Neverwhere Is Here

Because I'm a Woman and Should Be Treated as Man's Equal

2012-03-09T08:02:00.002+08:00

Bruno dear,

The rest of the evening was spent mulling over and caterwauling over the whole thing. The thing being the one-sided but still heated discussion of the roles of men and women and how both genders can never be equal. I had a hard time convincing myself that it was just the typical alchohol and ego-tripping duo in action. I wanted to talk back but i chickened out.

After all, why shall I spoil such a great night of food, beer, and stories worth listening by voicing out what I really feel about what you just said? You were so sure of yourself; so certain of everything that came out of your lips, you could have won over an entire barrio for the next national polls or build your own cult of trolls.

So i went mute; I rarely spoke. The reckless in me wanted to talk and bark my way to claiming that a woman is a man's equal, not an inch more, not an inch less. The rational in me simply took the backseat and calmly advised that there's no use proving your point to someone who has already made up his mind. I took the latter's advice.

Men, as reflected in history you say, are polygamous. I have no effin' problem with that. It's a fact that i have accepted long ago. Meg Wolitzer said it best – a man will always want to conquer, crush and astound everything, another man's woman included. It's something they do with pride.

Women, looking back to history you say, are genetically designed as weak and totally dependent from their male counterparts. Worst of all, they cannot wholeheartedly declare to the world that they've slept with another woman's man as they have no other choice but be named a whore. What if a woman wants to bail out , too?

I could have cut you off or answered back that all that's coming out from your mouth are loads of crapola. But i did not. I reckon that it would be futile, like a blind stab done in the dark.

So i slept it off. I woke up this morning berating myself for not lending voice to the women I know and those that i do not-- my mother, aunts, hair stylist, fish vendor and even Kris Aquino. To top it all off, while at work, the google doodle is trying to tell me that today is international woman's day. Imagine the guilt, what with another reminder of you spewing bucketloads of sexist opinions last night.

The most i can come up with is this letter. If you make your way back to the first sentence, you're not going to find any solid argument as to why women should be treated as man's equal. But ain't it a given already that women should be allowed to do things their male counterparts also do? to hell with your thesis on male polygamy, culture, history and norms as stale as your values.

Love,

Kai

pointlessness

2012-02-03T21:19:00.016+08:00

"Each time he took a walk, he felt as though he were leaving himself behind, and by giving himself up to the movement of the streets, by reducing himself to a seeing eye, he was able to escape the obligation to think, and this, more than anything else, brought him a measure of peace, a salutary emptiness within…By wandering aimlessly, all places became equal and it no longer mattered where he was. On his best walks he was able to feel that he was nowhere. And this, finally was all he ever asked of things: to be nowhere".

- The New York Trilogy, Paul Auster

Days and nights find their way to my doorstep a little bit late. I've been doing the same thing over and over again--- write, write, write. When one is supposed to weave ( how does distill and concoct sound?) words for a living, you get past this point where staring into the far distance frequently in a day does not surprise you anymore.

I am not even sure if I got the supposedly weaving of words right. Of course, writing is one of those things that I hold dear but doubts, as always, creep in. It is what I am tasked to write (add in poring over texts that sometimes don't make sense or too utterly incomprehensible to grasp that they're not really meant for publishing) that empties me of anything worth capturing in ink.

Insert "Pointless" here.
---

A good number of people at work are playing this guessing game-- ala Eat Bulaga's Pinoy Henyo. I casually mentioned that we don't have TV at home (we do have one but it's rarely used) which explains why I have this clueless look every time local celebrities are talked about in one of the categories. One of the mortified colleagues asked what type of life do I lead and further commented that perhaps, my days are dull and tasteless. I simply responded, "But there's always the Internet." I could have thrown back an answer explaining that life without TV is not dull at all, that there are thousand worlds out there waiting to be discovered and waiting to be named. But I was feeling sluggish the entire day and realized that there's no used proving my point when I feel bland myself. She might be right. But I'm not yet entirely convinced.

Insert another "Pointless" here.
---

I believe in the existence of a remedy though, an antidote to all the pointlessness permeating the self. This might be what drowning feels, the infinite blue above blanketing you to a deep slumber amidst the rocking waves. You gasp for air but nothing's left. Buoyancy has left.

Gravity has found me.

I will continue to write. I am writing now. Letter after letter, line after line. I will feel better after this. I feel better now. And I will read, walk, listen, talk, and sleep more. Yes, maybe love more. Before anyone else, I shall be a lover to myself. And yes, there are a lot of friends to see, meet and talk to soon. Now, will you excuse me?

what they have to say...

2012-01-24T17:24:00.000+08:00

is what I intend to talk about today, too.

Open Letter to Eros

by Simone Muench

I want a love that is imprecise, one

that sprawls over the bed, spills out windows,

disrupting churchgoers as they stroll

across the green glow of mowed lawns. I want

a love that commandeers the world, a bone-

clanking, hydrant-splashing, dog-

salivating affair. The ravaged and

the ravenous — those lycanthropes of lust.

No candy hearts or delicacies

of language. Do not ask me

to be demure, clean or to go

with the flow. I am electric.

I sprinkle poison

in the bird feeder, watch blue jays

fall like insatiable kisses.

I want fuck and prick

and cunt. Those delicious monosyllables

of want. I want you in a chair

handcuffed and desiring me so badly

even your feet are on fire. I want

love that is black as a highway

on a starless night, black as madness, sable

smooth and impenetrable. I want love

to write a love poem to me

with bad intentions.

Love is my nemesis,

my neurosurgeon, the unruly

child, the car that won’t steer

straight, the boy on a skateboard

carving the street

into attraction and repulsion.

I want a love that is contradictory, indelible

and edible, a love that relishes

imperfections and requisitions the moon.

A love that isn’t afraid of grief, sadness,

the small crimes we commit

against ourselves; love as cool

as a bruise, sensitive as skin

on eyelids, nipples and ears.

I want a love that listens:

to rain a half mile

before it hits the house; to the feather

brushing sound of morning glories as they close

their petals for rain’s arrival; the soft

shuffle of beetles as they begin a slow

crawl across the orchard into the sweet

red bellies of fallen apples.

How am I doing, really?

by Jane Yolen

You do not want me to answer that,

for it would mean peeling back my skin

splitting open my chest bones,

revealing a heart that still beats

though it is half the size it once was.

It would mean sawing off the top of my skull

and shaking out pieces of my brain

which hardly functions right, left

are memories, the latest ones first,

like daguerreotypes nestled in a velvet lining,

you dead on the bed, your head to one side,

mouth open, an image that is with me always.

How am I doing, really? Really well

on the outside, so that everyone seeing me

murmurs, “So brave, so astonishing,”

while inside I am climbing onto that last bed,

spooning my body around yours,

and dying even more slowly than you did.

Twenty Eleven in Alphabet: A Year of Fancies, Flights and Fragile Things

2012-01-01T08:46:00.015+08:00

You convince yourself that New Year's Eve is just another imaginary life marker, another excuse to binge on anything edible, down bottles of rhum, and promise one's self to do better the next year. For a moment, thoughts (deadlines, calories spent over calories gained, dreams gone stale) swam back and forth your head and you end up explaining to yourself the year that was via going back to the basics-- the alphabet. This is an exercise attempting to find order in the frantic yet beautiful confusion of twenty eleven.

A- trekked Mount Apo's terrains during the Holy Week. i shall gladly do it again but not on a Holy Week though.

B- went on countless weekend trips to Badian. there's more to the southern town than the hackneyed Kawasan. the turquoise waters of Lambog and the wonderful locals i made friends with warrant the town a spot in my home-away-from- home list.

C- Chong. :)

D- hastily explored Davao City twice. ate durian ice candy on first time visit, gobbled real durian the second time around. met Dan and Kit while in Samal Island too. marveled at the city's sense of order. the beef stew served at Bulcachong's was epic.

E- swam in an Estuary in Aloguinsan's Bojo River. the trip was unplanned but the moment i felt the water softly crash against my legs as the river kissed the ocean, i knew right away that it's about time i hold somebody else's hand.

F- bagged myself a Full-Time day job. although it has nothing to do with what i supposedly studied back in the university, the job pays me for two of the things that i love doing the most: read and write. co-writers are weird in their own little ways but i still find them awesome!

G- awed by the vast roads of General Santos City. bus window view was wondrously pleasant to the senses. that cold yet clear morning we jumped on a bus bound for Davao was one of the best daybreak moments i had for the year.

H- Had lesser expectations towards others and the Universe in general, which in turn led to lesser disappointments and moments of

I- Infinite sadness making more room for

the hormones to

J- Joyfully sing, dance, and do cartwheels.

K- witnessed the first few moments of daylight on top of Mount Kanlaon. looking below the crater's mouth, i can almost hear the Universe whisper its secrets to the wind.

L- trekked Lanaya in Alegria for the first time. crossed the vast rice field in the middle of the night; mud up to the knees and not seeing anything. not a very wise thing to do but there were three of us who did anyway. went around in circles in the middle of nowhere. quite scary but i might do it again.

M- began to pursue Minimalism as a lifestyle and state of mind. as colin wright puts it, the whole idea is not just about "getting rid of stuff, not buying anything new, and living in a small white room with no furniture or pictures on the wall. it is really all about the reassessment of your priorities so that you can strip away the excess stuff – the possessions and ideas and relationships and activities – that don’t bring value to your life." i am still working on it( i guess it's a continuous process since you get to reevaluate and reassess) but i did get rid of the unnecessary and bought lesser stuff this year.

N- fell in love with Negros. if only i can capture every nook and cranny of the island; if only i can cup its blues and greens with my hands. took on more Nature weekend trips (beaches, falls, highlands, etc) than gigs, late night beer binges, etc.

O- Opened myself more to ideas that may be seemingly radical to the others. my mother, for example.

P- made my way to one of those creative writing workshops via Poetry. i shrank the moment my pieces were grounded into pieces. i took all the blows anyway and reminded the ego that it's for the better.

Q- is learning to love the Questions themselves. like what Rilke wrote.

