In no particular order:
1. The guy that I love. Love is really not all that amazing. But Jeffrey is. Until he pisses me off. Then I would go berserk. Then we would settle things and life is beautiful again. I think that's love. Relationship would never ever be perfect. But the characters in love would always find reasons to hold on.
2. One of my best friends, Jean, who is now in Canada to be with Ilana, the woman she passionately loves. She passed the bar, but she abandoned it anyway in favor of love. Most people would find that foolish. I think it is romantic. Hollywood could still happen. This world would be a much much better place if we have couples like Jean and Ilana.
3. The job which I love but makes me insane even when I am asleep. I might resign soon. I might not. I love my job, there is still a semblance of happiness in the things that I engage into. But the rest is still uncertain.
4. The business which I tried to start with my two close friends. It failed. The moral of the story: don't do something unless you are completely passionate about it, unless you have the full concentration and the bravado to learn its ropes.
5. The new found friends - the MPs. I already have good friends that I would keep for a lifetime. But this bunch is something else. It doesn't matter that I won't ever know the real names of some of them because they have real identities to protect. It's all about respecting choices anyway. They like boys in the same way that I do. They look like regular boys in the same way that I am. We would go out together, but that doesn't mean that we have to do each other. They know the nuts and bolts of our special world. I may be 27 but I still have lots to learn from them.
6. My internet connection at home and my two favorite sites - Lifeout.com and Limewire. With Lifeout, I don't have to go to Colon street to have a dose of porn. I don't have to suffocate my hard disk with porn downloads. Lifeout offers porn for free at such vast quantities 24/7. With Limewire Pro, I now have some hard to find records. Never mind that downloading music is considered illegal. The records available in local record bars are just so limited that newborns might as well believe that music history began when Britney was first slapped in the butt in the delivery room.
7. I visited Lamitan, Basilan. Two weeks later, the marines that guided us were beheaded.
8. The christmas decors that I don't want keep in their boxes this January. Truly, a thing of beauty is a joy forever.
9. The arts exhibit that we organized for the office to raise funds. It reminded me that before I took up political science, I originally wanted to be a fine arts graduate. I might revisit this passion this 2008.
10. The wrong things that I did. No need to enumerate because I don't want my list to reach 100. Hahahaha.
Happy New Year! Welcome 2008! Please be good to me! :-)
Monday, December 31, 2007
JessieRomanticManiac's Film Review
I am a bona fide movie buff. Always has been for years. Given this fact of my life, I am pleasantly compelled to make a review of the movies I have watched. Let me begin with the 12 movies I killed this December. I don't want to go gaga over the historical or technical values of a film as bases for my review. Movies have numerous purposes in our lives and our continually evolving culture. Perfect movies may not necessarily have perfect details, and yet they remain perfect for whatever impact they have on our lives. As such, I drafted my own rating system, as follows:
4 Pink Flowers I would watch this movie over and over and over again!
3 Pink Flowers I might just forget this movie, but hey there are slices of life in here.
2 Pink Flowers Hmmm, yeah. It's okay. And i think the critics and award-giving bodies quite liked this movie, so who am I to disagree?
Flowerless A total waste of my time.
Enjoy my December offering!
A subtler version of The Godfather or The Departed. This one centers on a Russian organized crime family in London. Naomi Watts, as a midwife who delivered a baby supposedly fathered by the organized crime leader, is brilliant as always, while Viggo Mortensen, as the mysterious driver of the family, is viciously amazing that I almost forgot that he used to be Aragorn. The climactic bath house fight sequence should be gruesome, but Viggo, who carried on with the scene without a single square-inch of clothing, made it so bearable to watch. I give this one 3 Pink Flowers.
Cate Blanchett is one of my four all-time favorite actresses alongside Meryl Streep, Kate Winslet and Jodie Foster. As such, even if the screenplay or editing is flawed, a movie could never go wrong if at its center is a very brilliant performer like Cate. This may not be as brilliant as Cate's first tour as the Virgin Queen, but this is still a movie to behold with other icings aside from Cate's talent such as the beautiful costumes and the ruggedly beautiful Clive Owen as Sir Walter Raleigh. This one deserves 3 Pink Flowers.
This Chinese pride of a movie traces the lives of two opera actors whose friendship and professional relationship was greatly disturbed when one of the actors got involved and eventually married a strong and imposing "prostitute," performed by the very beautiful Gong Li. I think this movie is important for two reasons: it provides us with information on modern Chinese history from the years prior to the Japanese occupation to Mao's cultural revolution until the decline of communism; and it also illustrates the existence and subsequent social repression of gay love. However, the movie is so indulgent and overloooong. I hate to do this, but i think this film deserves only 2 Pink Flowers.
I love Kate Winslet. I love Johnny Depp. I love Peter Pan. I love this movie. 4 Pink Flowers. No question about it. By the way, this movie is about the circumstances that inspired playwright James Barry to write Peter Pan.
The first two Harry Potter installments, Sorcerer's Stone and Chamber of Secrets, are definitely much much better than the Prisoner of Azkaban, Goblet of Fire, and this one, Order of the Phoenix. Because I've read the book and there were so many details that were unfortunately omitted in the screenplay. Because the original Albus Dumbledore, Richard Harris, is a much much better actor. And because I have greater affections for Harry, Hermione and Ron as kids than as young adults. But Order of the Phoenix is not really bad, it is still entertaining, and if there is one thing that is very memorable about this movie, it is the young Evanna Lynch who brilliantly portrayed the weirdo Luna Lovegood. Years from now, I would like to watch Evanna tackle roles usually played by Cate, Jodie or Naomi Watts. 2 Pink Flowers would be enough for this movie.
Ratatouille is what great entertainment is all about. And this new Walt Disney / Pixar gem, about a rat who dreams of being a chef, once again fuses all elements of a timeless animated film - live action that breathes with very human life, comedy and drama and suspense, fantastic music and heartwarming fairy tale ending. 4 Pink Flowers. 4 Pink Flowers. 4 Pink Flowers.
Any movie, no matter how flawed in terms of the story, could still be good if blessed with good performances especially by the central character. The Brave One is one those movies and Jodie Foster is one of those actors. Jodie is Erica Bain, a radio program host who had the fortune to be part of a very happy and fulfilled relationship. New York is her home and its environ provide her with the stories that she recreate in her radio program. However, her peace was shattered when she and her boyfriend were senselessly attacked that cost her boyfriend's life and left her emotionally wounded. Justice seems so elusive hence Foster took matters in her own hand. Some praised the unknown vigilante for cleaning the streets of New York while the many who still holds on to the value of due process condemned her acts. The Brave One is a strong morality tale and dissenting opinions may crop up especially from those who don't quite agree with the film's Machiavellian philosophy. Nevertheless, Jodie Foster is a powerhouse and that's reason enough for Jessie to give this movie 3 Pink Flowers.
One of those heist movies populated by brilliant actors - Denzel Washington, Jodie Foster and Clive Owen. I would give this movie 2 Pink Flowers because of Jodie Foster for her terrific turn as a pleasantly vicious power broker Madeline White.
The Insider is a Samson and Goliath kind of movie based on real-life events. Specifically, Jeffrey Wigan played by Russel Crowe, exposed a tobacco company's manipulation of cigarette substances in order to enhance smokers' addiction to nicotine. Strongly believing in Wigan's cause, CBS producer Lowell Bergman played by Al Pacino, stopped at nothing to bring Wigan's story to the public through the US television show, 60 Minutes. Very absorbing, The Insider reminds me of the Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman classic, All The President's Men, which was about the Watergate Scandal. 3 Pink Flowers for The Insider.
In this movie, Nicole Kidman is Silvia Bloome, a South African working as an interpreter in the United Nation's headquarters in New York. One evening, she overhears an assassination plot against Doctor Zuwanie, a corrupt and tyrannical African leader, who may be indicted by the UN for crimes against humanity. Bloome disclosed this information to the UN Secret Service and subsequently Sean Penn's Tobin Keller is assigned to protect Zuwanie as well as Bloome. Incidentally, Bloome has a shady past - she used to be involved with a rebel group bent on overthrowing Zuwanie. There is nothing new about The Interpreters. This is basically similar to other political crime thrillers. 2 Pink Flowers.
Sofia Coppola's adaptation of Jeffrey Eugenides' bestseller is very simple, straightforward but mesmerizing nevertheless. Thanks to the five beautiful Lisbon sisters especially the enigmatic Lux portrayed by Kirsten Dunst. Thanks to Coppola's screenplay, which unfolds like pages of the book. And thanks to the movie's soundtrack, which echoes with 70s pop, rock and soul. In the year 1974, in the upper middle class suburbs in Michigan, the five Lisbon girls committed suicide. The youngest, Cecilia jumped off of their second floor window and impaled herself in the fence. Lux, the second youngest, poisoned herself with carbon monixide. Therese, the eldest, had sleeping pills overdose while Mary, the second daughter, hanged herself. Bonnie stuck her head in the oven. The Virgin Suicides is made to be a 4 Pink Flower movie. Why? Find out for yourself.
4 Pink Flowers I would watch this movie over and over and over again!
3 Pink Flowers I might just forget this movie, but hey there are slices of life in here.
2 Pink Flowers Hmmm, yeah. It's okay. And i think the critics and award-giving bodies quite liked this movie, so who am I to disagree?
Flowerless A total waste of my time.
Enjoy my December offering!
A subtler version of The Godfather or The Departed. This one centers on a Russian organized crime family in London. Naomi Watts, as a midwife who delivered a baby supposedly fathered by the organized crime leader, is brilliant as always, while Viggo Mortensen, as the mysterious driver of the family, is viciously amazing that I almost forgot that he used to be Aragorn. The climactic bath house fight sequence should be gruesome, but Viggo, who carried on with the scene without a single square-inch of clothing, made it so bearable to watch. I give this one 3 Pink Flowers. 
Cate Blanchett is one of my four all-time favorite actresses alongside Meryl Streep, Kate Winslet and Jodie Foster. As such, even if the screenplay or editing is flawed, a movie could never go wrong if at its center is a very brilliant performer like Cate. This may not be as brilliant as Cate's first tour as the Virgin Queen, but this is still a movie to behold with other icings aside from Cate's talent such as the beautiful costumes and the ruggedly beautiful Clive Owen as Sir Walter Raleigh. This one deserves 3 Pink Flowers. 
This Chinese pride of a movie traces the lives of two opera actors whose friendship and professional relationship was greatly disturbed when one of the actors got involved and eventually married a strong and imposing "prostitute," performed by the very beautiful Gong Li. I think this movie is important for two reasons: it provides us with information on modern Chinese history from the years prior to the Japanese occupation to Mao's cultural revolution until the decline of communism; and it also illustrates the existence and subsequent social repression of gay love. However, the movie is so indulgent and overloooong. I hate to do this, but i think this film deserves only 2 Pink Flowers. 
