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.
Friday, November 30, 2007
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
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Of Jedi's and Eklavu's
10 things lesbians, gays, straights, transgendered, and the straights too, should know about George Lucas’ Star Wars Saga
1. Anakin Skywalker and Queen/Senator Padme Amidala’s love is forbidden because Anakin is destined for another groundbreaking relationship – that with mentor and master Obi Wan Kenobi. The midi-chlorians in Anakin’s cells are receptive to the male and female sexes. The Jedi council has foreseen very controversial consequences as results of Anakin’s emotional entanglements during his youth. If Anakin were to fall insanely in love with a female species, he would be converted to the dark side. Only a requited love – a love from another Jedi - would bring balance to the Force. However, the Jedi Council would not also allow this because…
2. …the Jedi knights are closet queens. A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, the Jedi knights were celebrated as protectors of the republic. However, the empire is characterized by widespread homophobia that’s why it was so goddamn difficult for the Jedi’s to be “out.” Hence, the Jedi’s strictly observe a code that forbids them from nurturing emotional relationships. This way, the Jedi’s apparent lack of interest in women would be justified and society would not become suspicious of them.
3. The Force makes itself available only to hardcore gays or lesbians. Heterosexuals, whether human or alien, doesn’t have the ability to feel and experience the Force. Those who embrace the Force, though remaining secretive about it, become Jedi’s. All Jedi’s are good citizens and they continually foster justice, peace, beauty and glamour in the republic. Trivia: do you know that the techno lights, which are so popular in gay places like clubs and disco bars, were actually based on the light sabers used by the Jedi’s?
4. Princess Leia is a lesbian. Leia’s ability to establish connection with twin brother, Luke Skywalker, even though he is gazillion miles or light years away, are indicators that the Force is also strong in her. In fact, her uncanny abilities to combat troops of droids already gave her away. In an amazing fight sequence in Episode VI: The Return of the Jedi, specifically the hot pursuit in the Ewok forest, Leia could very well be a dyke on a bike! And of course, through R2D2, she urgently pleads for the help of no less than the old flame of his father – Obi Wan Kenobi! Though the identity of his father was still unknown to her, the Force was already that strong.
5. There are many, however, who have the ability to feel and communicate with the Force but cannot accept the staggering fact of their homosexuality - they are the homophobics. By using the Force for corrupt and destructive purposes, the homophobics become the Siths. Darth Lord Siddious, the powerful Sith warrior who is bent on destroying the Jedi’s, clouded Anakin’s mind. He was successful, and Anakin and Obi Wan Kenobi’s desire for each other was doomed forever. Trivia: There was a rumor, apparently from the all-male army of the Dark Lord, that Anakin’s lower extremities were badly destroyed following the thrilling swordfight between him and Obi Wan in Episode III, The Revenge of the Sith. Because his organ is irreplaceable, the Dark Lord made Anakin trans-gendered. But then again, this is just a rumor ng mga chismosang bakleta in the armed forces.
6. At present, 2006, the Force is still with us. It is now called Gaydar. Hence, our greetings and fond affections to our fellow gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgendered, as well as straights, should be this: “May the Gaydar be with you!”
7. Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” was originally written and composed for Star Wars to be played during the closing credits in all six episodes. But George Lucas feared widespread boycott by the homophobic viewing public because the song was just too pop and too flamboyant. Thus, he commissioned the services of John Williams, a musician more inclined towards the classical genre. John Williams, of course, remains as one of the modern masters of classical music. “I Will Survive” on the other hand, is hailed as the ultimate gay anthem in the past three decades.
8. The Star Wars saga is in fact based on J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings – another fantasy saga that has a gay undercurrent. You might argue, “Hey, LOTR was only released in 2002 whereas George Lucas’ Star Wars was already embraced by the world way back in 1977!” In that case, you are a stupid, illiterate and misinformed dork. The introduction of Tolkien’s LOTR trilogy, The Hobbit, was already devoured by the reading public as early as 1937. Even Gone With The Wind was yet to be shown in America at this time. Apparently, George Lucas was so moved by the special relationship between the ring-bearer Frodo Baggins and his willing companion, fellow-hobbit Samwise Gamgee, that he brought their unique love story from the middle earth to space!
9. C-3PO is actually a parlor gay robot! You must understand that Barbie dolls were not yet popular girl and gay toys a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away. The strength of the Force in Anakin, although he was still a child, enabled him to create a droid/plaything that would also help them in their household chores. Alas! C-3PO is a very soft spoken droid. He even sways when he walks. And he speaks six million languages. Of course, you might slap me with hateful words, “You are very stereotypical! You should be burned at the stakes!” But in case you haven’t noticed, soft speech, the swaying of the hips and linguistic inventiveness are characteristics of typical parlorista’s!