R- i Read little during the first half of the year but made up for it by voraciously gobbling books from cover to cover during the second half.

S- earned a slot for free in the Story Writers Workshop. learned years' worth of knowledge and insight in two days and i am eternally grateful.

T- granted permission to start working on my master's degree Thesis when i passed the comprehensive exam.

U- i'll leave the remaining six letters for the Unstated and Unwritten this year. they make up for those days when i wake up feeling nothing at all yet i still manage to shake the cloud hovering all over me, and find bliss in the morning coffee, the smell of damp earth after a night of heavy rain, bus window views, city walkathons, and the palpable weight of his hand over mine.

Photo by Ronald Grancho

Whitman and Broston on Christmas

2011-12-24T01:14:00.002+08:00

There's a lot worth writing but I can't seem to find that voice, that one spark to ignite what's left of the fiery. Like a mess of puzzle pieces strewn all over the floor, a lot of figuring out, perhaps, is what I'm thinking that I need as of the moment. A reorganization of sorts. But everything is quite okay. good. even better. If only I could just find that voice.

Christmas Eve is about to roll in and I am indulging thyself on poetry.

This is the least that I can do for now-- a Whitman and a Broston.

O You Whom I Often and Silently Come

Walt Whitman

O YOU whom I often and silently come where you are, that I may be with you;

As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,

Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me.

A Day in the Life Of

Bruce Boston

The majestic blooming

of the century plant

reveals petals of pure yellow

and stained cream,

distinct pistils and stamens.

I will love you, she said,

like Freud loved the id

in its trammeled fury.

The jaws of my brain,

adrift in opaque bestiality,

question the integrity

of a Pythagorean

reclining nude.

The heel stamp of my pen

assassinates the art

of nuclear mystics.

I will love you, she said,

like Darwin loved evolution.

Things change.

In an algid moment

the final consequences

of the abominable resonance

of a soft and hairy

architecture are revealed.

Diacritical exclamations!

The ravishing comprehension

of cannibal imperialism

by a paranoid critic.

I will eat you like the peach

I eat every Sunday, she said,

in the sky black morn.

Having teased

the sensitive mimosa

in the circular greenhouse

late that afternoon,

afterward,

he would drink peppermint tea

with the ghost of morning.

Back when Ka Pedro and Danny Boy were the coolest...

2011-11-12T19:13:00.003+08:00

Before Phoenix, The Amsterdams, Amanda Palmer, Feist and Bloc Party came into the picture, there was once a lanky kid who finished grade school not only with a pseudo-diploma but also with a scrapbook full of Boyzone photos, cutouts and whatnots. The tea-loving Englishmen were her type while the other girls in class were into the Backstreetboys versus N'sync hype. When her seatmate lent her a Jewel cassette tape, she immediately copied the words of "You Were Meant for Me" at the back of her notebook labeled G.M.R.C.

A year earlier, she was one of Team Hanson's debate reps against the kids who insisted that The Moffatts were the cutest. But Gil came along and she jumped ship from then on. Before half past four in the afternoon, she sprinted, jumped, and ran not in anticipation for the Milo marathon but to see Donita Rose on MTV Most Wanted. If she's lucky, she might just catch Donita with the goofy Jaime. On Mondays, she'll spot her secret crush in class and pretend to randomly ask him if he just saw Alanis or Third Eye Blind on Unplugged over the weekend.

In high school, the same lanky kid took pride in not missing a word while singing to LFO's "Summer Girls"; she didn't mind being labeled Sporty Spice by her four other girl friends when she wasn't even into any type of sport at all, unless you include stalking the basketball varsity boys after school. When one of those boys gave her heartbreak, she sang and can totally relate to No Doubt's "Dont Speak".

And there was no escaping the neighbor's sterio who worshipped Ka Pedro. Which page was Eraserhead's "Huling El Bimbo" in the song hits again? And how about Rivermaya's "Hinahanap-hanap Kita?"

In between those days and today, there were a few more clueless boys she stalked; a hundred song lyrics she wrote at the back of her notebook, and a thousand more miles she walked and ran before half past four in the the afternoon.

In between those days and today, singing along to the mid to late nineties is, and will always be, the coolest.

All together now, kids!

I get knocked down. But I get up again. You're never going to keep me down

Pissing the night away, Pissing the night away.

He drinks a whisky drink. He drinks a vodka drink.

He drinks a lager drink. He drinks a cider drink.

He sings the songs that remind him of the good times.

He sings the songs that remind him of the better times.

Oh Danny Boy, Danny Boy, Danny Boy!

A Love Letter: For You, A Thousand Times Over!

2011-11-05T13:45:00.002+08:00

Photo by Jay Warren Ferolino

Hello love, I terribly miss you. It has been a week and I still find myself in phantasm. I still fancy of the strenuous yet extremely gratifying Pula trail on our way up to witness the splendor and grandeur that you always are.

I must admit you are not the first; I have been to Talinis and Apo in my attempts to seek the rainbow's end outside Cebu. I need you to understand though that I have never been as giddy and woozy today a week after I met both. They were great in their own ways but it was you, Kanlaon, who keeps me from catching up with my writing projects; the mere thought of that Sunday morning with you urges me to craft a lousy love letter just to lessen the burden of perpetually pining over your calming greens, rugged terrains and October sunshine flitting over a sea of clouds.

The cogon trail on the way down may have left me a few scratches here and there but I do not mind at all. What's a few scratches when it taught me that going down is easier when one runs and lets go of control? It's a lot like life; it is always going to be a slow, painful process when one does not decide to simply trust on one's knees to run all the way down. All this time, I was always too cautious about tumbling down the hill every time I chase fireflies. There is profound beauty in knowing when to hold on and let go of the dependable bark modified as a pole. And I am eternally grateful for that, Kanlaon.

Aaahh, the sound of your name sends me shivers and I am losing focus! As always, there are still aging cows to be milked and bratty hens to convince that going vegan is not the key to saving Japan. I shall be penniless soon if I don't stop this madness from taking over my sanity. So yeah, I am going back to poking sticks to the aging cows and bratty hens for now but not before I tell you, Kanlaon, that you make me go back to the days when I was seventeen. It was about the time when everything else was all about being slaphappy and getting woozy because the boy I have been secretly crushing on for months sat beside me inside the PUJ. I couldn't care less about the boy for now but I don't really mind going over again the skittishness, dizziness and vacillating feelings of getting smitten when it comes to you, love.

For you, Kanlaon, a thousand times over!

10 Things I Know To Be True Today

2011-10-27T07:18:00.003+08:00

Today, I overflow with too many stories to tell but I still end up with nothing to write at all. How do you put into details the anatomy of brief hellos and hurried goodbyes? How do you polish the blunt edges and contours of memories gone sepia? I seek solace in brevity for now until I get past this overwhelming feeling of thinking too much and incessant squirming for the unseen, unsure and unwritten. Here's another list to remedy the duo of -nesses I have been wrestling with today- restlessness and wordlessness. I reckon this is way better than my feeble attempts of romanticizing almost everything that I come across and get my hands into.

1. The world perpetually traverses the same old orbit and does not tire of it.

2. The poet Rilke knew what he was talking about when he wrote, "we know little, but that we must trust in what is difficult is a certainty that will never abandon us; it is good to be solitary, for solitude is difficult; that something is difficult must be one more reason for us to do it."

3. Classrooms need not be closed nor confined spaces. Children learn from open fields, the limitless ocean and vast roads, too.

4. Kafka was right when he talked about books being the axe that breaks the frozen ice from within.

5. Libraries are not meant to rot and gather dust, they are the future.

6. Multitasking is the root of all things that equate to stress.

7. Forgiveness comes as fast as drive-thru meals; trust takes time to be served.

8. The stars are there to remind us that we, too, are simply miniscules of dust. It is okay to burn and fall aimlessly.

9. Sleep is the remedy; staying up late is the enemy!

10. The "One Day" they were talking about yesterday, a month ago and a few years back is Now.

Photo by: Ronald Grancho

On Solitude, Sloppy Days and Sunday Mornings

2011-10-06T23:24:00.007+08:00

Ignorance of the law, Steve Jobs' demise, and sloppiness excuse no one from compliance therewith. But look who has been piling up on the worn-out and oversized college shirts at work every friggin' day? Yes, it's yours truly, milady! Lately, I have been hearing voices in my head- hissing, howling and haunting. It torments me in the middle of my slaving-for-the-sake-of-passion hours of the day.

Like a commanding officer ready to lead his clueless soldiers to a manslaughter, the voice violently insists that I dye my hair with bursting shades of yellow, weed out the lost flock of hairs on my right eyebrow, and do something about my shrinking number of dresses, too. Howl all you want and I won't even move an inch, except for the occasional turning of a half-finished book's page since February. It pays to always look put together yet the hormones, for now, beg to differ. The eyebrow's lost flock of hairs can wait, escaping via a story worth telling can't. I carry on with the sloppiness but yellow hair is still the way to go. Or bloody copper, fiery red or perhaps, cool blue!

Solitude, more likely to be called as solitary confinement on her end , is currently proving to be quite illusory; like slivers of broken glass in a field of grays, browns and greens. Certain of its existence, she walks barefoot and carefully carries one step over the other to avoid the dreaded and sudden slice of skin , only to find out that she has been stepping on the seemingly elusive shards all this time, and the flesh beneath her feet were actually impervious to the glass splinters that she deliberately created herself. She concluded, without the slightest hint of denial, that she has been embracing the wrong kind of solitude for a long time now. Yet, who has a say as to which kind is right and which one is wrong? She continues to walk barefoot.

Huge chunks of unadulterated happiness are neatly and subtly packaged as Sunday mornings these days. Homemade coffee. Salty winds. A shoulder to lean on a bus ride. I am immeasurably grateful for the comfortable silences shared and the spaces filled. Thank you.

Inkless September

2011-09-22T23:59:00.001+08:00

Bojo River, Aloguinsan, Cebu

You are so sudden, quick and too fleeting, September. You shall be the perpetually half-finished story--filled with too many vivid details of people, places, and transitions yet there's not a single drop of ink left to write in on walls, skin and paper.