I love Kate Winslet. I love Johnny Depp. I love Peter Pan. I love this movie. 4 Pink Flowers. No question about it. By the way, this movie is about the circumstances that inspired playwright James Barry to write Peter Pan.
The first two Harry Potter installments, Sorcerer's Stone and Chamber of Secrets, are definitely much much better than the Prisoner of Azkaban, Goblet of Fire, and this one, Order of the Phoenix. Because I've read the book and there were so many details that were unfortunately omitted in the screenplay. Because the original Albus Dumbledore, Richard Harris, is a much much better actor. And because I have greater affections for Harry, Hermione and Ron as kids than as young adults. But Order of the Phoenix is not really bad, it is still entertaining, and if there is one thing that is very memorable about this movie, it is the young Evanna Lynch who brilliantly portrayed the weirdo Luna Lovegood. Years from now, I would like to watch Evanna tackle roles usually played by Cate, Jodie or Naomi Watts. 2 Pink Flowers would be enough for this movie. 
Ratatouille is what great entertainment is all about. And this new Walt Disney / Pixar gem, about a rat who dreams of being a chef, once again fuses all elements of a timeless animated film - live action that breathes with very human life, comedy and drama and suspense, fantastic music and heartwarming fairy tale ending. 4 Pink Flowers. 4 Pink Flowers. 4 Pink Flowers. 
Any movie, no matter how flawed in terms of the story, could still be good if blessed with good performances especially by the central character. The Brave One is one those movies and Jodie Foster is one of those actors. Jodie is Erica Bain, a radio program host who had the fortune to be part of a very happy and fulfilled relationship. New York is her home and its environ provide her with the stories that she recreate in her radio program. However, her peace was shattered when she and her boyfriend were senselessly attacked that cost her boyfriend's life and left her emotionally wounded. Justice seems so elusive hence Foster took matters in her own hand. Some praised the unknown vigilante for cleaning the streets of New York while the many who still holds on to the value of due process condemned her acts. The Brave One is a strong morality tale and dissenting opinions may crop up especially from those who don't quite agree with the film's Machiavellian philosophy. Nevertheless, Jodie Foster is a powerhouse and that's reason enough for Jessie to give this movie 3 Pink Flowers. 
One of those heist movies populated by brilliant actors - Denzel Washington, Jodie Foster and Clive Owen. I would give this movie 2 Pink Flowers because of Jodie Foster for her terrific turn as a pleasantly vicious power broker Madeline White. 
The Insider is a Samson and Goliath kind of movie based on real-life events. Specifically, Jeffrey Wigan played by Russel Crowe, exposed a tobacco company's manipulation of cigarette substances in order to enhance smokers' addiction to nicotine. Strongly believing in Wigan's cause, CBS producer Lowell Bergman played by Al Pacino, stopped at nothing to bring Wigan's story to the public through the US television show, 60 Minutes. Very absorbing, The Insider reminds me of the Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman classic, All The President's Men, which was about the Watergate Scandal. 3 Pink Flowers for The Insider. 
In this movie, Nicole Kidman is Silvia Bloome, a South African working as an interpreter in the United Nation's headquarters in New York. One evening, she overhears an assassination plot against Doctor Zuwanie, a corrupt and tyrannical African leader, who may be indicted by the UN for crimes against humanity. Bloome disclosed this information to the UN Secret Service and subsequently Sean Penn's Tobin Keller is assigned to protect Zuwanie as well as Bloome. Incidentally, Bloome has a shady past - she used to be involved with a rebel group bent on overthrowing Zuwanie. There is nothing new about The Interpreters. This is basically similar to other political crime thrillers. 2 Pink Flowers. 
Sofia Coppola's adaptation of Jeffrey Eugenides' bestseller is very simple, straightforward but mesmerizing nevertheless. Thanks to the five beautiful Lisbon sisters especially the enigmatic Lux portrayed by Kirsten Dunst. Thanks to Coppola's screenplay, which unfolds like pages of the book. And thanks to the movie's soundtrack, which echoes with 70s pop, rock and soul. In the year 1974, in the upper middle class suburbs in Michigan, the five Lisbon girls committed suicide. The youngest, Cecilia jumped off of their second floor window and impaled herself in the fence. Lux, the second youngest, poisoned herself with carbon monixide. Therese, the eldest, had sleeping pills overdose while Mary, the second daughter, hanged herself. Bonnie stuck her head in the oven. The Virgin Suicides is made to be a 4 Pink Flower movie. Why? Find out for yourself.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
The pleasant realm of the Tulisans
November 30, 2007. A holiday. And Powerbooks finally opened its doors to Cebuano readers, literature addicts and bibliophiles. Yours truly, included.I learned about the Powerbooks branch here in Cebu about a year ago. I was paying for my Love in the Time of Cholera when the National Bookstore cashier kindly said that pretty soon I won’t be buying my books from them because Powerbooks would be opening its Cebu branch.
I gladly told my friends about it. I announced it to my office friends. And I waited. And waited. And waited. And finally the wait is over.
Around lunchtime in November 30, I took a taxi to SM City. I thought of just taking the jeep but I deliberated on the merits of hailing a cab instead.
If I ride a jeepney, travel time would be a few minutes longer. If I take the jeepney, I would go through the ordeal of inhaling the dusts, consuming the heat, and interacting with irritating fellow passengers. If I opt for the cheaper jeepney, the traffic along the way would definitely exhaust me.
Yes, I was that excited and I must be in top shape once I cross Powerbooks’ threshold.
There were also many other stores that opened at SM City Cebu’s The Northwing that day. But they didn’t matter at all. Not for that day, at least. I only had eyes and concentration on the blue and yellow-colored sign that I just basically see when I am in Manila.
The books that populate the walls and shelves of Powerbooks were sights to behold. Of course, I immediately noticed that there are no benches and seats and a café like that of Powerbooks Greenbelt 2. But these faults are just minor and forgivable. Perhaps the Powerbooks team did some research about Cebuano culture and they learned that Cebuanos are basically tihik and instead of walking out of the store with a plastic or paper bag in hand, they would just read the books from cover to cover inside the store.
The left side of the store was dedicated to Philippine literature and “serious” materials e.g. biographies, politics, history, business. The right wing is a multitude of books on arts, popular culture, fitness and health and children’s literature. And the central portion of the store is a haven of fiction, poetry, religious readings and the macabre.
That very same day, I splurged on a new copy of Margaret Mitchell’s epic Gone With the Wind because it has been a decade since I last read it and my 1950’s edition of the book is already so fragile and tattered. And I just had to go home with this 2008 planner generously filled with prints of Frida Kahlo paintings and portraits. In the days and weeks that followed, I found myself spending a bit more: the Booker-prize winning The Life of Pi by Yann Martel; the Pulitzer Prize-winning Gilead by Marilynne Robinson; Amy Tan’s fifth bestseller, Saving Fish from Drowning; an anthology of gay writing appropriately titled New Gay Erotica; and a modern music encyclopedia 1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die.
In “wasting” considerable amount on these items, I had to convince myself that I had committed no crime or felony. December is my birthday month and I had to buy some gifts for myself. I had been working so hard, thus I also had to reward myself. And of course, it will Christmas soon and I should also buy some Christmas presents that would satisfy my soul. I also promised that after December, I wouldn’t spend a single peso for a book in, shall we say, six months at least. All these seemingly crazy purchases must be justified, although I am not really very confident about that last justification.
Since Powerbooks opened almost a month ago, I also came to learn that Powerbooks workers, especially cashiers, were not only trained to be excellent in customer service but to be also professional tulisans. Don’t ask me why they are tulisans. Isn’t it obvious enough?
Monday, December 17, 2007
The wisdom of Christmas decors
It is eight days before Christmas. My 27th Christmas here in this beautiful earth.For a very long time, I think I had abandoned the usual excitement that most people feel about Christmas. Ever since high school and college and the first few years as a bona fide taxpayer, Christmas was nothing more than the usual parties and exchange gifts and the two-week vacation.
Perhaps during these years I was just basking in this Holden Caulfieldish approach to life. Perhaps I was just so fucked up with work and any form of stress-free diversion was most welcome. Or perhaps the interior of our house was just unpainted and its gray concrete walls were just sooo poverty stricken that no amount of Christmas trimmings could ever save it from steadily falling from grace.
But this year is gonna be different. I had known it for months. Ever since October, when I played Sarah's Wintersong and Celine's These Are Special Times. Ever since the commercialized aspect of Christmas was manifested in the malls... Uhum... What I am really trying to say here is that my renewed passion for Christmas began when I started spending a few hundreds (thousands, I fear) for Christmas trimmings - balls, ribbons, garlands, beads, lights blah blah blah.
Of course, conventional wisdom would dictate that Christmas should be all about spending time with family and loved ones and thanking the Lord for his gift of love and gift of life. This wisdom will always be timeless and will always be true and will always be cherished. On the other hand, it is also extra nice to put up a tree in one lonely corner of the house or hang some wreaths and garlands and adorn them with flowers and balls and ribbons and dancing lights. And you could just imagine how wonderful it is to decorate your home together with your mom and pop!
As they say, "a thing of beauty is a joy forever." That is why I have always been joyful joyful joyful and unsinkable all these weeks. Well, if you think that my Christmas decors are not really that pretty or wonderful, then you shall never ever be welcome in my home! Hahahaha.
I wish I won't have to keep these decors in their boxes by January. I wish I could decorate my walls again soon, like this summer. I wish it's October once again so I could once again splurge a bit on additional trimmings and my dream Nativity scene. I wish your Christmas decors are as pretty as mine so you won't be green with envy.Merry Christmas!
Friday, November 30, 2007
academic wisdom from college
things i learned from school,
which i think are somehow applicable
to the events that are happening
in our country today.
1. the culture of corruption in the political system.
corruption is no longer just a disease
which could be cured by some political reforms.
we could replace our presidents every time
they fuck up. but it must also be
acknowledged, with a very open mind,
that corruption is a culture, even bigger
than any person who would sit
in the presidency or other government posts.
sooner or later, he or she would get consumed.
2. the mob is powerful. eventually, it will rule.
during the 1986 edsa revolution,
it was the mob who ruled. in the edsa II,
once again it was the mob who ruled.
the edsa III failed because the mob was
not representative of the entire filipino nation.
3. the philippine political system is a reflection
of the coutry's political party system.
in other states, the citizenry is informed
what the republican, democratic, communist,
socialist or labor parties stand for.
people vote for their leaders because they
believe in the platforms of their future leaders.
in our country, we are unfortunately blessed
with so many political butterflies.
we hear about lakas nucd or the nacionalista
party etc but we do not
necessarily know or understand
what they stand for. our parties
are identified by its candidates,
not by its principles or advocacies.