10. Han Solo is NOT gay! If he were, then there is no reason for everybody else to be not gay and all the inhabitants of the republic might as well be Jedi’s. There were two incidents wherein Han Solo saved the life of Luke Skywalker, specifically the rescues from the Death Star explosion and the ice-storm in episodes IV and V, respectively. Because of these, the gay community might just applaud the blossoming relationship of Han Solo and Luke Skywalker. But the idea is preposterous! Han Solo is just a hunk who happens to be a good pilot. That’s all. In fact, his Millennium Falcon is synonymous with the Ferrari’s and Harley’s that are treated by modern men as their babies. The Force or the Gaydar is non-existent in him. The tender jealousy he displays, which was his unconscious reaction to the bond between Luke and Princess Leia, were no less than expressions of sincere love and devotion. Pare, men fall madly in love too, you know. ‘Di lang mga bading ang napa-praning sa pag-ibig noh!
DISCLAIMER: This is just a spoof. This is not intended to mar the fabulous reputation of the Star Wars saga. Kumpareng George naman, friends tayo, di vah? Alam mo namang luuvv na luuvv ko ang Star Wars mo!
1. Anakin Skywalker and Queen/Senator Padme Amidala’s love is forbidden because Anakin is destined for another groundbreaking relationship – that with mentor and master Obi Wan Kenobi. The midi-chlorians in Anakin’s cells are receptive to the male and female sexes. The Jedi council has foreseen very controversial consequences as results of Anakin’s emotional entanglements during his youth. If Anakin were to fall insanely in love with a female species, he would be converted to the dark side. Only a requited love – a love from another Jedi - would bring balance to the Force. However, the Jedi Council would not also allow this because…
2. …the Jedi knights are closet queens. A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, the Jedi knights were celebrated as protectors of the republic. However, the empire is characterized by widespread homophobia that’s why it was so goddamn difficult for the Jedi’s to be “out.” Hence, the Jedi’s strictly observe a code that forbids them from nurturing emotional relationships. This way, the Jedi’s apparent lack of interest in women would be justified and society would not become suspicious of them.
3. The Force makes itself available only to hardcore gays or lesbians. Heterosexuals, whether human or alien, doesn’t have the ability to feel and experience the Force. Those who embrace the Force, though remaining secretive about it, become Jedi’s. All Jedi’s are good citizens and they continually foster justice, peace, beauty and glamour in the republic. Trivia: do you know that the techno lights, which are so popular in gay places like clubs and disco bars, were actually based on the light sabers used by the Jedi’s?
4. Princess Leia is a lesbian. Leia’s ability to establish connection with twin brother, Luke Skywalker, even though he is gazillion miles or light years away, are indicators that the Force is also strong in her. In fact, her uncanny abilities to combat troops of droids already gave her away. In an amazing fight sequence in Episode VI: The Return of the Jedi, specifically the hot pursuit in the Ewok forest, Leia could very well be a dyke on a bike! And of course, through R2D2, she urgently pleads for the help of no less than the old flame of his father – Obi Wan Kenobi! Though the identity of his father was still unknown to her, the Force was already that strong.
5. There are many, however, who have the ability to feel and communicate with the Force but cannot accept the staggering fact of their homosexuality - they are the homophobics. By using the Force for corrupt and destructive purposes, the homophobics become the Siths. Darth Lord Siddious, the powerful Sith warrior who is bent on destroying the Jedi’s, clouded Anakin’s mind. He was successful, and Anakin and Obi Wan Kenobi’s desire for each other was doomed forever. Trivia: There was a rumor, apparently from the all-male army of the Dark Lord, that Anakin’s lower extremities were badly destroyed following the thrilling swordfight between him and Obi Wan in Episode III, The Revenge of the Sith. Because his organ is irreplaceable, the Dark Lord made Anakin trans-gendered. But then again, this is just a rumor ng mga chismosang bakleta in the armed forces.
6. At present, 2006, the Force is still with us. It is now called Gaydar. Hence, our greetings and fond affections to our fellow gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgendered, as well as straights, should be this: “May the Gaydar be with you!”
7. Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” was originally written and composed for Star Wars to be played during the closing credits in all six episodes. But George Lucas feared widespread boycott by the homophobic viewing public because the song was just too pop and too flamboyant. Thus, he commissioned the services of John Williams, a musician more inclined towards the classical genre. John Williams, of course, remains as one of the modern masters of classical music. “I Will Survive” on the other hand, is hailed as the ultimate gay anthem in the past three decades.