Photo Source

Of maps, red ink blots and hollowed parts

2011-08-28T18:34:00.004+08:00

in my head, we were both singing the same tune.

i, slightly off-key; you, humming it all out flawlessly.
shall i start counting in their superficial sighs
while i lose track of your secret smiles?

you drew me a map;
we pretended we were lost.
let us play pretend; let us all pretend we're just playing it in.
playing it in my head over red ink blots and pink plastic pots.

the hollowed is dying to be filled
and the filled is waiting to be emptied.
all i have are words unspoken;
the quite obvious still unsaid.
tell me, it couldn't be just all in my head.

How NOT to Survive a Day Job

2011-08-20T14:55:00.012+08:00

Below is a not-so-brief rundown of foolproof tips on how NOT to survive a day job after being out there for a week. It may be just five days or so but it was certainly a feat on my end, given that I've always been one of the nocturnals since I discovered the wonders of coffee not so long ago.

1. Convince yourself that you don't need six to eight hours of sleep the night before. Getting enough sleep, huh? You're a 21st century citizen of the world and you do not want to miss ALL the amazing things and breakthroughs happening around you such as finding out Paris Hilton's whereabouts since she's in town and stalking people you recently met by reading their blogs. There's a lot to do over the Internet and sleep has to take the backseat.

2. If you're also working on some freelance stuff, commit to as many projects as you can. The winner takes it all! You can work on them right after you log out of the full-time day job anyway. Money is everything and it is, undoubtedly, the surefire road to happiness. And you can add up a tub of coffee crumble ice cream along the way, too.

3. When commuting your way to work, eavesdrop as much as you can inside the PUJ. This is particularly useful when you make a living by coming up with stories and such. You will be surprised to find out that the best tales to tell are your jeepneymates' daily rantings, gossip and exaggerated life dramas. Learn how to spot the next perfect plot inside the PUJ; it's a skill that needs constant practice to master. I kid you not. Forget about blasting your music player to full volume while in transit. It won't do you any good at all, son.

4. Delight in the fact that you're lucky enough to finally bag a day job that shall feed you with three heavy meals a day and fancy tea parties in between. Remember that you used to only eat two meals a day back when you were a full-time nocturnal freelancer. You are definitely blessed!

5. In conjunction with the one listed above, look forward to a few bulges appearing out of nowhere. But hey, it's perfectly normal and it's healthy! Forget about walkathons and the simple stretching exercises you used to do twice a day. You do not want to run late and get a memo for it.

6. It pays to be mean to people at your day job. You have to show them who's the big man and that you are not to be bullied. Appear grumpy and invincible the moment you walk in the door. Look everyone in the eye with those piercing gaze of yours. Make them feel that you are definitely not the type that they should try to mess up with.

7. Always appear busy, too. It's the perfect way to get your boss' attention and bag that highly-coveted promotion.

8. End the day with half-finished tasks. It will give you a hundred reasons to show up at work the next day and have something to look forward to. I heard a few folks at work referring to it as Motivation.

The list above will be much longer in the coming days as there are surely more tricks of the trade to learn. So, I reckon that I shall see you in tea parties and the department store's plus size section soon. Also, can you still recall what Murakami said in one of his books? That the light of morning decomposes everything. You are lucky enough to say hello each day to that morning light he is talking about and decompose all the things in your life that needs conking out.

And one last thing, don't forget to lather on sunscreen!

Illustration by Heidi Burton

Caring is Certainly Creepy

2011-08-09T02:39:00.003+08:00

Far above our heads are the icy heights

That contain all reason

It's a luscious mix of words and tricks

That let us bet when you know we should fold

On rocks I dreamt of where we'd stepped

And the whole mess of roads we're not on

-Caring Is Creepy, The Shins

Monday blues, look who just opened a can of worms when all we wanted to do was play some peek-a-boo! In the name of the great goddess of flukes, what have we all done? Don't look at me like that, how many times have I told you to stop caring. Forget the whole thing existed, put those worms into good use, and hook them up for some weekend fishing. Be sure to fatten them up until they're good enough. Can you still recall what The Shins sang the night the dancers came the day before yesterday? They were talking about about how caring is certainly creepy. Also, before you throw your line into the sea, remember to take only whatever is given. Who cares if they come in different colors, sizes and shapes? They all have the same set of gross gills anyway.

Take only whatever is given, Monday.

On Twig Picking and Testing Probability Theories

2011-08-07T23:32:00.014+08:00

Dearest Y,

It may simply look like a game of figures and numbers to the others but all I'm asking this time around is for us not to be just each other's statistic anytime soon. Allow me to linger a little more in the restlessness, lightheartedness, and whatever other
-nesses that come along with the thought of seeing you again.

I sincerely apologize for answering back that I wasn't happy when you asked if I was. I was and I really am. I lied because I was getting used to not feeling anything at all; I mistook that exact moment of bliss as merely giddiness after a few rounds of walking around and unexpectedly seeing people that I terribly miss. Just so you'll know, aimless walking and bumping into friends I haven't seen in a while tops my let's-be-happy-today list. Looking back, I am now goddamn sure that I was happy that evening and I am grateful to you for that- you who arrived; you who cared to ask.

If you are just another vicious cycle or another lousy repeat performance, I am taking the chance. I may be just another variable you share something in common with; someone who reads Thoreau, listens to Feist, and knows what each letter in MAFIA means. Quite impressive, you say?

Whether we end up as each other's statistic or not, I am looking forward to throwing in the dice and see for myself if, indeed, we are more than just each other's probability theory.

Please do not jump to some untested conclusions yet. Here's to hoping that I'll bump into you soon so we can pick up blackened twigs along the trail again, and finally figure out if we both fit into the same equation.

Clumsy as ever,

Romanticizing the Rain

2011-07-29T03:23:00.019+08:00

Hey mate, there is always something indescribable about the rain, don't you think? It may be over-romanticized but admit it, it still calms the most troubled of them all. So forget about your girlfriend, mom or boss throwing a fit; as Sarah Kay puts it, the rain will wash away everything if you let it. Now, I've made you a mix tape to listen and drift into while dreaming of pretty girls in pink petticoats. Also, I'm throwing in something that I wrote ages ago. In times like these, just stick to your guns and remember that there's always the rain to scrub, rinse, and wash away everything- if you simply let it do so.

Down the drain the sound of soapy water

from the rusty dishwasher reigns,
yet barely audible.

There were silent spaces to fill and empty corners to drown.

Up into the chimney, the tasteless smoke seeks,
but barely visible.

It dreams of red colored roofs;

seeks of warmer nights when the stars hang so low,
when shirts and skirts meet to tango,

and of foggy mornings sitting in tables for two.

And came the heaviest of the tempest;

night and day it reign.

But dearest,
the sheets of rain neither went down the drain

nor up the chimney.

Still, it wanted the same silent space to fill,

empty corner to drown, and table for two.

All three were nowhere to be found.

Today's Horoscope for Aries

2011-07-13T04:21:00.007+08:00

Today's horoscope for Aries says, "Recognize that you may be obsessive about whatever it is you desire to do, even if you simply want to rest. The truth is that it truly does make sense to relax now while you have the chance."

Today's horoscope for Aries isn't about:
"You will feel a little feverish today. Do not panic if you shall find fresh blood (convince yourself that your brain is just doing one of those mind tricks ) on your ribbon-like poop (excuse the graphics) and you shall spot a lonely bruise about the size of a centavo on your left arm. Also, you will worry to no end as your mind conjures images of you getting sacked on the spot because you just signed yourself up for a job that is way beyond the books you had difficulty digesting back when you were too damn naive- nursing school. Relax, clueless kiddo."

Here's to listening to Missing Felimon's Kung Ako Ka Pa Lang for the nth time at 3 a.m. Because the truth is, nothing truly makes sense for now. Relax and calm the senses, shall we? Today's horoscope for Aries says so.

Illustrated artwork by the fabulous Heidi Burton. I am officially a fan!

10 Random Notes to Self

2011-07-10T02:31:00.033+08:00

1. Some men these days will openly admit that they would like to spend the rest of their fattening lives with you when they haven't even, for chrissakes, tried spending the entire day with you. It is not even flattering; the thought itself bothers me a lot. I am starting to conclude that they find it easy to say so because they never meant it in the first place. Makes sense.

2. Life is good in the company of friends who listen. Keep them. Life is better when one simplifies. Simplify. Life is enjoyed best when one learns to let go of the unnecessary. Let it all go.

3. I should stretch, walk, and move more. Also, mind what I eat.

4.Nostalgia, someone once told me, nourishes the soul. If that's the case, I just had one of those soul-feeding sessions earlier today. Out of nowhere, while writing about the 10 things you should know about personal injury cases, certain snapshots of my Siquijor trip last year came rushing in.

It was our first morning in Larena and we went out of the inn around 5 a.m. We were dying to have coffee but the people running the place were still asleep. There were 6 of us pacing back and forth outside the inn until one of the locals who lived nearby told us that the wet market is just a walk away- about 10 minutes or so. So we decided to go. We walked, talked, and I can still recall that we were quite nervous while strolling around, given that we are in 'the Siquijor'. The road was not that deserted; there were several friendly locals who smiled at us. When we arrived at the merkado, we spotted the painitan. We ate our painit and I asked for ice cubes to add into my warm 3-in-1 coffee. I can vividly recall the weird looks given by some of the locals and my companions, too. I acted on impulse that morning; I think I had this look of “Why are you staring at me like that? I am used to cold coffee in the morning, so what?” The ice I asked for came anyway. Not in cubes, but in shattered pieces.

And the nostalgic snapshots ended that way. Weird. I wasn't even thinking of that Siquijor trip lately, not for the past week and certainly, not months.

4. No matter how distorted your reality is, one has to accept that it is the Now. The Now that matters; the one happening right at that moment. The somewheres, elsewheres,and the neverwheres are just certain pieces of illusion that will not ever happen in this lifetime. Not ever. We only get to live once, we better live it with pure intent and with the people who matters the most to us.

A few things are better said, or maybe written, than done. Because the people in your who-matters-the-most list may not feel the same way towards you. It's about time that you come up with another list.