4. for archipelagic states like our country,
it is worthwhile to consider
a federal form of government.
so that each province or state could
better respond to the needs of its people
without having to depend on the allocations
or decisions or directives
of the national government.
and so that the voices of the many
provinces and ethnic minorities
are better represented. as in the cases
of edsa III, the oakwood rebellion
and the manila peninsula rebellion,
many filipinos are dissatisfied
with the actions undertaken by
influential personalities in the capital.
the people may have felt and condemns
the corruption of the arroyo government,
but the nation, as one, is not necessarily
sympathetic with the courses of action
by trillanes and company.
i am rambling on and on and on. hahahaha.
which i think are somehow applicable
to the events that are happening
in our country today.
1. the culture of corruption in the political system.
corruption is no longer just a disease
which could be cured by some political reforms.
we could replace our presidents every time
they fuck up. but it must also be
acknowledged, with a very open mind,
that corruption is a culture, even bigger
than any person who would sit
in the presidency or other government posts.
sooner or later, he or she would get consumed.
2. the mob is powerful. eventually, it will rule.
during the 1986 edsa revolution,
it was the mob who ruled. in the edsa II,
once again it was the mob who ruled.
the edsa III failed because the mob was
not representative of the entire filipino nation.
3. the philippine political system is a reflection
of the coutry's political party system.
in other states, the citizenry is informed
what the republican, democratic, communist,
socialist or labor parties stand for.
people vote for their leaders because they
believe in the platforms of their future leaders.
in our country, we are unfortunately blessed
with so many political butterflies.
we hear about lakas nucd or the nacionalista
party etc but we do not
necessarily know or understand
what they stand for. our parties
are identified by its candidates,
not by its principles or advocacies.
4. for archipelagic states like our country,
it is worthwhile to consider
a federal form of government.
so that each province or state could
better respond to the needs of its people
without having to depend on the allocations
or decisions or directives
of the national government.
and so that the voices of the many
provinces and ethnic minorities
are better represented. as in the cases
of edsa III, the oakwood rebellion
and the manila peninsula rebellion,
many filipinos are dissatisfied
with the actions undertaken by
influential personalities in the capital.
the people may have felt and condemns
the corruption of the arroyo government,
but the nation, as one, is not necessarily
sympathetic with the courses of action
by trillanes and company.
i am rambling on and on and on. hahahaha.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Wednesday
“If love turns into obsession, is it still love?” You asked.
It is ten minutes past nine in the evening, and the bar is unusually subdued compared to those other evenings since I’ve frequented this place these past two months or so. Except for a few couples - maybe acquaintances, scattered about in three tables, whose voices were drowned by the loud sound emanating from the television set showing this somewhat new foreign rock group disarmingly reviving Hendrix’s heydays - there were just the two of us over four empty bottles of beer. Tonight could have been a Saturday with the familiar faces and familiar pats at the back and the all too familiar greetings from college buddies. Tonight could have used a few show tunes or guitar riffs to fend off the heavy atmosphere that should excuse me from evading your question. It’s that question that my mind would rather refuse, or if I should answer it now, then positively or with an open-ended maybe for your benefit.
You signaled for another set of beer, without asking me if we are still staying for another more, before moving on to somewhere together, or in our individual places. I remember this local writer who, in one of her semi-popular writings, fondly recalls a Saturday night spent among supposed friends, and how should two bottles of beer create a benign aura in an otherwise solitary face. Your question shouldn’t have come as a surprise the way that it did because what was between us was anything but benign.
“If love turns into obsession, is it still love?” You seem to ask again, although you haven’t, only that your eyes bore into mine the same way that they bared me since the first night I knew you, after I extended my hand to reach yours as a gesture of clean friendship.
“Why do you ask?” I responded, as if asking back should suffice.
“Has it ever happened it you before? In your thirty years?”
“Huh?”
It’s a Wednesday alright, should this explain the unknown sobriety? The waiter approached our table bearing with him four bottles of beer with a bucket of ice cubes that seem to immediately turn to water despite the coldness of the summer evening.
It’s a Wednesday evening alright, the twenty-sixth of May, an evening bathed in a rush of cold air that screamed at my face when I cruised the highway on the way here to meet you after the two weeks that I went out of town for some school related stuff. Just about seven, there was only a soft drizzle left from a whole day of rain, which I just spent lazily at home. I was silently praising the rain that wouldn’t shy away from a brief and slight ray of light that once in a while reaches my forehead and my cheeks through my bedroom window.
The summer is almost gone, the evening’s telling me so, and in so many ways I felt strongly about the opening of the classes this coming June. Maybe not so much about the passion for the chosen profession, although there is solace in accepting the comforts of stability while I am in this line of work. Maybe the unquestioning comfort that sleep could provide after a whole day at school with students and another few hours spent for my master’s education. It’s the routine really that I’ve come to embrace unconditionally, and week nights are as typical as the other evenings the whole year through. So much unlike this Wednesday.
It’s Wednesday alright, I keep on reminding myself, and the supposedly cold evening rush that greeted me in the drive has nothing to do with the heaviness that we are inhaling now. After all it’s that kind of Wednesday that happens during my summer each year, and when the school opens, then my evenings might just be as unrecognizable as the rest of the week.
“Ron,” he speaks softly, in that manner that would only allow me to stare at the half-filled beer mug.
“I thought you wouldn’t come.”
“But I did, didn’t I?” Was the most that I could say after spending about an hour pretending to figure out the ultra modern songs that I’ve been hearing, while thoughtlessly mumbling in careless details the routine events that shaped my life these last two weeks. Not that it would matter at all, or if it should matter to you, although I know for sure that you’d listen to anything that I would say because I always see it in your eyes. Of course, I’ve promised us that we would make an effort to know each other more, and you’re doing that exactly now, nodding at the things that I’m saying, completely understanding without fault the dynamics and supposed complexities of my professional life. While you, your eyes digging mine, fully in control of your chain of thoughts, and never leaving me and my details.
“I arrived ahead of you, didn’t I?” And haven’t we talked a lot about me this past hour, over those wasted bottles of beer? Didn’t I interest you enough with the long hours I defied sleep just to finish all these papers, these demands of my job that were way too early for my age anyway but nevertheless important to feed my youth?
“Ron, you shouldn’t have come, you know. When I asked, it is not much of an asking but an invitation, you know that I’ll be around anyhow even if it is not now.” You asked, almost knowing the many reservations I have at the back of my mind. You reached across the table, to my hand, and your touch was too firm and fixed on its grasp. Your hair is loose on your forehead, with a deep sense of foreboding. Your face unshaved, seems roughed after all these weeks, and I could see circles under your eyes. Your jaw was loosened by the many thoughts in your eyes. Your mouth silent as I know that this moment is way beyond words. And your eyes, weighs the heaviness that we both knew while you continue holding my hand, with such intense force of masculinity that I haven’t experienced before, and I, powerless to move back from your grasp.
If I were strong enough, would I rather remove my hand from this union and feign interest to the beer mug to pacify my throat that has dried after I searched your face for the longest time? Should I rather reach out and search your face, not with my eyes this time, but with my hand that still carries with it the force of your touch?
If love turns into obsession, is it still love?
We never knew about the half-empty bottle that was left before you reached your hand to weigh me down. We never knew about the other couples, if they danced away the night, or if they resorted to the safety of their own rooms now that the drizzle has affirmed its longer presence until the morning after. We never knew how often we came back to same bar, the same room, or to be amongst the same subdued crowd. Such was the force of your submission. And such was the force of my fear.
03 June 2004
It is ten minutes past nine in the evening, and the bar is unusually subdued compared to those other evenings since I’ve frequented this place these past two months or so. Except for a few couples - maybe acquaintances, scattered about in three tables, whose voices were drowned by the loud sound emanating from the television set showing this somewhat new foreign rock group disarmingly reviving Hendrix’s heydays - there were just the two of us over four empty bottles of beer. Tonight could have been a Saturday with the familiar faces and familiar pats at the back and the all too familiar greetings from college buddies. Tonight could have used a few show tunes or guitar riffs to fend off the heavy atmosphere that should excuse me from evading your question. It’s that question that my mind would rather refuse, or if I should answer it now, then positively or with an open-ended maybe for your benefit.
You signaled for another set of beer, without asking me if we are still staying for another more, before moving on to somewhere together, or in our individual places. I remember this local writer who, in one of her semi-popular writings, fondly recalls a Saturday night spent among supposed friends, and how should two bottles of beer create a benign aura in an otherwise solitary face. Your question shouldn’t have come as a surprise the way that it did because what was between us was anything but benign.
“If love turns into obsession, is it still love?” You seem to ask again, although you haven’t, only that your eyes bore into mine the same way that they bared me since the first night I knew you, after I extended my hand to reach yours as a gesture of clean friendship.
“Why do you ask?” I responded, as if asking back should suffice.
“Has it ever happened it you before? In your thirty years?”
“Huh?”
It’s a Wednesday alright, should this explain the unknown sobriety? The waiter approached our table bearing with him four bottles of beer with a bucket of ice cubes that seem to immediately turn to water despite the coldness of the summer evening.
It’s a Wednesday evening alright, the twenty-sixth of May, an evening bathed in a rush of cold air that screamed at my face when I cruised the highway on the way here to meet you after the two weeks that I went out of town for some school related stuff. Just about seven, there was only a soft drizzle left from a whole day of rain, which I just spent lazily at home. I was silently praising the rain that wouldn’t shy away from a brief and slight ray of light that once in a while reaches my forehead and my cheeks through my bedroom window.
The summer is almost gone, the evening’s telling me so, and in so many ways I felt strongly about the opening of the classes this coming June. Maybe not so much about the passion for the chosen profession, although there is solace in accepting the comforts of stability while I am in this line of work. Maybe the unquestioning comfort that sleep could provide after a whole day at school with students and another few hours spent for my master’s education. It’s the routine really that I’ve come to embrace unconditionally, and week nights are as typical as the other evenings the whole year through. So much unlike this Wednesday.
It’s Wednesday alright, I keep on reminding myself, and the supposedly cold evening rush that greeted me in the drive has nothing to do with the heaviness that we are inhaling now. After all it’s that kind of Wednesday that happens during my summer each year, and when the school opens, then my evenings might just be as unrecognizable as the rest of the week.
“Ron,” he speaks softly, in that manner that would only allow me to stare at the half-filled beer mug.
“I thought you wouldn’t come.”
“But I did, didn’t I?” Was the most that I could say after spending about an hour pretending to figure out the ultra modern songs that I’ve been hearing, while thoughtlessly mumbling in careless details the routine events that shaped my life these last two weeks. Not that it would matter at all, or if it should matter to you, although I know for sure that you’d listen to anything that I would say because I always see it in your eyes. Of course, I’ve promised us that we would make an effort to know each other more, and you’re doing that exactly now, nodding at the things that I’m saying, completely understanding without fault the dynamics and supposed complexities of my professional life. While you, your eyes digging mine, fully in control of your chain of thoughts, and never leaving me and my details.
