months of sharpening and head-knocking before plunging into doom, I mean, plunging into the oh-so “liberating” world of employment. If my paper remains to look like this, I’d probably escape the fate that I might fall in. Good thing? No.

While Rico Blanco is busily screaming about crabs and mechanical rabbits from hell which is then followed by Gnarls Barkley suggesting everyone to run away, I just can’t seem to pull everything in and make a coherent thought out of the chaos floating in my mind. And wait. Never blame Rico and Gnarls for the malnutrition of my project, a project that I must finish before the month of Valentines, because I work more efficiently with noise. For a sole creative writing major in a big university, whose classmates never go beyond the number of seven, it is seriously what I need.

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