5. There's no use to waiting when there was nothing or no one to wait for in the first place. Move. If the art of waiting is necessary, go figure if it is worth the wait. If it isn't, walk away.

6. Other people's ideas, philosophy or lifestyle may sound really good in print or online- flawless and nearly perfect. But I reckon that one should learn how to filter and sift through the whole philosophy and ideals first before embracing them as your own, too. Pick the parts that will most likely work and discard the ones that won't. Don't throw them away just yet. Keep them in a box, and go over those boxed ideals once in a while.

7.On certain days, I like to pretend that I haven't read all those books nor stalked that much by googling people's names. I want to pretend that I am as clueless as the proverbial blonde cheerleader. There is comfort in not knowing. On certain days.

8. People, by nature, contradict themselves. It's a fact and no one should act surprised about it. History can recite a long list of names of those who do so- from emperors to literary figures.

9. There is always something good in the meanest of people and something to smile about on a fucked-up day. Look around.

10. Not everyone worth saving wants to be saved.

There are things that are better done than said or written about. But at least I'm writing. On certain days like today, there is always comfort in writing. On certain days.

Peut-etre, demain.

2011-07-01T16:36:00.006+08:00

But the sun will always rise in the east. And it is, for now, enough.

Silence, sunlight, and a story not worth telling today.

Perhaps, tomorrow. Peut-etre, demain.

Photo Source

Oh-Tee-Elle

2011-06-30T01:49:00.014+08:00

Milady, this is madness, I tell you. This is like living in one of those concentration camps- next in line for the dreaded gas chamber, and worst of all, you are to go in with that bully you've been avoiding back in grade school. If we are to talk about this madness in the language of an astronomer's- we are definitely heading into the direction of a massive black hole.

Words failed me. Again. What a shame, when in fact, I make a living out of it. Wait, scratch that. I make a schilling out of it. You heard it right, Milady. A schilling's not even decent enough to send me off to the Himalayas, and buy myself some chunk of metal with oxygen in it to last me a few hours until I make it to the world's highest. But what's the use of joining the earth's highest summit bid when you cannot even make it on top of your OTL's head? OTL? Let me spell it out for you. Oh.. Tee. Elle. One True Love. I see you cringing now. You can cringe all you want, pumpkin.

Isn't it the point of living? Isn't it all about finding and seizing your oh-tee-elle by the throat until he agrees to drink a teaspoon of anti-gerasone, and run away with you into the farthest ends of the earth? The oh-tee-elle who won't mind killing heap loads of toads for your birthday plus a thousand more on your 50th wedding anniversary.

Roaches and rats! Do I have to do all the legwork here? Hand me that gumamela, Milady! Watch me figure it all out. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. Roaches and.. He loves me... not?! Rats!

Now, how about that santan over there? Wait. Forget it. Hand me that fat toad and let's get out of here. Rumors had it that toads turn into coin-operated oh-tee-elles when they defy space, time, emotional quotient, and savings account. To the massive black hole then, Milady.

Artwork by Heidi Burton

June Who Left Too Soon

2011-06-09T14:14:00.014+08:00

On most days, they call her June. On Sundays, when out fishing in Manila Bay, she wants to be called the Seventh Daughter of the Moon. No one knew why she left too soon.

To begin with, they never knew where she lived; they didn't even bother to find out themselves. There were only three things, facts to be exact, that they know of her- she loves to walk, hates Mandy Moore, and spends her free time knocking at some stranger's door.

One fine Sunday, after fishing out with her friends down in Manila Bay, she knocked at some stranger's door.

"Knock, knock."

The stranger, surprised but quiet honored to find a fine lady at his doorstep, couldn't say a word. After all, she is as lovely as her mother, Luna the Moon.

"Hey there, young stranger! Let me in and I shall cook you a sumptuous dinner that even Zeus himself cannot refuse. From the heavens, he shall go down and forget about Hades who stole his crown."

"But I do not have pans, mixing bowls, and even an oven for you to tinker on."

"Who says I want pans, mixing bowls and an oven to tinker on? Let me in quick and I shall give you a son who will be as quick-footed as Hermes and as comely as Adonis."

"But I want neither Hermes nor Adonis in a son. I want a son who stands for what he believes in, just like that bastard next door- Tyler Durden!"

"You and I shall make a dozen Tyler Durdens then. Now, will you let me in?"

"But you haven't even tell me your name."

"On most days, they call me June. Sometimes, a Daughter of the Moon. You, however, nameless stranger, call me yours and I shall give you a Tyler Durden son. I shall cook you Bicol Express for a sumptuous dinner; we shall drown in coffee, tea and beer, and I shall make you the happiest man when you are at your loneliest during winter. For all the days of your life, I shall be your first, tenth, and twenty-third wife!"

So the nameless stranger let her in and that is how June, the Seventh Daughter of the Moon, left too soon.

Flawed

2011-06-06T14:25:00.020+08:00

Have you ever been in one of those times when you just want to hold your breath for as long as you can just to keep the now intact? It was as if you do not want the present to fly out of the window and say hello to tomorrow.

Have you ever felt that sudden urge to write, take a photo or shoot a video of what's happening right exactly on the spot? Yet writing about it in tens of pages or taking hundreds of photos are simply not enough.

Moments are almost always short and bittersweet. They pump life into one's existence. With the spontaneity of a moment, one ceases to exist and starts to live. When lumped together, they become memories. But in between the lumps and huddles, a memory may be corrupted, exaggerated, and tampered to one's liking and favor. And those moments become a fabricated story, a work of fiction, and a figment of one's imagination.

A photograph fails to capture a tiny but important detail. A verb may be used instead of an adjective and the entire sentence changes its meaning. A short video may be unconsiously taken at an angle that do not truly capture its essence. Who finds out about the missing detail, the misplaced verb and the wrong angle? No one. The photo is still a photo and the sentence still stands as a sentence.

Perhaps, a moment is a moment in itself. It breathes and thrives on its own. It is us, humans, who give it meaning. And as flawed as we are, a seamless moment becomes a flawed memory, too.

A pat on the back. Aimless walks. A secret carelessly shared. An undeleted SMS. Conversations with an orthopedic at the airport. Countless Facebook pokes. A shared umbrella under a summer drizzle. Humming a tune you made up in your head. Scribbling odd shapes in your notebook while absentmindedly thinking of Dapitan. The smell of old books. A stranger's smile. A stolen glance. Solitude.

They were once called moments but are now collectively known as memories. Whether flawed or not, they make the journey, pursuit or even chase worth it.

One Leaves;The Other Arrives

2011-05-25T04:39:00.019+08:00

He looked outside the bus window and the idea of life as a stop motion of departures and arrivals slowly made its way into the recesses of his consciousness. The once green lawn of the old bus stop is now a patch of scattered browns littered with plastic cups and empty amber bottles. Everyone has left, except him.

Today is all about leaving the familiar and familiarizing the uncertain. He remembered what they talked about the last time they saw each other- her views on random stuff like Bisrock, durian candy, the perils of capitalism and what makes life a life. For her, he recalled, everything that breathes and has life follows a cycle. A cycle of leaving and arriving; of packing and unpacking. He thought he already understood what she meant that evening, but it was not until today that he fully grasped its meaning.

On that same night, she handed him a piece of crumpled paper before they parted ways. Underneath the crooked lamp post, the note in the paper read:

one leaves; the other arrives.

which of the two are you,

are you still in limbo?

P.S. forget about us and try getting a life.

look for me when you already have one.

i shall do the same;

you'd know where to look by then.

An hour later, he found himself buying a new SIM card in a nearby convenience store.

Two days later, he deleted his Facebook account.

Three weeks later, he got himself a new Murakami book as a birthday gift from his lover of six months.

Four months later, he has mastered the art of insinuation, learned how to poeticized his presence and cheated more than twice. He got away unscathed. This is the life, he wrote later in his journal.

Five years later, everyone has left except him. He opened his tattered journal, found the crumpled note and read what she wrote:

One leaves; the other arrives..

On the same page where he found her note, he recognized his own handwriting that said,

“This is the life”.

An hour later, he left and found himself looking outside the bus window.

Let's Talk About the Different Okays of the World

2011-05-18T14:55:00.012+08:00

"You shall be alright; you will be okay."

"Perhaps. But it's never going to be Cotton-Candy-Okay anymore. It's not even going to be Sunday-Morning-Okay, Coffee-Crumble-Ice-Cream-Okay or Simply-Sleep-On-It-Okay. You see, there are several kinds of okays in the world, I could probably come up with a few while we are here waiting for an empty 12L PUJ. There's the Okay that comes with longing, yearning and wishful thinking . And there's the I've-Given-Up-Okay, the You-Don't-Know-What-I'm-Going-Through-Okay and the Leave-Me-Alone-Okay. Hey, what time is it again? "

"Four Minutes To Eleven."

"Okay."

"So what kind of Okay was that?"

"Very clever! Let's just say it's the Let-Us-Not-Go-Home-Yet-Okay. I do not want us to go home yet because I still want us to talk about the different okays of the world, and how I am Plainly-Happy-Okay because I know you are the only one who understands. In the first place, you were the only one who understood and who never asked."

Girl Friday No More

2011-05-12T00:55:00.010+08:00

Friday, stay where you are and stop sending me emails me that we should see each other soon. There are still aging cows to be milked, horny tabby cats to be neutered, and a dozen hens to convince that going vegan is not the key to saving Japan. Maple syrup is on me the next time we feast on banana pancakes. But, for now, do not bother me with your false and empty promises of weekend getaways. I am not to be fooled. Not anymore.

Because All Else Fades Away

2011-05-11T02:26:00.018+08:00

Sunday

She took one last look at his retreating figure, closed her eyes, thought of yesterday, and those other Sundays that ended up exactly the same way that day. It has always been like this; one walks away while the other stays rooted on the spot, like a century-old tree who has seen it all- weary, on the verge of decay but still standing tall. The sun was about to go out and she thought of home. He was her idea of home.