“I arrived ahead of you, didn’t I?” And haven’t we talked a lot about me this past hour, over those wasted bottles of beer? Didn’t I interest you enough with the long hours I defied sleep just to finish all these papers, these demands of my job that were way too early for my age anyway but nevertheless important to feed my youth?
“Ron, you shouldn’t have come, you know. When I asked, it is not much of an asking but an invitation, you know that I’ll be around anyhow even if it is not now.” You asked, almost knowing the many reservations I have at the back of my mind. You reached across the table, to my hand, and your touch was too firm and fixed on its grasp. Your hair is loose on your forehead, with a deep sense of foreboding. Your face unshaved, seems roughed after all these weeks, and I could see circles under your eyes. Your jaw was loosened by the many thoughts in your eyes. Your mouth silent as I know that this moment is way beyond words. And your eyes, weighs the heaviness that we both knew while you continue holding my hand, with such intense force of masculinity that I haven’t experienced before, and I, powerless to move back from your grasp.
If I were strong enough, would I rather remove my hand from this union and feign interest to the beer mug to pacify my throat that has dried after I searched your face for the longest time? Should I rather reach out and search your face, not with my eyes this time, but with my hand that still carries with it the force of your touch?
If love turns into obsession, is it still love?
We never knew about the half-empty bottle that was left before you reached your hand to weigh me down. We never knew about the other couples, if they danced away the night, or if they resorted to the safety of their own rooms now that the drizzle has affirmed its longer presence until the morning after. We never knew how often we came back to same bar, the same room, or to be amongst the same subdued crowd. Such was the force of your submission. And such was the force of my fear.
03 June 2004
2004 Eyeball Memories
Your hands are unclean. You are just learning. You are not everything. You are the so-called chaos. You are. - Mocking Alanis (29 August 2004)
Dear Matt, it’s you that I’ve known longest.
On and off, for over two years,
we’ve sent each other’s anguish and hope –
in the middle of the day,
sometime in the evening
or early in the morning.
It doesn’t matter.
We never hesitated to let our feelings flow,
probably because it was just easy
to be unbiased and subjective to
the single person who could almost destroy you,
almost, but just couldn’t.
Because we don’t know each other.
We don’t know each others face.
And then we met,
and for some unknown reason,
we grew apart.
A few times, I still long for our earlier mystery.
Our lives, maybe, are less complicated now
and there’s less of that immature anguish,
perhaps no more glamorized version of our pain.
Still, it’s you that I’ve known longest,
it’s you that I am supposed to know best.
Dear Neil, you were the more perfect one,
the flawed survivor,
the good listener,
and the two hours I spent with you
over a cup of coffee
at some gas station
somewhere here in our city
was an honest and mature moment
any person should hope for.
In your thirty-one years,
you’ve proceeded to a different ground,
and days after our introduction,
I wore your skin
and stepped into your shoe,
thinking that maybe nine years from now
I would finally understand the flawed
but eternally forgivable constancies of living.
You spoke of calm acceptance of life as it is
whereas I fiercely embrace it
like sands that break away
from the strength of my grip.
But then I am just too young
not to take everything seriously,
too young to be pulled back
from flying dangerously,
too stubborn to follow
your calm acceptance to all things
that could no longer be changed within our lifetime.
You were the one that I hope I could love.
Dear Ray, you were synonymous with my failure.
I jumped into you without grace,
and I swam carelessly almost to my death
the moment that I touched your surface.
You were that turbulent undercurrent,
that brief kiss,
that warm embrace,
but before all that I believed
that you could be that soft place where I could fall.
Yet you were also the fellow
who don’t usually look at me in the eye
and I always feel the need
to press both my palms against your cheeks
so I would have at least ten seconds
of pure honesty with you,
risking the thought of knowing
from your eyes the depressing facts
of the honesty that I crave for
while I have you for a company.
When I was at the edge of my childish insanity,
softly you told me that what matters most in life
are how well I’ve lived,
how deeply I’ve loved,
and how well should I let go
of the things that I simply cannot have.
You were the single person
that I passionately loved, and obsessively,
it amazes me how I can’t also be the water
deep enough for you to also jump into.
Dear Jim, you would be the one nearest to me as a friend.
We’ve met only twice
and managed to communicate
in between and after.
After I gave you a lift,
after you stepped off my taxi,
you left me alone with my wits
though with a knowing smile in it.
Traveling the evening road,
I asked the thin air
why should your calling come in
before whoever, or you, or me, or us.
This is such a dark thought, I know,
but I know too that you wouldn’t be this good guy
that you are now
if not because of your unconditional answer to that call.
And you wouldn’t be that greater guy
that certainly you would become
if not because of that mighty assurance
that you will be taking your vows soon.
I see it all in your eyes,
despite the barrier of the glasses,
despite the dimness of the bar.
Liking you,
although you were someone that I couldn’t possibly have,
had given me peace.
Dear Pierre, you are most beautiful inside and out.
You arrived last,
when I was at the edge of my sadness,
and it was either I’d finally fall,
or I’d pull back my wits
to once again assume
the painless ordinary existence
that was indeed my comfort zone for years.
It was past two then,
and the early morning was too drunk
for our sobriety.
Still you’ve proceeded with your story
which made me want to love you,
though in all its pain and beauty,
it’s most dangerous for me to be in love with you.
Yeah, I want to love you
but I just can’t be in love with you.
I’d say these same words to you now if I could,
but I wouldn’t,
for sure you’d understand me differently.
Not that I would mind you knowing,
but you would,
and I wouldn’t want that to happen to us.
Not now.
Several evenings and weeks had passed by -
evenings spent over food and beer and nice little talks,
and during these times
it’s really quite sad that our comfortability with each other
also had its defenses
that came straight from your mouth.
If only those defenses
had rooted from your heart.
But I wouldn’t like to know
more than what your mouth had to say –
not even if I read you differently
through your eyes,
not even if your tenderness is killing me sweetly.
That parting handshake
during our first night out
was the most that I would like to remember of you.
You arrived last,
and I am still knowing you now.
You were most beautiful then,
you are just beautiful now,
and we could very well become good friends.
Let’s keep it at that.
Dear Matt, it’s you that I’ve known longest.
On and off, for over two years,
we’ve sent each other’s anguish and hope –
in the middle of the day,
sometime in the evening
or early in the morning.
It doesn’t matter.
We never hesitated to let our feelings flow,
probably because it was just easy
to be unbiased and subjective to
the single person who could almost destroy you,
almost, but just couldn’t.
Because we don’t know each other.
We don’t know each others face.
And then we met,
and for some unknown reason,
we grew apart.
A few times, I still long for our earlier mystery.
Our lives, maybe, are less complicated now
and there’s less of that immature anguish,
perhaps no more glamorized version of our pain.
Still, it’s you that I’ve known longest,
it’s you that I am supposed to know best.
Dear Neil, you were the more perfect one,
the flawed survivor,
the good listener,
and the two hours I spent with you
over a cup of coffee
at some gas station
somewhere here in our city
was an honest and mature moment
any person should hope for.
In your thirty-one years,
you’ve proceeded to a different ground,
and days after our introduction,
I wore your skin
and stepped into your shoe,
thinking that maybe nine years from now
I would finally understand the flawed
but eternally forgivable constancies of living.
You spoke of calm acceptance of life as it is
whereas I fiercely embrace it
like sands that break away
from the strength of my grip.
But then I am just too young
not to take everything seriously,
too young to be pulled back
from flying dangerously,
too stubborn to follow
your calm acceptance to all things
that could no longer be changed within our lifetime.
You were the one that I hope I could love.
Dear Ray, you were synonymous with my failure.
I jumped into you without grace,
and I swam carelessly almost to my death
the moment that I touched your surface.
You were that turbulent undercurrent,
that brief kiss,
that warm embrace,
but before all that I believed
that you could be that soft place where I could fall.
Yet you were also the fellow
who don’t usually look at me in the eye
and I always feel the need
to press both my palms against your cheeks
so I would have at least ten seconds
of pure honesty with you,
risking the thought of knowing
from your eyes the depressing facts
of the honesty that I crave for
while I have you for a company.
When I was at the edge of my childish insanity,
softly you told me that what matters most in life
are how well I’ve lived,
how deeply I’ve loved,
and how well should I let go
of the things that I simply cannot have.
You were the single person
that I passionately loved, and obsessively,
it amazes me how I can’t also be the water
deep enough for you to also jump into.
Dear Jim, you would be the one nearest to me as a friend.
We’ve met only twice
and managed to communicate
in between and after.
After I gave you a lift,
after you stepped off my taxi,
you left me alone with my wits
though with a knowing smile in it.
Traveling the evening road,
I asked the thin air
why should your calling come in
before whoever, or you, or me, or us.
This is such a dark thought, I know,
but I know too that you wouldn’t be this good guy
that you are now
if not because of your unconditional answer to that call.
And you wouldn’t be that greater guy
that certainly you would become
if not because of that mighty assurance
that you will be taking your vows soon.
I see it all in your eyes,
despite the barrier of the glasses,
despite the dimness of the bar.
Liking you,
although you were someone that I couldn’t possibly have,
had given me peace.
Dear Pierre, you are most beautiful inside and out.
You arrived last,
when I was at the edge of my sadness,
and it was either I’d finally fall,
or I’d pull back my wits
to once again assume
the painless ordinary existence
that was indeed my comfort zone for years.
It was past two then,
and the early morning was too drunk
for our sobriety.
Still you’ve proceeded with your story
which made me want to love you,
though in all its pain and beauty,
it’s most dangerous for me to be in love with you.
Yeah, I want to love you
but I just can’t be in love with you.
I’d say these same words to you now if I could,
but I wouldn’t,
for sure you’d understand me differently.
Not that I would mind you knowing,
but you would,
and I wouldn’t want that to happen to us.
Not now.
Several evenings and weeks had passed by -
evenings spent over food and beer and nice little talks,
and during these times
it’s really quite sad that our comfortability with each other
also had its defenses
that came straight from your mouth.
If only those defenses
had rooted from your heart.
But I wouldn’t like to know
more than what your mouth had to say –
not even if I read you differently
through your eyes,
not even if your tenderness is killing me sweetly.
That parting handshake
during our first night out
was the most that I would like to remember of you.
You arrived last,
and I am still knowing you now.
You were most beautiful then,
you are just beautiful now,
and we could very well become good friends.
Let’s keep it at that.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Commuters. A short story.