8. The Star Wars saga is in fact based on J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings – another fantasy saga that has a gay undercurrent. You might argue, “Hey, LOTR was only released in 2002 whereas George Lucas’ Star Wars was already embraced by the world way back in 1977!” In that case, you are a stupid, illiterate and misinformed dork. The introduction of Tolkien’s LOTR trilogy, The Hobbit, was already devoured by the reading public as early as 1937. Even Gone With The Wind was yet to be shown in America at this time. Apparently, George Lucas was so moved by the special relationship between the ring-bearer Frodo Baggins and his willing companion, fellow-hobbit Samwise Gamgee, that he brought their unique love story from the middle earth to space!
9. C-3PO is actually a parlor gay robot! You must understand that Barbie dolls were not yet popular girl and gay toys a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away. The strength of the Force in Anakin, although he was still a child, enabled him to create a droid/plaything that would also help them in their household chores. Alas! C-3PO is a very soft spoken droid. He even sways when he walks. And he speaks six million languages. Of course, you might slap me with hateful words, “You are very stereotypical! You should be burned at the stakes!” But in case you haven’t noticed, soft speech, the swaying of the hips and linguistic inventiveness are characteristics of typical parlorista’s!
10. Han Solo is NOT gay! If he were, then there is no reason for everybody else to be not gay and all the inhabitants of the republic might as well be Jedi’s. There were two incidents wherein Han Solo saved the life of Luke Skywalker, specifically the rescues from the Death Star explosion and the ice-storm in episodes IV and V, respectively. Because of these, the gay community might just applaud the blossoming relationship of Han Solo and Luke Skywalker. But the idea is preposterous! Han Solo is just a hunk who happens to be a good pilot. That’s all. In fact, his Millennium Falcon is synonymous with the Ferrari’s and Harley’s that are treated by modern men as their babies. The Force or the Gaydar is non-existent in him. The tender jealousy he displays, which was his unconscious reaction to the bond between Luke and Princess Leia, were no less than expressions of sincere love and devotion. Pare, men fall madly in love too, you know. ‘Di lang mga bading ang napa-praning sa pag-ibig noh!
DISCLAIMER: This is just a spoof. This is not intended to mar the fabulous reputation of the Star Wars saga. Kumpareng George naman, friends tayo, di vah? Alam mo namang luuvv na luuvv ko ang Star Wars mo!
Friday, September 08, 2006
Strange Fat Boys.
She only looked away for a moment, and the mask slipped, and you fell. All your tomorrows start here.
She wonders what her daughter will do.She wonders what her daughter will be.
Several years later, from a taxi, you will see someone in a doorway who looks like her, but she will be gone by the time you persuade the driver to stop. You will never see her again.
Whenever it rains you think of her.
Thirty-five years a showgirl that she admits to, and her feet hurt, day in, day out, from the high heels, but she can walk down steps with a forty-pound headdress in high heels, she's walked across a stage with a lion in high heels, she could walk through goddamn Hell in high heels if it came to that.
And then, her business joyfully concluded, she forgets him utterly and forever, and she turns her attention to the next.
One day she won't love you too. It will break your heart.
She rides rollercoasters but never screams when they plummet or twist and upside down.
If you told her the jacket was yours she'd just shrug and give it back to you. It's not like she cares, not one way or the other.
She remains on the edges of time, implacable, unhurt, beyond, and one day you will open your eyes and see her, and after that, the dark.
It is not a reaping. Instead, she will pluck you, gently, like a feather, or a flower for her hair.
This is what they do for a living. They walk in, take what they need, walk out again.
It's not glamorous. It's just business. It may not always be strictly legal.
It's just business.
She found the first body in a stairwell.
That night, after the shower, which could not wash what she had had to do away, not really, she said to her husband, "I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"That this job is making me hard. That it's making me someone else. Someone I don't know any more."
He pulled her close, and held her, and they stayed touching, skin to skin, until dawn.
The smell of cordite always makes her think of the fourth of July.You use the gifts God gave you. That was what her mother had said, which makes their falling out even harder, somehow. Nobody will ever hurt her. She'll just make her faint vague wonderful smile and walk away.
It's not about the money. It's never about the money.
Actually the Gestapo picked her up during a border crossing in 1943, and they left her in a meadow. First she dug her own grave, then a single bullet to the back of the skull.
Her last thought, before that bullet, was that she was four months' pregnant, and that if we do not fight to create a future there will be no future for any of us.
Some of the girls were boys.
The view changes from where you are standing.
Words can wound, and wounds can heal.