Monday

Except for the grumpy librarian and a couple of student assistants, the dusty book shelves kept her company the entire day. She wrote about happiness, of living in the moment, and finding bliss in the littlest of things but ended up writing about him again. There was really nothing to think about, analyze and mull over when one wants to talk about genuine bliss- he was already happiness personified.

Tuesday

There were a lot of stories to be revisited and told. The night before, she came up with a list of several interesting plots but when she woke up that morning, nothing made sense. She checked her phone's inbox and scrolled down for week-old messages. He had other plans and priorities. She went back to sleep, woke up an hour later and still, nothing made sense that day.

Wednesday

They spoke of the future's uncertainties in hushed voices, secretly cried for the past, and laughed their hearts out for the present. At that exact moment, she wondered how it feels like to run her fingers through his hair. It was what she had always wanted to do since they first met.

Thursday

The weatherman on the telly talked about some storm coming in a few days. Over cup of coffee, she debated with herself on reminding him about the bad weather. He casually mentioned his plans of spending the weekend by the beach with his beloved the day before. She decided against it, helped herself to a second cup, and silently recalled a part of Neruda's Don't Go Far Off in her head-

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;

may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.

Friday

Everything made sense. She walked away and stopped writing him letters.

Saturday

She dreamt of coming home; of early morning walks by the shore; of being found, and of running her fingers through his hair.

Silenced

2011-04-15T03:16:00.009+08:00

Lorena B - Melancholy Hill from Harry R on Vimeo.

Dearest,

There shall be silence for now. For in silence, the memories are more vivid, less fleeting, and I want it to remain that way. You shall be the unpublished story, the unreturned phone call and the long-forgotten rabbit hole.

I fear; I despair. I ache as there is nothing left in there for me to take.

There shall be silence,

and remembering,

and forgetting.

How to Burst Your Own Happy Bubble

2011-04-12T01:53:00.017+08:00

I am not quite sure what got into me but I am inexplicably happy today. It could be the hormones; the volumes of laughing gas I just sniffed or I could be invisibly tickled by chubby cherubs. The cynic in me thinks that this happy bubble will burst any moment now so allow me to document this current state of bliss by coming up with a list that makes me say oh-la-la! at ungodly hours and sing Rebecca Black's Friday before you can mouth “Istoryaheeee”.

1. Sbarro's 15-peso garlic bread stuffed with Siomai sa Tisa generously bathed in hot sauce.

2. Free rides on my way home from my part-time job.

3. Spontaneous bus rides and walkathons with the favorite travelling companion.

4. Writing projects with a label that says “Submit me in a month”.

5. Clients who know you deserve more than your standard freelancing rates.

6. Trekking with EWIT.

7. Coffee or beer with friends. It doesn't really matter what you're drowning yourself into as long as there are buddies whom you can even share comfortable silence with at the end of the day.

8. Mixtapes in 8tracks.

9. Finding a good read while book scavenging.

10. Rabi, the new addition to the feline family in the household.

11. Sunsets by the sea; sunrises at the summit.

12. The warmth, fingers and the tongue of a lover, except that the word "lover" these days comes with a lot of complications and the happy bubble is now about to burst by just thinking about it.

Poof!

And that is how, ladies and gentlemen, you burst your own happy bubble, and return back to counting sheep at dawn.

Artwork by Heidi Burton

Color My Life With The Chaos of Trouble

2011-03-29T01:07:00.017+08:00

Violet,

How are you?

I lost track of time since we last talked over the phone. I deeply apologize for not being able to reply soon to your letters. Yes, I got hold of them- all four, that is if you'll count the hastily written note at the back of a postcard from Corregidor.

Where are you now? Every time I dial 09228754999, all I get in return is the nonchalant 'Please hold the line'. After what seemed to be an eternity of silence, I heard the sound of the sea. Small humbling waves that were achingly trying to reach the shore, only to be stopped short by other waves- the huge ones- higher and bolder. And the cycle continues. Some call it the Natural Order of Things; the dreamy ones named it Destiny. I plainly see it as Bullshit.

Are you now living near the ocean, stuck in an island or cruising along the Mediterranean? I'd like to come over and buy you a large jug of beer.

White and Grey are a little bit grumpy these days. Yellow, Orange and Pink recently left; I do not have an idea of their whereabouts. Apart from you, dear Violet, they're the only ones I'd like to hang out with. I feel betrayed. How could they be so heartless, leaving me here, clueless, with the others? Your brothers Black and Blue are, as always, bullying me and I hate the sight of them.

Please come back. Or perhaps, at least, write to me back.

I have to go now, Brown’s walking towards me and I do not want her to see me furiously scribbling on a piece of paper. She'll throw me a barrage of questions, and so does wicked Red.

Patiently punching 09228754999 a hundred times a day,

Green with Envy

Good 'Ol Fashioned Lovin'

2011-03-23T03:33:00.013+08:00

It is not really a surprise that your nights are uncomfortably warmer and shorter, Summer. Most of all, I would not even mind if that little goodies shop downtown selling the best hopia mongo in the world is closing down. I am used to the dullness that March brings, April's uncanny ability to make me fidget with uncertainties, and May's pseudo-whirlwind romances. I would like to point out though that I am over and done with all the dullness, uncertainties, and hopeless cases of big bad wolves cleverly disguised as unassuming frog princes. I had my fair share of them the entire year and I am on the brink of chopping my hair off just to toss the bad vibes away.

For the sake of my clueless mane, show me some good 'ol fashioned lovin', Summer. Or poor hair’s days are already numbered.

Je ne mérite pas ce à tous les!

An Interlude To What Was

2011-03-14T02:17:00.010+08:00

the old ferry

bound for Dumaguete

is about to leave

and here we are,

still holding on

to stale coffee

and leftover spaghetti.

a few words after,

we stared at each other

and one of us wondered

how could we ever

forget

each other's names

as we

passively

watched life unfold,

in a world

without us in it.

my fingers

found its way

to where

the letters of our names

have gone away.

and I remembered.

yet, you remained

a blank canvas;

an interlude to what was.

and I really have to go.

to a place

where those

who live and leave

are not as forgetful as you.

To Toru Watanabe With Hope

2011-03-02T23:47:00.015+08:00

Dear Toru Watanabe,

A dreadful school exam is happening over the weekend and I'm not even halfway done with the notes that I am supposed to read, scan, and stare at. I worry that I won't be able to explain the stages of a woman in labor; the different ways in testing a research hypothesis and most of all, I do not have the slightest idea how to use the Chi Square Distribution Table. Yet, what bothers me the most is that I am starting to hope, again.

Instead of poring over textbooks that remind me of Thursday nights watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer over RPN 9, I find myself wanting to write you a letter- weave words that I find difficult to say when we are together but quite easy to put into paper.

I have lost count of how many letters I have written you; this one will be short though. It's not that I am running out of words to say; it is just that they never reach you anyway.

Tonight, while contemplating on how to devour a 500-page textbook in three hours, all I want to say is,

I am happiest watching countryside sunrises with you.

Tell me, who am I to you? Is there the slightest chance that I could be your Midori or maybe even, Naoko? I won't mind being Reiko, too.

Beginning to hope,

Kai

P.S. “While we are waiting for the Messiah,

while we are waiting for Mahavir,

your eyes will suffice to give tired men hope.”

artwork by heidi burton

I Gave In to Gravity A Day Before Valentine's Day

2011-02-13T14:39:00.014+08:00

06 Ingrid Michaelson - Creep (Radiohead cover) from Mei Goh on Vimeo.

We were both praying for rain that night but it never rained anyway. We ended up eating leftover chicken sandwiches for dinner; I complained about how bland it tasted and all you gave me in return was your I-am-not-forcing-you-to-eat-that look. I gamely answered back that I've been starving to death since my last meal that morning and that I did not have a choice. You didn't say a word; you simply stood up from the couch and disappeared into that little makeshift kitchen that I've grown to love for the past few weeks.

I called out your name and yelled sorry about how rude I was with my comment on your sandwiches. I can see you from where I was sitting, with your back on me. I wanted to run my fingers through your unruly hair, lean my head on your shoulders and stop thinking about the world outside for even a few minutes. But you looked busy in the kitchen, you were probably doing the dishes that had been sitting in the sink for three days. The Marcos documentary on TV was a bore so I decided to finish reading Munro's Runaway instead.

I probably dozed off for an hour while reading. I woke up to the sound of crowds cheering on the boob tube. It's Silva versus Belfort, you mumbled. I replied back that I do not care at all and that I have to be home in an hour. You blankly looked at me while I rolled my eyes to emphasize how pathetic you've become with those almost naked barbaric men hugging themselves to death on national television. I headed for the washroom and when I went out, the match was over! In three minutes, Silva took down Belfort with a single kick. And you kept saying that you still don’t get it. It's 1:44 a.m. and I murmured an inaudible goodbye.

After checking and feeding your obviously hungry kois, I headed for the door and waited outside. You followed and I reminded you again for the nth time about feeding the poor fishes on time. You simply nodded like a drugged teen and I asked you about the brown paper bag you’re clutching. You held and squeezed my hand so tight that it hurts and asked me to stay until morning. You wanted us to spend the rest of the night up on the house’s roof. You sounded so sure about it so I said yes and we climbed our way to the top as discreetly as we can to avoid waking your grumpy landlord. And there we were watching the city lights, eating a huge pack of ube piaya, strawberry yogurt and this time around, freshly made chicken sandwiches. We laid on our backs, waited for stars to fall out of nowhere but not even a single one moved. We listened to Ingid Michaelson's cover of Radiohead's Creep over and over again on your iPod but the stars stayed fixed to where they were.

"It's about time we stop believing about wishing on some random celestial objects", I whispered. "Perhaps" was your only reply while you reached out for my hands.

Perhaps, it's about time I stop myself from getting too attached. The moment I do, everything inside me crumbles. But I did not tell you that. We both knew that whatever we have between us now, the laws of gravity do not apply- which explains why there was not a single shooting star that came by. Because in this game that we play, we can only hold hands on a Sunday. And we can only hope and wish that it would be enough.

03:32

2011-01-29T04:37:00.008+08:00

Ikapila na man

ko nimo

gihunghungan

nga

"kadiyot na lang,

hapit nako moabot,

traffic man gud sa Talamban."