Commuters is a short short-story I wrote more than three years ago. The story was inspired by a road trip I took with Venus, one of my best friends, to Alcoy – a very rural municipality located in the Southern part of Cebu. In so many ways, Commuters is a representation of my life that year. Being 23 years old and naïve about love and relationships. Being gay my whole life but only fully acknowledging it after meeting a simple man who involuntarily twisted my world. Being young yet so grown-up all a sudden as a consequence of the painful choices I’ve made – choices that taught me the virtues of acceptance and tolerance, choices that gave a semblance of peace amidst my life’s complications, and choices that used to feel like toothache but now seem very fabulous.
Commuters
June 23, 2004
Saturday. Exactly twenty-five minutes past four in the afternoon. At the bus station, the air hangs dry and its dusts push its way into my pores, while my skin sweats with the saltiness of the day. The dusts crawl uninvited, drinks and bathes at the unseen folds of my skin. My skin has cried and dried, the stickiness never leaving though, and here we are inhaling the exhaust of the bus headed south. We could have been in that ride, squeezing with the other commuters, exchanging sweat and odor. Instead, we are standing here beside this concrete terminal station post like bookends, waiting for that next bus ride to destination nowhere.
This destination nowhere is not exactly a nowhere. It is supposed to be three hours away from the city. But then, I, and my best friend Iris here, have never been there in our less than glorious twenty-three years. We are waiting for the next bus headed south because some lady, an acquaintance of Iris’ uncle, invited us, through a brief telephone call, to her place for the weekend.
But then, what is the bearing of geography for people who are lost all their lives?
We got the next bus around five, swarming amongst men and a few women and some hungry-looking kids. It’s interesting really, these provincial people spending the next three hours either by sleeping from sheer exhaustion or by simply thinking of that homemade meal that would definitely be served as soon as they have crossed the threshold of their homes. Maybe a fiesta is happening somewhere, and an evening of dance is something that they were rooting for the whole year. The thought is so simple, uncomplicated.
It’s a more or less three-hour travel according to the konduktor. Adding or taking a few minutes from his calculation, though, might be of some use if we were traveling in broad daylight with mountain ridges or still waters on either side of the road. If it were some peak, maybe I won’t be scaling it, at least not this time if I am supposed to be back in the city by Monday. If it were a sea, maybe I would think of wading it until the waters would only be knee-high. Or, I might not go back to the shore, but instead, continue wading, with the grasses and all beneath my feet, until a wide expanse of sandbars would allow me to breathe again easily. I haven’t been to a sandbar for a long time anyway, and more than once during those younger years, I usually end up tiptoeing, holding my breath till I am fully certain that yeah, I am at the shore again.
But it’s evening, and my companion has her face against the darkness outside her window. She doesn’t care about her hair that screams with the wind, nor with her forehead and cheeks that are kissing the cold, forceful wind. If I were my mother I would have probably pulled her back or closed the window or exchanged places with her. It’s supposed to be dangerous, looking out of the bus window and things like that. But she’s inhaling her freedom, I know. And though we exchanged stories and even laughed at the naughty things that we say now and then, I know it’s the wind that screams against her face that she’d rather be with now. At this time, at least.
“When did we become so joyless?”
The question was hypothetical, but demands an article of time for an answer that neither one of us could immediately satisfy. She’s that person who knew the answer already before asking. She’s that person who asks because she wants an affirmation. Though, very so often I would think that her unrevealed answers are not usually affirmed after a question has been formed through her mouth. She would ask again, louder, and maybe she would get some affirmation this time.
And lately too, she has this habit of inventing hypothetical questions that neither of us could satisfy. I know at such times she’s grappling with her thoughts to make out the clearest sense as to why she’s throwing a question in the very first place. It’s sad anyhow – forming a very sad question as a consequence of the knowledge that it is coupled with an equally sad experience that would suffice for an answer.
Outside, the rain started to pour and I began to smile at her while she drinks the waters, which blends with the wind, the same wind that seems to be at her command. The other commuters began to close their windows, and we have to close our own after this woman behind our seat asked us to. I wouldn’t care less, really. Somehow it’s vain for a person to feel the discomfort of the rain that drenches. I would wonder what about those fishermen out there, in the middle of the sea with just their small bancas. Those lights that dotted the murky waters. A few times, yeah they have a companion who comes along but more often than not they are usually alone and it seems all the more reasonable that I open our window and join my friend in tasting the wind and the waters.
“Just exactly how well acquainted are you with this woman who has invited us to spend tonight and tomorrow at her place?” I asked my friend. “I know I asked you this before, it’s just that, you know, we don’t know her at all or you don’t know her at all. Except that she’s your aunt, supposedly, but you practically don’t know her, that’s it, and why, really, didn’t we give it a second or more thoughts before jumping onto this bus.”
“Because we could never stand living another minute in that city.” She said, in that same questioning smile that at most opportunities is rather elusive, though this time her answer is affirming.
“But we are not yet lost, aren’t we? This is the farthest that I’ve been in the last few months.”
She chuckled. “No, we’ve traveled far enough lately, haven’t you noticed?” Again, that questioning smile that weigh me down into submission.
“So we are once again venturing into figurativeness!”
She laughed aloud this time. “That’s a nice way of putting it. I love the sound of it. Venturing into figurativeness. Traveling in mile stretches now, whereas for weeks we were traveling in stretches of time and bizarre experiences.”
And as if reading my observations all the while, “The mountains, those lights dotting the waters, the rain kissing my lips, venturing into figurativeness. We really are, I suppose, venturing into figurativeness. I can’t seem to get this phrase out of mind.” She was staring into the night when she said this.
I said, “Good, the rain has stopped. What time are we supposed to arrive? I am starving, and I am not venturing into figurativeness this time. I am literally starving.”
It’s a three-hour travel and it’s forty past seven in the evening but I am beginning to doubt now if it really is just a three-hour ride. After all, it has rained and we are traveling at such careful speed that this trip would now seem to take forever.
“What do you suppose has happened to Gayle now?” I teased. ”It’s been two weeks you know, you think you might just have to call her sometime, maybe tonight? We still have some signal.”
“What do you suppose has happened to your Jeff now?” She whispered wistfully and all I could do was shrug and look at the ceiling. And I know she’s looking at me now, with the playfulness that I have missed for a very long time.
“What?” I asked.
“What what?”
“Never mind.”
“What would you think if we’ll just spend sometime here, in this nowhere, a few days more and go back to the city later? What do you think?”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Maybe. But really, why don’t we?”
“We’ve got work, by the way.”
“We can always request for a leave.”
“We haven’t got money. Or clothes at the very least.”
“We can always worry about that later. Anyway there’s always a bus heading back to the city, so if it is no longer practical for us to stay, then off we go.”
“Were you thinking about this just now, or were you planning this already?”
“Actually, I thought I might want to surprise you. Guess you’re surprised now. More than surprised, perhaps. Thrilled.”
“Thrilled, my ass. We are going back tomorrow, that’s it.”
“We ought not to. How are you and Jeff now by the way?”
“Don’t change the topic ‘coz definitely we are not staying beyond tomorrow. As for that last question, you know my life completely and you know that we’re through.”
“But you’re not through with him.”
“You’re not yet through with Gayle either.”
“I don’t deny that. Two weeks is too short a time to be really through with anyone. Especially if two years of your life were spent with them.”
“And we promised not to indulge in those anymore ‘coz they’re through with us much as want we to believe otherwise.”
“Suppose we meet our potentials somewhere here.”
“Not likely.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Meeting other people is the last thing on my mind right now.”
“Because of Jeff?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Okay, okay you got me there. But I just don’t want to spend too much time and energy thinking about that now.”
“The last that I’ve heard of him is that he went south. He might be here somewhere. We might catch up with him, we wouldn’t really know.”
“What are you trying to tell me exactly?”
“Nothing. Just possibilities. I would still insist that we stay on for a few more days, though.”
“You really are stubborn, do you know that.”
“We both are. That’s why we are here now, and not in the city.”
“This trip seems to go on forever.”
“We should be there in a few minutes.”
At around eight thirty, the bus conductor informed us of our stop. The darkness immediately became familiar once we stepped off the bus and the bus moved on with the few passengers remaining. We are facing a school now, and beside it there is supposed to be a trail that would lead to the house where we will be staying until tomorrow, unless Iris would press on with her stubbornness. The house shouldn’t be difficult to find, she’s been told, only a short walk from the road. Beside the house is an old cottage, and beyond it is the beach. Right now, I thought I might want to walk in the sand, with the evening seemingly so fragrant and cool. The place hasn’t been rained upon recently, I thought, and the skies are calm, a sight that has eluded us while we were still on the road.
“Iris, maybe we should explore the beach tonight after we get settled. Or who knows we are no longer invited after all, and we would have no other choice but to stretch out at the beach until we catch the first bus ride to the city tomorrow.”
Iris nodded, as she shone the flashlight along the trail. There’s not much need of it though, we seem to be very accustomed to the darkness. Ahead, we could make out the form of a house, in its yard a small cottage that seems to have known many stories and exchanges among folks who have used this same trail for years.
Something about the night has changed though. Ahead of us, I could now make out the sight of a man, someone important to me. I could see now that he’s wearing the perennial black shirt and the certainty of that stride as he approached us is something that I have always known, yet had taken for granted, failed to appreciate but now.
Iris cut into my thoughts. “Perhaps you now know the reason why you ought to stay here for a few days more.”
Commuters
June 23, 2004
Saturday. Exactly twenty-five minutes past four in the afternoon. At the bus station, the air hangs dry and its dusts push its way into my pores, while my skin sweats with the saltiness of the day. The dusts crawl uninvited, drinks and bathes at the unseen folds of my skin. My skin has cried and dried, the stickiness never leaving though, and here we are inhaling the exhaust of the bus headed south. We could have been in that ride, squeezing with the other commuters, exchanging sweat and odor. Instead, we are standing here beside this concrete terminal station post like bookends, waiting for that next bus ride to destination nowhere.
This destination nowhere is not exactly a nowhere. It is supposed to be three hours away from the city. But then, I, and my best friend Iris here, have never been there in our less than glorious twenty-three years. We are waiting for the next bus headed south because some lady, an acquaintance of Iris’ uncle, invited us, through a brief telephone call, to her place for the weekend.
But then, what is the bearing of geography for people who are lost all their lives?
We got the next bus around five, swarming amongst men and a few women and some hungry-looking kids. It’s interesting really, these provincial people spending the next three hours either by sleeping from sheer exhaustion or by simply thinking of that homemade meal that would definitely be served as soon as they have crossed the threshold of their homes. Maybe a fiesta is happening somewhere, and an evening of dance is something that they were rooting for the whole year. The thought is so simple, uncomplicated.