All of these things are true.
Written by Neil Gaiman.
Inspired by Tori Amos.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Lives in peril: the oil spill in Guimaras
Last Saturday, I went to Guimaras together with two officemates, Danny and Raymund. Our assignment were to conduct environmental assessment and produce an initial screening report on the impact of the oil spill to the affected communities in the island province. It was my first time in Guimaras, and probably won't be the last should our foundation (PBSP) implement a livelihood rehabilitation program for the affected families, especially those whose source of income is fishing.
What confronted us were very sad images - stained white beaches, patches and patches of mangroves buried in bunker fuel from the waist down, lifeless fishes in the water's surface, waters perpetually polluted. But just as man is responsible for the destruction of Guimaras' marine ecosystem, there are also so much that man can do so the future of this island paradise would not remain as bleak.
Here are some of the pictures that I took last weekend.
Almost dead from the waist down.
Life amidst death.
This used to be a sea of honey.
What confronted us were very sad images - stained white beaches, patches and patches of mangroves buried in bunker fuel from the waist down, lifeless fishes in the water's surface, waters perpetually polluted. But just as man is responsible for the destruction of Guimaras' marine ecosystem, there are also so much that man can do so the future of this island paradise would not remain as bleak.
Here are some of the pictures that I took last weekend.
Almost dead from the waist down.
Life amidst death.
This used to be a sea of honey.
Friday, August 25, 2006
If my life were captured in a book
If my life were captured in a book, I would want a lengthy title for the book, something that would ultimately encompass my life and times, just in case the more than 5 billion people of the world would be too occupied to even read the back cover text of my book. Thus, spake zarathustra, the recommended book titles:
1. How to dismantle an atomic bomb without losing a finger but compromising your sanity: the life and times of Jessie Cubijano
2. How to kill a monster and secure a place in heaven: freeing the human race of Jessie Cubijano
3. Werewolf from the firmament: loving and hating the montrosity that is Jessie Cubijano
4. Tinimbang ka ngunit kulang: ang mga pakikipagsapalaran ni Jessie Cubijano sa buhay at sa pag-ibig
1. How to dismantle an atomic bomb without losing a finger but compromising your sanity: the life and times of Jessie Cubijano
2. How to kill a monster and secure a place in heaven: freeing the human race of Jessie Cubijano
3. Werewolf from the firmament: loving and hating the montrosity that is Jessie Cubijano
4. Tinimbang ka ngunit kulang: ang mga pakikipagsapalaran ni Jessie Cubijano sa buhay at sa pag-ibig
Monday, August 14, 2006
I Want You To Know
I Want You To Know
I
I want you to know
that I love you.
Though this I’ve said
a hundred times before.
Still, saying these words now matters-
this hour, this minute,
because here in this place that you built for me,
I never wanna stop loving you.
II
I want you to believe
in my trust for you.
Though my fears are like open wounds-
dripping with blood.
These wounds are gaping holes that flinch
with your cotton touch drenched in liquid medicine.
Still I wanna kiss your sting because it will heal me-
always, I know, completely.
III
I need you to understand
the strength of my loneliness.
Though your own shouldn’t make you
a stranger to this feeling.
I create my imaginary company, some of which are angels
while many are monsters and demons.
Yet, you were a warm body who rose above the fiction
that seemed never-ending.
IV
You may not feel it at times,
but I’m with you always.
Heart, mind, body, spirit-
Your presence within me, around me, yes, always so fierce.
12 August 2006
I
I want you to know
that I love you.
Though this I’ve said
a hundred times before.
Still, saying these words now matters-
this hour, this minute,
because here in this place that you built for me,
I never wanna stop loving you.
II
I want you to believe
in my trust for you.
Though my fears are like open wounds-
dripping with blood.
These wounds are gaping holes that flinch
with your cotton touch drenched in liquid medicine.
Still I wanna kiss your sting because it will heal me-
always, I know, completely.
III
I need you to understand
the strength of my loneliness.
Though your own shouldn’t make you
a stranger to this feeling.
I create my imaginary company, some of which are angels
while many are monsters and demons.
Yet, you were a warm body who rose above the fiction
that seemed never-ending.
IV
You may not feel it at times,
but I’m with you always.
Heart, mind, body, spirit-
Your presence within me, around me, yes, always so fierce.
12 August 2006
Thursday, July 27, 2006
The boogieman on happiness, peace
Peace, happiness - they don't happen or occur forever. One just can't live 24/7 and have happiness and peace in his backpack or drawers. The happiness, or the peace - it just happens and you meet it head on, and later on you will realize that you've done the right thing when you seized it when it was there.
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