Ikapila na man

ko nimo

gisiyagitan

"Flor!"

nga gipakapinan

"Ataya this whore!"

Sa kadugay ug pinaabot

nahurot nalang nako ug ihap

ang gagmay nga buslot

sa inyong atop.

Hunongon na nato ni,

huot

alimuot

sulod sa 13C nga PUJ.

Puol naman ug sakay

anang panulay

nga ilang gitawag

ug kalaay.

Gilaay,

walay mahayay.

Nalipong,

niabot na jud si Dodong.

- Amiga ni Flor nga whore

The Matt Tong Tea Party

2011-01-21T04:48:00.014+08:00

Dear Matt Tong,

I warned you that it is a vicious cycle- just another rerun of a hundred other repeat performances. I do not feel sorry though that I dragged you into whatever-we-call-this-type-of-arrangement. You found your way inside that easy; I guess you won't have problems at all looking for the exit sign.

Why not stay for a while? There's the tea party over there where you can go mad whenever you want and you can tickle the Red Queen as often as you wish until she turns pink.

I told you this is going to be fun!

Hush now, what is up with those tears?

Goodness gracious, have you gone bonkers?!

Going in Circles,

Kai

Kay Ugma Damlag

2011-01-06T04:52:00.006+08:00

This is one of those moments when you ask yourself, the Universe and the empty mug in front of you - if dreams could only talk, what language would yours speak? Would it sound like a confident Londoner, a desperate Spanish chaffeur or a laid back Australian surfer dude?

It's 4 a.m. and all you can make out on the other end are garbled vowels and consonants coupled with an accent too thick and heavy. So you simply call it a day. Another day when dreams you find difficult to understand are put off again; hidden in cupboards, left in dark corners and tucked in-betweens.

Kay Ugma Damlag.

A Rainy Week To-Do List

2011-01-05T15:29:00.013+08:00

It has been raining for days and I came up with this to-do list for the entire gloomy week.

1. Sing Sugarfree's Burnout at the top of my lungs. The neighbors won’t mind at all because they're too busy doing more productive stuff. After all, it's supposed to be the year of the hare.

2. Cook Bicol Express until the entire country runs out of bell peppers!

3. Pretend that I'm walking down the streets of Japan; wear the heaviest boots and the brightest trench coat I'll find in the ukay-ukay.

4. Devise ways on how to scare the huge frogs away who hang out near our neighbor's deep well. Those bullies are too damn arrogant when I walk pass them on my way home at night.

5. Collect some rainwater, test its pH levels and find out if a goldfish can survive in such harsh conditions. Sue me for being mean but it is for the sake of science and mankind.

6. Watch the entire season of ANTM 15 and ask myself again why in the world I am putting up with such garbage. I've been asking myself the same question when I started watching Season 1 back in high school.

7. Write letters to friends-turned-strangers.

8. Fancy the future.

9. Kiss someone in the rain until we both forget that we are in the middle of Fuente Osmeña.

10. Walk my way to you.

Photo by Navid Baraty

To Spontaneity With Love

2010-12-22T01:08:00.015+08:00

Dear Spontaneity,

Can we stop seeing each other for now?

I need some time off from you. A couple of days, maybe weeks or even one whole month will do.

It has nothing to do with you really – it is all about me being me. I know, I know. It is the lousiest excuse one can come up with but here's my right pinky finger (come give me your right pinky quick! ); I promise not to give up on you that easy the next time I feel like doing so. But for now, I am giving you the cold shoulder because I need it for myself. This self-imposed hiatus will definitely save me from losing all of what is left of my sanity.

I knew I was not supposed to binge on alcohol that evening because I had been Frankenstein's bride for three straight days but I gave in anyway. I gave in to you, Spontaneity. You very well know that you can overpower Freewill every time you feel like doing so.

I could probably come up with a hundred reasons and make a long list on why I don't want you around for the time being. I assumed, cared and hoped; all three are currently on top of that list and I do not like the feeling at all. I do not like it at all. Because no one on the other end assumed, cared and also hoped. Sad, but that is life for you, Charlie Brown.

Go, pack your bags and look forward to a long holiday in Verona, Andalucía and the islands of Bermuda. Remember to post some Facebook photos of nice places you'll see and update your Twitter as much as you can because I will definitely miss you. I'll have Boredom as company for now. Stop fidgeting, will you? We will definitely rock the house down the next time we do something spontaneous. If you shall miss me, just think of makeup sex. We shall do something of that sort when you come back. Leave, before I come up with a hundred reasons on why you should stay.

Starting to get bored now,

Kai

Twenty Three

2010-12-16T04:31:00.014+08:00

with her tired hands

she fumbled for the strings

that once held

the pieces

of that Sunday evening

when the skies

choked of almost blinding light;

when everything in sight

spoke of wanderings

and untethered feelings.

for he was once free;

she was once silenced.

at last!

they found answers

on the same Southern shore

but she was already one

with the horizon

while he chose

to be chained to oblivion.

she wrote twenty-two letters;

he made love to sad mothers

and untouched sisters, too

they both burnt into

blue, cool embers.

with his palms

opened wide, he threw away

what was left

of that Sunday dusk

because it was

when he,

wandered back into his past

and she,

wondered if it would be the last.

Maybe, Maybe Not

2010-12-05T20:34:00.022+08:00

Sometimes, all it takes is a smile, a knowing nod or even an accidental brush of one's arms to another inside a cramped PUJ.

I have been watching you from a distance; I can see how you badly wanted to ask where she exactly lives, if she could spare an hour or two for dinner and how you fought the urge to reach for those few strands of hair that fell behind her nape. The way you looked at her - that piercing gaze and stolen glances of yours at the same time. And how you woke up at at half past four in the morning to the memory of her scent when she sat beside you, only to realize that it was just another of too many dawns dreaming- of her.

Worry not, I have this feeling that everything will be all right. I am not telling you this because I feel sorry for you; certainly not because I want you to feel better. I am telling you this because I know very well that she feels the same way, too.

But above all these facts, ask for her name first. It all starts with the name. And then everything else follows - the smile, the knowing nod and that accidental brush of one's arms to hers.

Comment tu t’appelles? Le nom est amour. Oui, en effet, l'amour.

Take your chance, boy.

Maybe, maybe not. Peut-être, Peut-être pas.

Photo by Navid Baraty

Be mean to her, December

2010-12-03T15:48:00.017+08:00

She has been listening to that song since Wednesday night to understand. She wants to take all in; she wants to crawl back under the bridge but there's nothing left to feel, nothing left to consume. Nothing.

She wonders why she's the only one left listening to the song, why pain is so elusive when she badly wants it raw this time. She wants sadness to break her; she wants to know how it feels the morning after. She wants it as much as you want people to be jolly on the thought of year-end bonuses and Christmas parties on every street corner.

Be mean to her, kind December. The meaner, the better. Knock her head off and remind her that it is indeed over. She would rather have everything painful than have nothing at all. She wants to be vulnerable; she needs to end this melancholic indifference once and for all.

Slap and pinch her hard. Grab her hair and let her eat dust. Let her cry, let her bleed; let her break to exhaustion as if it's the only option left to be human again. Will you do the honors, December?

Istorya Natong Duha

2010-12-02T03:18:00.021+08:00

dali sa akong tupad

mangaon ta

ug butter coconut

nga biskwit

nga lami ituslob sa

duha ka pakete

nga nescafe three-in-one

nga inutang sa

gubaong tindahan

ni Inday Norma

nga bag-o lang gibuwagan

sa iyang trato nga basurero.

hala ka diha!

ang mga linabhan

intawn pagdali.

kay ang ulan

nagbugal-bugal

mobundak kadiyot

pagka walay lami!

ako,

mura ug linabhan

ikaw,

mura ug ulan

nga walay lami

nga mobundak kadiyot

ug nagbugal-bugal

ning dughan

nga na-ughan.

pagkapait

sa nescafe three-in-one

palihug, ayaw sa ug taliwan.

pagkatam-is

sa butter coconut nga biskwit

palihug, unya na panamilit.

basin tuod ug nagtuo ka

nga pareha ko ni Inday Norma

nga pwede ra nimo

ihansak sa trak

nga nangolekta ug basura.

On Scaling Boulders and Chasing Fireflies

2010-11-30T01:54:00.008+08:00

It never occurred to me that I will be backpacking for Mount Talinis in Dumaguete this year, not even in the next five years and perhaps, not in this lifetime. Lifetime, eh?

You see, I have this love-hate relationship with the outdoors. The ocean to me is the ex-lover who turned out to be the purely platonic pal through the years. But every time I look the opposite direction and gaze at the green mountains and ridges towering the city, those boys who thought I was just another nerd that is not worth their time and effort comes to mind right away. I have already accepted the fact a long time ago that trekking and mountaineering are just one of the many things in life that will be included in my ‘I'd-love-to-do-but-I-can't’ list. Why? One of my instructors in nursing school used to call me clumsy; I preferred the library over the school gym and bleachers during my University days. And there was once a lousy 8 year-old who showed up in YMCA's summer swimming clinics back in the 90s. So yeah, scaling boulders is out of the question.

Fast forward to now. 2010 is supposed to be my make-or-break year; I started the year with overflowing hope that one of my lifelong dreams of seeing the world will materialize. But August came and after several attempts of reaching for the dream, it seems like that the Cosmos is not yet sure if I deserve it. The last time I tried, I can almost grasp it with my bare hands and smell victory from next door, only to be told that I failed. Again.

Fresh from another stint of failure, I welcomed the idea of doing something new, a distraction of sorts. Dan and Insoy of Tsinelas told me about this waterfall that is just a hike away from the city and they invited me to tag along on a Sunday. Since I have been missing a lot of Tsinelas activities, I said yes. I was also curious which waterfall they were talking about - the only one I know of is the popular Kawasan Falls in Badian. How on earth can a city full of smog house a waterfall?