It’s a more or less three-hour travel according to the konduktor. Adding or taking a few minutes from his calculation, though, might be of some use if we were traveling in broad daylight with mountain ridges or still waters on either side of the road. If it were some peak, maybe I won’t be scaling it, at least not this time if I am supposed to be back in the city by Monday. If it were a sea, maybe I would think of wading it until the waters would only be knee-high. Or, I might not go back to the shore, but instead, continue wading, with the grasses and all beneath my feet, until a wide expanse of sandbars would allow me to breathe again easily. I haven’t been to a sandbar for a long time anyway, and more than once during those younger years, I usually end up tiptoeing, holding my breath till I am fully certain that yeah, I am at the shore again.
But it’s evening, and my companion has her face against the darkness outside her window. She doesn’t care about her hair that screams with the wind, nor with her forehead and cheeks that are kissing the cold, forceful wind. If I were my mother I would have probably pulled her back or closed the window or exchanged places with her. It’s supposed to be dangerous, looking out of the bus window and things like that. But she’s inhaling her freedom, I know. And though we exchanged stories and even laughed at the naughty things that we say now and then, I know it’s the wind that screams against her face that she’d rather be with now. At this time, at least.
“When did we become so joyless?”
The question was hypothetical, but demands an article of time for an answer that neither one of us could immediately satisfy. She’s that person who knew the answer already before asking. She’s that person who asks because she wants an affirmation. Though, very so often I would think that her unrevealed answers are not usually affirmed after a question has been formed through her mouth. She would ask again, louder, and maybe she would get some affirmation this time.
And lately too, she has this habit of inventing hypothetical questions that neither of us could satisfy. I know at such times she’s grappling with her thoughts to make out the clearest sense as to why she’s throwing a question in the very first place. It’s sad anyhow – forming a very sad question as a consequence of the knowledge that it is coupled with an equally sad experience that would suffice for an answer.
Outside, the rain started to pour and I began to smile at her while she drinks the waters, which blends with the wind, the same wind that seems to be at her command. The other commuters began to close their windows, and we have to close our own after this woman behind our seat asked us to. I wouldn’t care less, really. Somehow it’s vain for a person to feel the discomfort of the rain that drenches. I would wonder what about those fishermen out there, in the middle of the sea with just their small bancas. Those lights that dotted the murky waters. A few times, yeah they have a companion who comes along but more often than not they are usually alone and it seems all the more reasonable that I open our window and join my friend in tasting the wind and the waters.
“Just exactly how well acquainted are you with this woman who has invited us to spend tonight and tomorrow at her place?” I asked my friend. “I know I asked you this before, it’s just that, you know, we don’t know her at all or you don’t know her at all. Except that she’s your aunt, supposedly, but you practically don’t know her, that’s it, and why, really, didn’t we give it a second or more thoughts before jumping onto this bus.”
“Because we could never stand living another minute in that city.” She said, in that same questioning smile that at most opportunities is rather elusive, though this time her answer is affirming.
“But we are not yet lost, aren’t we? This is the farthest that I’ve been in the last few months.”
She chuckled. “No, we’ve traveled far enough lately, haven’t you noticed?” Again, that questioning smile that weigh me down into submission.
“So we are once again venturing into figurativeness!”
She laughed aloud this time. “That’s a nice way of putting it. I love the sound of it. Venturing into figurativeness. Traveling in mile stretches now, whereas for weeks we were traveling in stretches of time and bizarre experiences.”
And as if reading my observations all the while, “The mountains, those lights dotting the waters, the rain kissing my lips, venturing into figurativeness. We really are, I suppose, venturing into figurativeness. I can’t seem to get this phrase out of mind.” She was staring into the night when she said this.
I said, “Good, the rain has stopped. What time are we supposed to arrive? I am starving, and I am not venturing into figurativeness this time. I am literally starving.”
It’s a three-hour travel and it’s forty past seven in the evening but I am beginning to doubt now if it really is just a three-hour ride. After all, it has rained and we are traveling at such careful speed that this trip would now seem to take forever.
“What do you suppose has happened to Gayle now?” I teased. ”It’s been two weeks you know, you think you might just have to call her sometime, maybe tonight? We still have some signal.”
“What do you suppose has happened to your Jeff now?” She whispered wistfully and all I could do was shrug and look at the ceiling. And I know she’s looking at me now, with the playfulness that I have missed for a very long time.
“What?” I asked.
“What what?”
“Never mind.”
“What would you think if we’ll just spend sometime here, in this nowhere, a few days more and go back to the city later? What do you think?”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Maybe. But really, why don’t we?”
“We’ve got work, by the way.”
“We can always request for a leave.”
“We haven’t got money. Or clothes at the very least.”
“We can always worry about that later. Anyway there’s always a bus heading back to the city, so if it is no longer practical for us to stay, then off we go.”
“Were you thinking about this just now, or were you planning this already?”
“Actually, I thought I might want to surprise you. Guess you’re surprised now. More than surprised, perhaps. Thrilled.”
“Thrilled, my ass. We are going back tomorrow, that’s it.”
“We ought not to. How are you and Jeff now by the way?”
“Don’t change the topic ‘coz definitely we are not staying beyond tomorrow. As for that last question, you know my life completely and you know that we’re through.”
“But you’re not through with him.”
“You’re not yet through with Gayle either.”
“I don’t deny that. Two weeks is too short a time to be really through with anyone. Especially if two years of your life were spent with them.”
“And we promised not to indulge in those anymore ‘coz they’re through with us much as want we to believe otherwise.”
“Suppose we meet our potentials somewhere here.”
“Not likely.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Meeting other people is the last thing on my mind right now.”
“Because of Jeff?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Okay, okay you got me there. But I just don’t want to spend too much time and energy thinking about that now.”
“The last that I’ve heard of him is that he went south. He might be here somewhere. We might catch up with him, we wouldn’t really know.”
“What are you trying to tell me exactly?”
“Nothing. Just possibilities. I would still insist that we stay on for a few more days, though.”
“You really are stubborn, do you know that.”
“We both are. That’s why we are here now, and not in the city.”
“This trip seems to go on forever.”
“We should be there in a few minutes.”
At around eight thirty, the bus conductor informed us of our stop. The darkness immediately became familiar once we stepped off the bus and the bus moved on with the few passengers remaining. We are facing a school now, and beside it there is supposed to be a trail that would lead to the house where we will be staying until tomorrow, unless Iris would press on with her stubbornness. The house shouldn’t be difficult to find, she’s been told, only a short walk from the road. Beside the house is an old cottage, and beyond it is the beach. Right now, I thought I might want to walk in the sand, with the evening seemingly so fragrant and cool. The place hasn’t been rained upon recently, I thought, and the skies are calm, a sight that has eluded us while we were still on the road.
“Iris, maybe we should explore the beach tonight after we get settled. Or who knows we are no longer invited after all, and we would have no other choice but to stretch out at the beach until we catch the first bus ride to the city tomorrow.”
Iris nodded, as she shone the flashlight along the trail. There’s not much need of it though, we seem to be very accustomed to the darkness. Ahead, we could make out the form of a house, in its yard a small cottage that seems to have known many stories and exchanges among folks who have used this same trail for years.
Something about the night has changed though. Ahead of us, I could now make out the sight of a man, someone important to me. I could see now that he’s wearing the perennial black shirt and the certainty of that stride as he approached us is something that I have always known, yet had taken for granted, failed to appreciate but now.
Iris cut into my thoughts. “Perhaps you now know the reason why you ought to stay here for a few days more.”
Monday, October 15, 2007
Once upon a time sa life sa tatay ug ang iyang anak
tatay: anak, paliti kog softdrinks
anak: coke o pepsi?
tatay: coke...
anak: diet o regular?
tatay: regular...
anak: bote o can?
tatay: bote...
anak: 8 oz. o litro?
tatay: punyeta....tubig na lang
anak: natural o mineral?
tatay: mineral...
anak: bugnaw o dili?
tatay: lambusan ta man ka aning silhig ron...
anak: lanot o tukog?
tatay: animal man seguro ka!!!
anak: baka o baboy?
tatay: layas!!!...layas! !!...
anak: karon o ugma?
tatay: karon na!!!
anak: imo ko ihatud o dili?
tatay: patyon ta ka karon!!!
anak: tuk-on o pusilon?
tatay: pusilon!!!
anak: sa ulo o tiyan?
tatay: pisteee!!!
anak: ok-ok o ilaga?
tatay: aaaahhhhh... .buang!!!
anak: kinsa...ikaw o ako?
anak: coke o pepsi?
tatay: coke...
anak: diet o regular?
tatay: regular...
anak: bote o can?
tatay: bote...
anak: 8 oz. o litro?
tatay: punyeta....tubig na lang
anak: natural o mineral?
tatay: mineral...
anak: bugnaw o dili?
tatay: lambusan ta man ka aning silhig ron...
anak: lanot o tukog?
tatay: animal man seguro ka!!!
anak: baka o baboy?
tatay: layas!!!...layas! !!...
anak: karon o ugma?
tatay: karon na!!!
anak: imo ko ihatud o dili?
tatay: patyon ta ka karon!!!
anak: tuk-on o pusilon?
tatay: pusilon!!!
anak: sa ulo o tiyan?
tatay: pisteee!!!
anak: ok-ok o ilaga?
tatay: aaaahhhhh... .buang!!!
anak: kinsa...ikaw o ako?
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Jessie's institutional targets for fiscal year 2007-08
1. Go to the gym again. Gotta be beautiful inside and out. And diet. Performance indicator: 30 lbs. weight loss. Probability of success: High.
2. Learn how to dance gracefully. Must learn the basics of standard and latin ballroom dancing. Must ooze with sex and masculinity on the dance floor. This goal is not realistic but miracles always happen in Hollywood. You just wait and see.
3. Read at least one book per month. The last book I've read was Anne Tyler's Back When We Were Grownups and that was way back in July. There was a time that I could manage one book per week, but considering the many tasks that must be squeezed within each seven-day stretch, this target should be appropriate enough.
4. Watch the Miss Universe 2008 beauty pageant in Vietnam. Considering my impending state of joblessness, this goal might not be realized. In this case, I must be able to watch the pageant live within my lifetime.
5. Save. Pursue a taxi-free life, unless the taxi fare may be justifiably charged somewhere else.
6. Engage in great sex more frequently. That which also involves the heart, the mind and the soul.
7. Compile a portfolio of published works, among other outputs of my professional career. Apply for jobs abroad. Do not kiss asses because such part of the human anatomy is reserved only for either spanking or rimming.
8. Draw. Sketch. Write. Watch old movies. Sleep at least eight hours each day. Nurture thy heart and thy body with these simple pleasures.
9. Buy a good camera and capture everything. The extraordinary and the mundane. The colorful and the neutral. The happy and the sad. The ecstasy and the agony. The machines and God's natural gifts.
10. Go to the beach more often. By accomplishing task No.1, going to the beach should no longer be an ordeal but a kinky pleasure.
Mwah!