The group met somewhere in Talamban and my initial reaction was ‘Holy Smokes'! I have to sound outrageous here to give you an idea of how surprised and confused I was at the same time. Why are these people carrying bags that huge? Is the world about to end for them to pack like that? Are we really going home later in the day? And talk about being underdressed, too. I was wearing beach shorts and a shirt plus a pair of rubber slippers and my good ol' sling bag. On the other side of the road, the girls were wearing trekking shoes, leggings and warmers.

Surprise, surprise! That day turned out to be one of the longest Sundays I had. And I never had the slightest idea that there will be longer Sundays after that.

I saw the other side of Cebu City while trekking down Budlaan River and I met the Ewit Mountaineers, too. I have heard of them a couple of times since they have been working hand in hand with Tsinelas and Beyond Art's Sake but I never had the chance to meet them. While traversing down Budlaan's boulders and still waters, I felt like a stranger in my own home city. I have heard of Barangay Babag before but it sounded too far to me. Yet, I was there in the flesh.

Aside from being overwhelmed with the new sights to behold coupled with a few slips here and there, I was also overwhelmed with the new faces I met during the trek. There are some whose names are easy to remember while there are some whom I get to remember only the face. But it doesn't really matter if I remembered the name to a face - all of them were there to help. Everyone's always ready to extend a hand when you find it difficult to step on your own. One offers his rain coat while others are there to hand you a jug of drinking water when you need one. And there’s the simple but priceless smile to remind you that everything’s okay as long as they are around. They are the Ewit Mountaineers that I met that day.

And the rest was history, as hackneyed as it may sound. New words were added to my vocabulary such as ‘assault’ and ‘night trek’. Aside from learning different rope work techniques, exploring other peaks and meeting new people, I also learned that genuine bliss is just a climb away. No matter how tired one's feet are, reaching a mountain's highest point is a feeling beyond words can express. It gives one a wider perspective, allowing one to see things beyond the material world. It did for me. Unadulterated happiness, indeed, does not come with a price tag- it is as simple as chasing fireflies at Mount Talinis’ peak.

Falling a la Francaise

2010-11-23T00:39:00.016+08:00

Photo Source

Dear Temporary High,

At the rate things are going, let's brace for impact, shall we? Whatever the case may be, I need to do an emergency landing and feel it with my toes, my knees and please, with my entire being. This isn't me complaining up in the air. But hey, I guess it's time to cease floating with the clouds and embrace gravity without fear. Throw away those bakyas; let's go barefoot and feel the ground beneath. I want to listen to its stories, its dreams and the secrets it kept.

Now, how do you say 'thud!' in French?

Plouf?!

Falling a la Francaise,
Kai

Hey, Hey, Are You Okay?

2010-11-18T01:45:00.019+08:00

I am obviously not.

Before you dial 911, we're not really going to talk of anything related to First Aid. But for Pete's sake, can somebody tap me in the shoulder just like what medics do and say, “Hey, hey, are you okay"? Please skip the ABCs because I can tell you straight in the face now that my Airway, Breathing and Circulation statuses are going haywire. And I am not exaggerating.

Excuse me for sounding like The Grinch but can we skip the Yuletide season and go straight to celebrating the New Year, instead? I am itching to start anew and cease being sentimental about things but those Feliz Navidad tunes blasting from the neighbor's speakers are making me uncomfortable, grumpy and suicidal. But I bet you're not going to take the latter seriously because according to statistics, those who intentionally end one's life do not openly tell the world about their plans of doing so. Screw those statistics!

Before I start sounding the angtsy 19-year old that I used to be, I need someone to rush quickly into the scene with a bottle of tequila in one hand and ask me again, "Hey, hey, are you okay"? A single shot of morphine and somebody to talk to will do. Let's talk about how everything in this world is a big, fat lie and how I still cling to hope despite it all.

Artwork by Heidi Burton

Fragments

2010-11-12T14:21:00.010+08:00

Photo Source

Morpheus, you have forsaken me again

As the dawn breaks

What do you know of my dreams

Bended as it may seem

Because those almost empty coffee cups

were meant to say hello

to the first few rays of November sunshine.

Sometimes, we find ourselves preaching about change, on how we should embrace the inevitable.

But the funny thing is, when change comes to us, we forget about those things we preach.

Drift,

Swim with the current, shall we?

As free as that river

A few minutes away from the city.

Mundane, Maybe

2010-11-07T21:52:00.021+08:00

Yesterday, I took the yellow bus and witnessed life as it happened to people I barely knew.

And I met..

That twenty-something guy in a Be The Reds shirt, selling pirated DVDs inside the bus terminal. While buying Autoload from him, he suddenly took a photo of me using his camera phone.

"Miss, mura ug ikaw man to ang artista sa Bisaya nga akong pagatan-awon sauna".

That bus conductor who reminded us that all passengers should be grateful to the rival bus company. If not for them, we won't be enjoying their current "promotion": the fare was cut to more than half of its original amount.

That old man in a bicycle by the pier who assured us that the town's next port is just a few minutes away and that it's okay to walk our way there. But we ended up riding the tricycle, only to found out that there's no way for us to walk the distance from one port to another.

That two boys who languidly slept in their banca tied to the shore. Oh, how I envy them. The gentle waves of the calm sea rocking them to sleep on a beautiful Saturday afternoon.

That moreno security guard who asked me from which part of town I live. I told him I'm from the city and he answered back that he is, too. "Samokan ko sa siyudad gud." But I gamely teased him about having a lover in town and all he said was "Panahon ra ang mag-igo." I wonder what he really meant; I wanted to know more but it was time to leave.

That woman wearing a yellow bandana. She was talking about her experience as a cancer survivor to the pawnshop receptionist on the other side of the glass window. She may have made it but she ended up with a lot of debts.

Him. He was born in 1987, asked a couple of hypothetical questions, and is a sucker for books, too.

Yesterday, I took the yellow bus again and lived. And I'm glad I did.

Bus Love

2010-10-27T11:32:00.012+08:00

So there you are, sitting behind the driver's seat for the nth time. I assume that it's your favorite spot inside the bus. And you’re wearing that red dress again. I know you always wear that red polka-dotted dress on a Monday. I wonder if you also noticed that I always wear my favorite Deftones shirt on a Monday, too.

Perhaps, you don't.

Since I started taking the bus on my way to Manang’s house, the only time I saw you looked my way was when this toddler started crying like crazy behind my seat. Almost all passengers in front looked back, you included. I can vividly remember that knowing smile of yours when you saw how the doting mother simply planted small kisses to the child's forehead to stop him from crying. But aside from that day you looked back, what I can always see from here is the back of your head, slightly tilted down, engrossed in a book.

Today, you’re letting your hair down. In some days, you put it in a ponytail. But I like it most when you put it in a bun. How do I tell you that you are most beautiful when you put your hair in a messy sort of bun? You don't even look my way when I shout "Lugar lang!" a little bit louder the moment we pass by that old waiting shed under the town's largest acacia tree. Let me tell you a secret, I lost my virginity to a girl two years my senior under that waiting shed. But that was ages ago. For now, all I'm hoping for is that you look back inside the bus, even for just a few fleeting seconds. As always, I am just five rows behind to your right.

So there you were, you just went down the bus a few minutes ago. I live a few blocks away from that old waiting shed under the town's largest acacia tree. I heard you grew up in the city and that you're staying with your cousins the entire summer to take care of the family business. I really find your accent funny when you shout "Lugar lang!" at the top of your lungs. I wonder from which part of the city you’re from. All I can do is giggle by myself as I watch you go down the bus.

As much as I want to look back and catch a glimpse of you, I can’t and I won’t! I'll probably blush in a jiffy the moment our eyes will meet. But let me tell you a secret, the only time that I look back at you is every time we pass by Carcar; I know you're sound asleep by then. How can you sleep with those huge headphones? Maybe, you're into Vivaldi and The Four Seasons lulls you to sleep.

But I doubt it, I saw you once wearing a Deftones shirt. So I assume you're into them. Yet, I'm still hoping that you're really into Vivaldi because I like his violin pieces to bits. And… I like you, too.

I am fervently praying while crossing my fingers at the same time that you'll sit beside me next Monday, before you go back to the big city and totally forget your summer of 2003.

All I Want For Halloween Is You

2010-10-15T15:02:00.010+08:00

Dear Stalkee,

Trick or Treat?!

Hallow's Eve is just around the corner and I want a treat this time around! Please reactivate your Facebook account, I miss stalking you. I google you every day and you are too clever to cover your tracks online. A fortnight ago, I saw you in Ayala and I have to pinch myself just to make sure that it’s you I’m looking at from a distance. I blinked and you were gone. And oh, you look good in that red shirt you wore.

All I want for Halloween is you but I don’t mean to scare you though.

Harmless,

Your Stalker

Chickenshit

2010-10-15T13:34:00.019+08:00

These days, I am too lazy to do my afternoon runs in Abellana ; even lazier to get in touch with two dear friends who have been asking me to call them as I soon as I can.

And I am laziest when it comes to asking thy self on why I have been scaling boulders and chasing fireflies lately, instead of digging my toes into the sand by the shores of Camotes.

It's just the weather, people reasoned out. It is plain cowardice, I say.

Because I am now afraid of running in circles in Abellana as the sky bleeds into a reddish hue; it reminds me of that Sunday evening when I decided to walk away for the nth time. There's nothing new to it except that I walked away without looking back.

For the first time, I didn't look back. The same sky bled that night, too.

Because I am now afraid to listen to my friends’ stories over the phone. One will probably speak of her struggles as a single mom while the other will possibly talk about quarter life crisis. No, don’t get me wrong. I terribly miss them and I cannot wait to hear how life has been treating them so far.

But perhaps, I need to listen to my own stories first.

The sand by the shores of Camotes can wait, the fireflies can’t. And that is what I am most afraid of.

Paksit

2010-10-06T14:22:00.005+08:00

the night devoured us whole

not even a single trace of our hurried footsteps left.

the stars won't speak a word,

them,

unwilling witnesses

to our forbidden caresses.

let me touch your bare skin

tell me, are we living in sin.

let me wipe the sweat in your brow

tell me, will you still be around tomorrow.

let me. tell me.

come closer,

feel my nimble fingers

touch every broken chord that lingered

when the sea started to sing

of longing

and hasty goodbyes.

those empty words seemed real

when i whispered them to you in your sleep,

breathless,

after the stars fell

and broke into pieces.