2. Learn how to dance gracefully. Must learn the basics of standard and latin ballroom dancing. Must ooze with sex and masculinity on the dance floor. This goal is not realistic but miracles always happen in Hollywood. You just wait and see.
3. Read at least one book per month. The last book I've read was Anne Tyler's Back When We Were Grownups and that was way back in July. There was a time that I could manage one book per week, but considering the many tasks that must be squeezed within each seven-day stretch, this target should be appropriate enough.
4. Watch the Miss Universe 2008 beauty pageant in Vietnam. Considering my impending state of joblessness, this goal might not be realized. In this case, I must be able to watch the pageant live within my lifetime.
5. Save. Pursue a taxi-free life, unless the taxi fare may be justifiably charged somewhere else.
6. Engage in great sex more frequently. That which also involves the heart, the mind and the soul.
7. Compile a portfolio of published works, among other outputs of my professional career. Apply for jobs abroad. Do not kiss asses because such part of the human anatomy is reserved only for either spanking or rimming.
8. Draw. Sketch. Write. Watch old movies. Sleep at least eight hours each day. Nurture thy heart and thy body with these simple pleasures.
9. Buy a good camera and capture everything. The extraordinary and the mundane. The colorful and the neutral. The happy and the sad. The ecstasy and the agony. The machines and God's natural gifts.
10. Go to the beach more often. By accomplishing task No.1, going to the beach should no longer be an ordeal but a kinky pleasure.
Mwah!
Friday, October 12, 2007
Jessie's labyrinth
A long time ago, in the Underground Realm, where there are no lies or pain, there lived a princess who dreamt of the human world. She dreamt of blue skies, soft breeze and sunshine. One day, eluding her keepers, the princess escaped. Once outside, the bright sun blinded her and erased her memory. She forgot who she was and where she came from. Her body suffered cold, sickness and pain. And eventually, she died. However, her father, the king, always knew that the princess’ soul would return, perhaps in another body, in another place, at another time. And he would wait for her, until he drew his final breath, until the world stopped turning…
This fairy tale is the premise of Guillermo del Torro's wondrous and dreamlike Pan's Labyrinth. The story unfolds through the eyes of Ofelia, a young girl who finds solace in the worlds of her fairy tales. In her ordinary world, the world that she inhabits with her pregnant mother and unborn brother, there were pain and discontent. In her mystical world, she is her father's long-lost princess, but there are beasts and monsters that she must face and tasks that she must endure before she could reenter her old serene kingdom.
No work for me today because it's a holiday and finally I had the guts to refuse work. I afforded myself the opportunity to be lazy. And of course, Pan's Labyrinth is one of my lazy day's pleasures, together with the Tori Amos CDs that I had been playing since I woke up around 10 this morning.
I love movies like Pan's Labyrinth - those that showcase dreamplaces and wonderlands that are so much different from the earth that we have come to call our home. That is why it's always dangerous when I pop in a Lord of The Rings disc in the player because I simply abandon the rest of the day in favor of Peter Jackson's amazing 10-hour adaptation of Tolkien's middle earth trilogy. I love all three X-Men movies. All six Star Wars episodes. Even the Chronicles of Narnia and Harry Potter. Blah blah blah.
So for today, I think of myself as Ofelia. Yes, the 26-year old, gay guy version of Ofelia in Pan's Labyrinth. Just for today, or I could keep the Ofelia character perhaps for the rest of the weekend. Whatever. Hahahaha. For one, I sense some parallelisms between Ofelia's more accessible world and my own real world because mine is also a bit scattered these days, it's everything but organized and serene. There are no fascists who are carrying guns and ammunitions, but there are Nazi's waging their blitzkriegs of workloads (hahaha, don't ever let me further explain what I am saying here).
And then there is my alternate world - one which doesn't have fairies or fauns or giant toads, but that which has kind and funny and committed guys finding their true love in the unlikeliest places at the supposedly most inconvenient time. In Jessie's labyrinth, there are no talismans or hourglasses, instead there are are white and red roses, chocolates, soft candle lights, teddy bears and whatnots. Dream on. Dream some more. Just don't forget to wake up.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
The wisdom of the decorative lamp
It's 2.44a.m. I should already be asleep by now. It is perfectly human to do so. It is biologically required. I should remind myself next time that sleep is a mandatory human behavior and being vampirically awake should never ever an option.
Whatever.
Yesterday was supposed to be an ordinary day. I was hoping that it would be. I was planning for it to be mundane. But something happened. There was a trigger. A soft one. But chilling.
And so I wrote this dreaded letter. For over two hours, I labored to piece together the words that should encapsulate my five-year worth of drama. There was sadness. There was pain. There was anxiety. There was excitement. There was a spark of adventure.
It's 2.50a.m., my clock says. I should get some sleep. but not until I say something good, heartwarming, positive. Yes, I received an email from best friend Jean, that she's already in Toronto with her Ilana, and the spaces around her are everything that we only see on TV or in the movies. I asked Jean to take pictures and write something that I could post here. And all she could say for now is this:
"The sun doesn't work at all! Naa sun but you can't feel the heat. Mura ra sha decorative lamp."
Wahahahaha. So funny, Jean. I feel so good for you. I love you, Jean!
And I am feeling good for myself too. Beautiful adventure, here I come. Weeeeee!
Whatever.
Yesterday was supposed to be an ordinary day. I was hoping that it would be. I was planning for it to be mundane. But something happened. There was a trigger. A soft one. But chilling.
And so I wrote this dreaded letter. For over two hours, I labored to piece together the words that should encapsulate my five-year worth of drama. There was sadness. There was pain. There was anxiety. There was excitement. There was a spark of adventure.
It's 2.50a.m., my clock says. I should get some sleep. but not until I say something good, heartwarming, positive. Yes, I received an email from best friend Jean, that she's already in Toronto with her Ilana, and the spaces around her are everything that we only see on TV or in the movies. I asked Jean to take pictures and write something that I could post here. And all she could say for now is this:
"The sun doesn't work at all! Naa sun but you can't feel the heat. Mura ra sha decorative lamp."
Wahahahaha. So funny, Jean. I feel so good for you. I love you, Jean!
And I am feeling good for myself too. Beautiful adventure, here I come. Weeeeee!
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
This heinous thing called Love
Things I have so far observed about this emotional blah blah blah called love. Or things that I have noticed about myself, only that I accuse love as the unwitting culprit. Whatever.
1. Love transforms a person into a fictional hollywood character. The person in love loses sight of reality. He abandons the earthly fact that reliable or believable relationships involve numerous ups and downs and transpire over a certain period of time - weeks, months, years, decades if you wanna be more dramatic, centuries if you are aspiring to be one of the vampires in Anne Rice's mythology.
2. Love moves in mysterious ways. There will always be some kind of mystery tantamount to the conspiracy theories of Fox Mulder when one recalls past actions done in the name of love. Probably because those past actions defied physical laws like the law of gravity. Or simply because the actions were so stupid and oh so scary.
3. Love is a beautiful dream worth sleeping for. I know I am the prince. I know I am the knight in shining armor. And somewhere deep in the forest... somewhere in those mountains, vast lands and kingdoms... wala lang. Char char lang. Ahihihihi.
4. Love is constant. Over time, a person changes because of love. A person changes his attitude towards love. A person reacts differently to the positive or negative impacts of love. In fact, there are several documented cases on persons who just one day refuse to love for widely popular reasons and psychoses. But love shall remain constant. It will forever hover above us with its strange gifts and complicated wisdom. Char again.
5. Love is a strange feeling that only begins when you open up your heart and let somebody in. This must be one of the most heinous thoughts on love. It's so bloody corny. It's so shamefully melodramatic. It's so reminiscent of that Jose Mari Chan-Regine Velasquez song "Please Be Careful With My Heart." It's so ... me.
Gosh.
1. Love transforms a person into a fictional hollywood character. The person in love loses sight of reality. He abandons the earthly fact that reliable or believable relationships involve numerous ups and downs and transpire over a certain period of time - weeks, months, years, decades if you wanna be more dramatic, centuries if you are aspiring to be one of the vampires in Anne Rice's mythology.
2. Love moves in mysterious ways. There will always be some kind of mystery tantamount to the conspiracy theories of Fox Mulder when one recalls past actions done in the name of love. Probably because those past actions defied physical laws like the law of gravity. Or simply because the actions were so stupid and oh so scary.
3. Love is a beautiful dream worth sleeping for. I know I am the prince. I know I am the knight in shining armor. And somewhere deep in the forest... somewhere in those mountains, vast lands and kingdoms... wala lang. Char char lang. Ahihihihi.
4. Love is constant. Over time, a person changes because of love. A person changes his attitude towards love. A person reacts differently to the positive or negative impacts of love. In fact, there are several documented cases on persons who just one day refuse to love for widely popular reasons and psychoses. But love shall remain constant. It will forever hover above us with its strange gifts and complicated wisdom. Char again.
5. Love is a strange feeling that only begins when you open up your heart and let somebody in. This must be one of the most heinous thoughts on love. It's so bloody corny. It's so shamefully melodramatic. It's so reminiscent of that Jose Mari Chan-Regine Velasquez song "Please Be Careful With My Heart." It's so ... me.
Gosh.
Computers, relationships and the tops and the bottoms
Last Saturday, I went home past 9p.m. I had coffee at Bo's SM with a very very close friend, someone that I grew up with. She is leaving for Canada today, taking the 11:00a.m. flight, to be with her girl. I am so happy and excited for Jean and Ilana. But oddly, I was depressed somehow. Depressed for myself. All my friends are going somewhere. All my friends are going to be strangers. Hahahaha.
And so I ended up redecorating, redesigning and refurnishing my blog. Three days later, I am still at it. In fairness to the technology, it somehow killed the depressing thoughts that plagued my beautiful mind. Hihihi. It temporarily annihilated the energies that are usually reserved for ceaseless whinings.
Yesterday, Monday, I spent 9a.m. until past 8a.m. facing the computer monitor, going through the motions of balancing the gazillion figures in the excel spreadsheets, navigating the keyboard as if it were some perfect guy's body. I took a taxi cab instead of the jeep because I had a valid excuse - I was tired and I deserved a comfortable ride. Arrived safely, had dinner but instead of killing the rest of the time by sleeping, there I was again with my computer-related whatnots. When I did finally dose off and woke up seven hours later, I discovered that I failed to turn off my computer, and my screen was oh so filled with YM messages. Then I checked the Yahoo! main page only to be confronted with this devastating news (if this would actually qualify as news, if devastating is really the perfect adjective for this piece of information):
It’s the relationship you spend more time on than any other. It has deepened even during the past few years. When things go wrong, you become enraged and tearful and attack inanimate objects—but you’re willing to spend hours making things right. Obviously, we’re talking about your relationship with your personal computer. Consider this: In a survey earlier this year, 64 percent of Americans say they spend more time with their computer than with their significant other. Meanwhile, 84 percent said they were more dependent on their computer than they were three years ago.
This world is really becoming crazy. And I am becoming crazy. I am already very crazy.
Oh well. I have nice online friends anyhow. And besides, people don't acquire any of those sexually transmitted diseases by engaging in cyber porn, right? Even if our eyes are already very bloodshot because we are feasting on many tops and damn too many bottoms. Ahihihihi.
And so I ended up redecorating, redesigning and refurnishing my blog. Three days later, I am still at it. In fairness to the technology, it somehow killed the depressing thoughts that plagued my beautiful mind. Hihihi. It temporarily annihilated the energies that are usually reserved for ceaseless whinings.
Yesterday, Monday, I spent 9a.m. until past 8a.m. facing the computer monitor, going through the motions of balancing the gazillion figures in the excel spreadsheets, navigating the keyboard as if it were some perfect guy's body. I took a taxi cab instead of the jeep because I had a valid excuse - I was tired and I deserved a comfortable ride. Arrived safely, had dinner but instead of killing the rest of the time by sleeping, there I was again with my computer-related whatnots. When I did finally dose off and woke up seven hours later, I discovered that I failed to turn off my computer, and my screen was oh so filled with YM messages. Then I checked the Yahoo! main page only to be confronted with this devastating news (if this would actually qualify as news, if devastating is really the perfect adjective for this piece of information):
It’s the relationship you spend more time on than any other. It has deepened even during the past few years. When things go wrong, you become enraged and tearful and attack inanimate objects—but you’re willing to spend hours making things right. Obviously, we’re talking about your relationship with your personal computer. Consider this: In a survey earlier this year, 64 percent of Americans say they spend more time with their computer than with their significant other. Meanwhile, 84 percent said they were more dependent on their computer than they were three years ago.
This world is really becoming crazy. And I am becoming crazy. I am already very crazy.
Oh well. I have nice online friends anyhow. And besides, people don't acquire any of those sexually transmitted diseases by engaging in cyber porn, right? Even if our eyes are already very bloodshot because we are feasting on many tops and damn too many bottoms. Ahihihihi.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
The Horse Whisperer
Way back in college, around ten years ago, we were tasked to review Robert Redford’s screen adaptation of Nicholas Evans’ bestselling book, “The Horse Whisperer.” It was for our Humanities class, one of my favorite subjects then although it was just a minor. The film was shown in Ayala Center and I watched it with Jean, one of my best friends, who, by the way, is moving to Canada in two days to be with her beautiful Ilana.
The Horse Whisperer is one of those movies that are very dear to me. I am not about to launch one of those movie reviews, but briefly, the film is about, hmmm, I think – healing. Annie (played by Kristin Scott Thomas), a strong-willed mother, abandons her magazine editor job to bring Pilgrim, her daughter’s horse, to the vast plains of Montana, to a man known to heal psychologically wounded horses. Annie hopes that this would also heal her daughter Grace (played by a very young Scarlett Johanssen), who was emotionally devastated and physically disabled because of the accident. There, Annie met the horse whisperer, Tom Booker (portrayed by handsome Robert Redford)...
The ending of The Horse Whisperer is not happy at all. It is bittersweet. But still inspiring and I guess I may have to affirm, once once once again, that I will always be ultra-hollywood when it comes to love and romance.
Annie: I envy your mother. I do. It must be great to be her age and to be at that point in your life when you have no more guess work. No more impossible decisions to make. And anyway, it doesn't matter because all the worries and all the wrong turns that you made are as valuable and as cherished as the things that you did right. Oh, it must be such a relief. Must be such peace in that.
Tom: Well, i don't think that you have to wait to be her age to find that kind of peace.
Annie: Yeah, but how would you know unless it was all behind you? Do you have it?
Tom: Sometimes. Not all the time. But sometime. Wakin' up in the ranch everyday. Knowing what im supposed to do that day. Knowing im home.
Annie: I wake up in the morning and i don't know a damn thing. And the more i try to fix things, the more everything falls apart.
Tom: Maybe you should let 'em fall.
Annie: No, I can't.
Char!
The Horse Whisperer is one of those movies that are very dear to me. I am not about to launch one of those movie reviews, but briefly, the film is about, hmmm, I think – healing. Annie (played by Kristin Scott Thomas), a strong-willed mother, abandons her magazine editor job to bring Pilgrim, her daughter’s horse, to the vast plains of Montana, to a man known to heal psychologically wounded horses. Annie hopes that this would also heal her daughter Grace (played by a very young Scarlett Johanssen), who was emotionally devastated and physically disabled because of the accident. There, Annie met the horse whisperer, Tom Booker (portrayed by handsome Robert Redford)...
The ending of The Horse Whisperer is not happy at all. It is bittersweet. But still inspiring and I guess I may have to affirm, once once once again, that I will always be ultra-hollywood when it comes to love and romance.
Annie: I envy your mother. I do. It must be great to be her age and to be at that point in your life when you have no more guess work. No more impossible decisions to make. And anyway, it doesn't matter because all the worries and all the wrong turns that you made are as valuable and as cherished as the things that you did right. Oh, it must be such a relief. Must be such peace in that.
Tom: Well, i don't think that you have to wait to be her age to find that kind of peace.
Annie: Yeah, but how would you know unless it was all behind you? Do you have it?
Tom: Sometimes. Not all the time. But sometime. Wakin' up in the ranch everyday. Knowing what im supposed to do that day. Knowing im home.
Annie: I wake up in the morning and i don't know a damn thing. And the more i try to fix things, the more everything falls apart.
Tom: Maybe you should let 'em fall.
Annie: No, I can't.
Char!
Knowing is the easy part. Saying it out loud is the hard part.
Annie and Tom. The Horse Whisperer.
Annie: Is this how it's gonna be now, hmmm? You dont speak to me. We dont speak to each other. Well, Im speaking to you now so say something.
Tom: No.
Annie: Why?
Tom: I cant get in the middle of this.
Annie: Well i am afraid that you are in the middle of this.
Tom: He's a good man, Annie.
Annie: I never said he wasn't. I can't change the way i feel.
Tom: You gotta figure out what you want.
Annie: Do you know what you want?
Tom: I do know what i want. And im trying real hard not to get lost in this. I never expected to feel this way again. Annie, this is where i belong. This is who i am. Is this what you want?
Annie: Yeah.
Tom: Are you sure?
Annie: Yeah.
Tom: Can you tell that to your family? To Robert? To Grace? If you had the chance to go home and change things, would you?
Annie: You can't ask me that. It's not that simple.
Tom: It is.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Liking you is tender
Liking you is tender
Liking you is tender.
It means that I enjoy drinking the moments spent with you.
It means that the voice of your eyes and the gaze of your smile linger with me long after you go.
Liking you is innocent.
Because I am softly hurled back to my younger self despite my age and my wisdom.
Because it makes me carve hearts and arrows in the aged barks of trees in my playground.
Liking you is romantic.
There are flowers and violin players in the sidewalk cafeteria where we eat.
There are streams and brooks and swans in the noisy roads that we travel.
Liking you is pretty scary.
There is no certainty to the amount of sensible words that might get lost when I get to see you again soon.
There is that nagging and sometimes numbing thought that you’re already seeing me differently from now on.
Liking you is not loving you.
Liking you is making you that beautiful exception among the bright stars in the sky, the mosses in the stones and the moist morning grasses in the vast field.
Liking you is waiting for that season when loving you would already be alright.
September 8, 2007
Bohol Bee Farm, Panglao Island, Bohol
Liking you is tender.
It means that I enjoy drinking the moments spent with you.
It means that the voice of your eyes and the gaze of your smile linger with me long after you go.
Liking you is innocent.
Because I am softly hurled back to my younger self despite my age and my wisdom.
Because it makes me carve hearts and arrows in the aged barks of trees in my playground.
Liking you is romantic.
There are flowers and violin players in the sidewalk cafeteria where we eat.
There are streams and brooks and swans in the noisy roads that we travel.
Liking you is pretty scary.
There is no certainty to the amount of sensible words that might get lost when I get to see you again soon.
There is that nagging and sometimes numbing thought that you’re already seeing me differently from now on.
Liking you is not loving you.
Liking you is making you that beautiful exception among the bright stars in the sky, the mosses in the stones and the moist morning grasses in the vast field.
Liking you is waiting for that season when loving you would already be alright.
September 8, 2007
Bohol Bee Farm, Panglao Island, Bohol
It’s a nice Sunday, my Baby
It’s a nice Sunday, my Baby
It’s a nice Sunday, my baby.
How about if we take
a nice long walk somewhere?
Some place where
there are lots of trees
and soft grasses
and we could chase each other
like the little boys we once were.
But instead of swapping toys
and sharing sweets and cotton candies,
we would just smile to the sun because
of our many hugs and many kisses.
It’s a nice Sunday, my baby.
How about if we
just spend the day in our couch
and watch some old movies?
You know that I am such a sucker
for those Hollywood romances.
You know that I love
to be teased by you
when I go gaga over those corny lines
and mushy happy endings.
We could call the pizza guy
and in a little while
I would just adore the heaven that is you
as you walk towards our door,
in your boxers and skin,
to fetch our delivery.
It’s a nice Sunday, my baby.
How about if we just don’t leave our bed
as I have in my mind
some pretty interesting stuff
that we could both enjoy
beneath the soft white sheets?
Yeah, I feel a bit lazy today,
and you know how crazy I become
when I am lazy and you are also just inches away.
Let us enjoy this day, my baby.
Let us see the beautiful world from our bed,
through our bedroom window
where the graceful morning light
is shining through.
September 9, 2007
Naval, Biliran
It’s a nice Sunday, my baby.
How about if we take
a nice long walk somewhere?
Some place where
there are lots of trees
and soft grasses
and we could chase each other
like the little boys we once were.
But instead of swapping toys
and sharing sweets and cotton candies,
we would just smile to the sun because
of our many hugs and many kisses.
It’s a nice Sunday, my baby.
How about if we
just spend the day in our couch
and watch some old movies?
You know that I am such a sucker
for those Hollywood romances.
You know that I love
to be teased by you
when I go gaga over those corny lines
and mushy happy endings.
We could call the pizza guy
and in a little while
I would just adore the heaven that is you
as you walk towards our door,
in your boxers and skin,
to fetch our delivery.
It’s a nice Sunday, my baby.
How about if we just don’t leave our bed
as I have in my mind
some pretty interesting stuff
that we could both enjoy
beneath the soft white sheets?
Yeah, I feel a bit lazy today,
and you know how crazy I become
when I am lazy and you are also just inches away.
Let us enjoy this day, my baby.
Let us see the beautiful world from our bed,
through our bedroom window
where the graceful morning light
is shining through.
September 9, 2007
Naval, Biliran
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