I Remain

2010-10-05T11:49:00.007+08:00

Hey I-Almost-Liked-You,

Please go back to school as soon as you can. You don't have to finish it with flying colors nor pass all those unneccesary exams. Do not ever believe what your professors tell you but act as if you do. Trust in one person alone, the librarian.

I will gladly welcome you back in my arms once you've mastered the figures of speech (just stick with the basics), the trigonometric functions and world history slash geography. You can skip your P.E. classes but do not ever miss a session of Literature. Slurp down five bottles of energy drink when the teacher starts talking about Homer's Iliad and O.Henry's The Last Leaf. And when you're in Biology class, pay special attention to that short but very informative chapter where you can find the word "procreate". I will be a happy future girlfriend if you do.

While learning all those things that I want you to, remain the one-sided lover as you are. Waiting is not my forte but perhaps, I shall. The city lights and a thousand dusks are waiting for us, too.

I remain,

Kai

Who let the dogs out?

2010-09-26T11:44:00.006+08:00

Quitters never win.

Oh yeah, the hackneyed phrase above is perpetually battered as your running shoes; even 4-year olds nowadays can figure out the supposed wisdom behind it. Persistence is the key to attaining one's goals, they say. A little bit of Kung Fu moves and some Coelho quotes coupled with a sprinkle of Pacquiao punches to those so-called stumbling blocks, you're on your way to the Bahamas, Paris or wherever you want to live the sweet life. You might want to add that dark alley somewhere in Mabolo where you can have a slice of heaven for an hour or so with those controversial Lingam massage parlors.

There's no denying that the majority of the human race itself is immune to failures, disappointments and rejections. "Try and try until you die!" was what my seatmate back in Grade 4 wrote in those cute autographs being passed around in class. How can you explain those thousands of starry eyed hopefuls who line up, rain or shine, just to get a slot for that reality TV show? How about those highway carolers who poke you nonstop inside the PUJ until you fish for coins inside your pockets? Or that tenacious suitor of yours who in turn became your full-time online stalker? We do not easily give up because we witness and hear hundreds of success stories everyday from people who lived to tell the tale. We learned from each story that it’s all about hanging on for dear life until the gods themselves decide that it's about time that we get what we want.

But it's entirely a different tale when it comes to coveting one of those Public Health Nurse positions in the city. It's still about persistence but with a little twist: it's about being friends with public officials in Facebook.

You see, I am one of those displaced nurse graduates of our time. It's a fact that majority of us are now working in the BPO industry; others work as ESL instructors, flight attendants, office clerks and department store supervisors. I even heard from the grapevine that some of us are employed as masseurs in spas. Only a blessed few are given the chance to practice what we were taught back in nursing school.

Last year, the City Health Office was on the lookout for public health nurses. Of course, I wanted to get in so off I went with the exam, interview and procuring the requirements. But we all know that all those were next to nothing if you don't have "someone from the inside" who can back you up and make sure that you get one of those highly-coveted slots. I summoned my network provider's unlimited calls feature, spoke to a couple of friends and voila! I got myself a piece of paper from a city councilor recommending me for the position. With the glossy paper in my hands, I was positive that I'll get in. The exam questions were a breeze and the interview really went well. My masteral units, I thought, was an icing on the cake.

But I didn't make it.

According to one of my classmates in graduate school who got in, she had to do the following: shoot a private message to this local official in Facebook about her need for him to back her up, visited the same official's lair at the City Hall to remind him of her application and dropped by at his house to personally asked him to include her in the final list of that year's new hires. The stress and embarrassment that she had to go through when the official's security hounds chased her on the way out of the house was even worth it, she said. And by the way, the local official is their family friend.

I recently found out that the City Health Office may hire another batch of nurses next month. Now that I've learned the tricks of the trade from my dear classmate, wish me luck with the dogs! After all, it's all about persistence. Really.

Published in Sun Star Weekend (Crossline), September 25,2010

Setyembre Kwatro

2010-09-15T06:44:00.011+08:00

Sa dihang nihalok imong basa nga simod

sa baso nga puno ug tuba nga aplod

dili tuod ikalimod

nga dugay na ikaw giuhaw,

naghinam-hinam sa kagahapon

nga samakausa imong gikaulaw.

Tingsi.

Katawa.

Buhakhak.

Agik-ik.

Sa dihang nibulhot ka ug aso

gikan sa nagkaupos nimo nga Marlboro,

mikalit ka ug yawyaw

sa imong mga damgo

nga wala pa gihapon natuman

ug hapit na nimo gitunglo.

Hilak.

Bakho.

Hibi.

Ug sa dihang mikalit

ka ug siyagit

nga ganahan na ka manamilit.

Kagahapon nga angayang hikalimtan sa hingpit

apan imong gibalikan

pinaagi sa kutsilyo nga hait.

A Letter to Red Mist

2010-09-13T06:31:00.011+08:00

Dear Red Mist,

You remind me of those cheesy primetime soaps that I used to watch without fail before I discovered Buffy, Roswell and Charmed.

I spoke of Venice and you don't even have a clue of its existence. In your own nook of geography, Europe is simply synonymous to America. I told you about my failed attempts in consistently doing Yoga but you thought I was doing belly dancing instead. You didn't even laugh at my no-pun-intended lines. Okay, I know you don't get them at all.

Yet your unassuming manner and untainted view of the world impressed me. I only know of a few people who lead lives that are uncomplicated as yours; I can even count them with one hand alone. Your zest for life and positivity overshadowed my affinity for drama, ironies and the so-called beautiful disasters.

You have this ambiguous effect on me and I find it difficult to grasp its meaning.

Why am I becoming again that single moth dancing around the flame?

Maybe we'll learn something from each other and burning myself is part of the process. Your sudden arrival could be the Cosmos' way of telling me to start paying attention to things that matter the most and stop selling my soul to deadlines and pseudo-priorities.

And you? What can you learn from me?

It's about time I buy you a world map.

Grateful,

Kai

My Toilet Paper Story

2010-09-11T06:14:00.007+08:00

life=a roll of toilet paper

In a hurry, I dashed for the nearby washroom today and absentmindedly fumbled for toilet paper. For a second there, I had this sort of epiphany that life, is indeed like a fresh roll of loo paper. The moment you are born and given a name, you resemble that plump white roll of pulp. Soft to the touch, immaculate and full of potential. It's like starting out with a clean slate.

You’ll meet a few people who will be nice to you; your mother for example.

But when you’re being bullied by the neighborhood kids, when the adolescent acne starts, when you experience your first heartbreak and when you get your first job application rejection, say hello to the real world.

And then you wither away just like that. For a few people, it only takes a few days right after their birth date. While for some of us, it takes months, years, and maybe decades.Nevertheless, just like that spotless toilet paper that has to go through a lot without their consent, we also fade away at some point.

We absorb almost anything, we take in whatever form of shit is handed to us.

As much as we force ourselves to think that we have the freewill to choose, shit happens. Again, just like that lowly roll of toilet paper.

All the pain, regrets, hate, frustrations and guilt may break us down and all that's left are our hollowed selves; just like that dull and ugly piece of cardboard that holds the once spick-and-span toilet paper.

But I learned something today.

No matter how dampened your spirits are with the inevitabilities of loss; no matter how disheartened you are with how things went opposite the other direction, take comfort in the fact that toilet paper is recyclable.

We, too, can redeem ourselves. Get up, dust yourself off, take a deep breath and shout "Bring It On!" to the Universe.

Published in Sun Star Weekend (Crossline), August 14, 2010

On Writing and Finding a New Lover

2010-09-05T14:09:00.006+08:00

It all started with those formal themes back in grade school where you were supposed to write a few paragraphs about yourself and what your pet back home looks like. And who would ever forget that never-ending question of what (or who) do you want to be when you grow yourself a goatee, some pubes and a handful of armpit hair. There was the Filipino version too; I can vividly remember that it was called Kathang Pormal.

Despite the sweaty palms and garbled penmanship, I always look forward to that day in class when our manila paper-covered spring notebooks were distributed for us to write about whatever our teacher fancies us to talk about in paper. Ten minutes later, you'll hear a page carelessly ripped apart from somebody in front of the class. And then almost everyone in the classroom follows suit. Well, I had this theory once that the sound of a page being torn apart from a notebook is contagious during formal theme sessions. When somebody starts doubting his work, everyone around him will start doubting themselves too. However, I would like to believe that I am not one of those doubters. Writing was unadulterated joy to me. And it still is.

What am I to do? I could neither dance well to the tune of Macarena nor sing the Lupang Hinirang without going off key. I also had second thoughts on joining the volleyball team because I looked anorexic when I was 10, perhaps the chocolate-coated Bonicol tablets that were regularly given to us during deworming sessions didn't work. And almost half of the class can draw. So I decided to please thy academic gods by writing about holistic health during Nutrition Months, nationalistic essays during August and the scene-stealer, World Peace.

The usual adolescent angst followed and thank heavens for those thick spring notebooks which can only be found in Gaisano South's school supplies section. They absorbed almost anything I wrote, pasted and eerrr, poured on them.

And then one lonely Saturday evening, the Internet showed itself on my doorstep. I said goodbye to my dearest springies and started pounding the keyboards instead. I wrote almost anywhere in cyberspace; created a few blogs here and there. They were like lovers to me. One day, I'd like you to death and the next day, "Oops! I have a lot of issues myself so goodbye for now."

There is that urge again to find a new lover and stop myself from crossing the other side of the road. I now found myself in an intersection that borders the sane and the deranged.

Where do I look for that new lover? Here. Neverwhere is Here.

I don't want to think of what our future will be, Dear New Blog. All I want to do now is write about those fragile things I see in a stranger's eyes, poetry that doesn't even rhyme and a nagging wife's woes about her cheating husband.

And of course, maybe tidbits about that search for the elusive Neverwhere. This will probably keep me sane for the time being.