panis.
lata.
bulok.
tumatagak-tak-tak ang pawis.
sa lahat ng maaaring gawin, huwag sumuko.
tagak-tak.
tak-tak.
basura.
bulok.
bakit. pagod.
bakit.
pasok.
suko.
bulok.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Scream Coherence, oh yah.
Maine pistol-grips the bloody hair of a teary-eyed Jack, and I am ecstatic.
He says, “Oh yah.”
I say, wow.
Nice work.
Really original. Clap. He deserves applause. Please.
I tell myself that maybe Maine just right now fulfills his action star dreams. Yeah, just give him just a little more time. If you squint just a little, you can see he is wearing a leather jacket. The biker kind of jacket, the kind with the premium holes and shock-burn bruises fit just right to tell all the other boys you are tougher than them. A chain is strapped above just above his beer belly. It is silver with specks of red.
And Maine says, “Talk.”
Another thing Maine is doing is holding a knife. No, not the Hannibal Lecter kind of knife you see him slice-slice-slice people’s heads off, just the knife you would usually see your mom use as she works in your completely perfect white kitchen, wearing a pink chicken-patterned apron that says in bold Comic Sans ‘LOVE IS MAY SPLENDID THINGS’ as she chop-chop-chops your butcher cow dinner over a new white cutting board. Well, that is if your mom wasn’t away or asleep or divorced or even dead.
I keep standing.
Maine says, “Speak.”
And the poor, weak, helpless victim in today’s deranged screenplay doesn’t even move. He just limps, arms dangling like a cockroach trapped in a spider web, strands of gray hair falling to just below Maine’s chain. He wears a long, silver cross, perhaps a rosary, and you could see all the red blotches of blood squelched all over his black shirt like a chess board stomped on by an menstruating elephant. His black pants, fit for corporate attire, are torn in most places, leaving car-crash legs over his black Havaianas.
And he doesn’t even swear.
Still, I watch. I stand still.
And Maine says to the bloody, gray-haired apostle of God, “Jack.”
One thing you need to really take note of is Maine’s hand. This could be award-winning, this kind of screenplay. You see, he has only four fingers in both his hands, which he claims is the new trend in evolution. The new giant leap for mankind. The next step to being God, or money. Or angels. He calls it…
The new pimple-eyes.
The new wart-ears.
And I say, “Wuh hey.”
Right now, I say to myself, I shall be the hero. Well, not really the princess kissy-kissy Charming type of hero, the Jack Bauer type of hero, the Jason Bourne, with no, no heart at all, maybe, really, just doing my job, what I can, whatever it takes.
Just to get the job done.
Because sometimes, doing is all we could do.
And all of this happens in a rusty, muddy, dirty two-bedroom apartment somewhere in backyard Makati. Located conveniently between the best malls and all your favorite call centers, this oh-so-secret retreat boasts long resident lifespan (1.25 times more than the average drug dealer!) and a door that really locks from the inside. And get this; it is only a phone call away! Choose from Coup d’ etat Getaway or Drug Party suite. Call within the next ten minutes and you get free media misinformation. Or a discount on your next purchase of quality pot.
So call now.
Now.
Now.
Just remember this isn’t toll-free.
This is just a sort of freeze moment between frames. For the message to sink in. For you to quit and start reading another story. For the subliminals to all turn to liminals, or whatever.
Writers call this a ‘plot device.’
And all is well until the door opens. Like every horror-ish type of story, it starts with a fraction of a secondth creak, then a bang. The superhero entrance.
This is the kind of moment every competent writer would write as time being stopped completely, perhaps just for a second, compelling my heart to jump, then stop, then freeze, echoing a moment that would last an eternity, ridding my soul of all knowledge, all wisdom. Yada yada.
But then again I am not most people. Not even competent.
I describe this moment like when you, oh, oh yeah, you are just about to, urgh, ohh, come sperm all over your men’s magazines or laptop monitor with your mouth open, your eyes dilated, your clean-cut shaved face leaning on the wall poster that says, ‘What would Jesus do?’, when someone suddenly opens your bedroom door.
Without knocking.
Turns on the lights.
Asks son, where, do you know where the remote is.
And you say, with your boiling dick aching and your insides just totally fucked up, No, I don’t know. No, idea.
Then the someone says Good Night,
Night, Son.
And everything just about now is just about ruined.
Totally.
Completely.
Tarararan-taran..
Tadaaa.
Maine would have said, “Oh yah.”
Me, I would say, “Wuh hey.”
Whole tons of meaning, senseless or enlightening, useless or Godly, packed up within two words. Makes you think of titles. Or ranks.
And, I recall. Jack really was the quiet type.
Where we were five hours ago was obviously not where we were one minute ago.
Where we were five hours ago was we were riding a jeepney. As usual.
This particular jeepney was emblazoned with a red Coca-Cola bottle on the roof, and inside, on various, random locations were twelve or eleven different first names:
Pedro. Juan. Thress. Quatroh. Etcetera, etcetera.
Just between the driver and Maine, above the dashboard, above the stacks of coins, were the usual stuffed ‘seven little dwarves,’ only there were twelve. Or eleven.
Well, even the driver couldn’t remember.
As usual.
You see, Maine owns a jeepney, drives one, too.
And because of that, blessed by Maine’s wink, Jack and I became extras in this fraternity of jeepney drivers, while Maine rode in the front seat, wearing his trademark sunglasses.
He called them ‘shades.’
‘Cause in the Philippines, we really do treasure such bonds. Such camaraderie.
By this time, someone faceless would sit beside me, and the jeepney is now full.
And, as usual, Jack fakes a cough.
Then runs his hand through his hair. Then snores.
To draw attention.
As if his existence wasn’t eye-catching enough.
This was my entrance.
This was my cue to take a call.
I say to my clenched fist, “Hello.”
One of my brows raise, and I say, “No. This is not God.”
This shall never, ever be God.
I must look angry. Or stupid.
Or handsome. Cause everyone inside is now looking right at me. Me and my empty clenched fist.
If I were God, I say.
If I were God, I wouldn’t have stopped SARS from reaching the Philippines. I wouldn’t have stopped Bird Flu from rearing its ugly wings and killing a few hundred, or thousand, or ten thousand, faceless individuals.
Maybe just one corrupt government official.
Then I smile.
Louder, I say, if I were God, I say, I would have stopped on the fifth day and rested already.
If I were God, “I would send even just a few of my precious angels and just, you know, help people speed up death.”
I would tell them with my booming, thunderous voice, destroy the vaccines.
Kill the antiviruses. Kill all the doctors.
No, not kill I mean, just, you know, deliver them to the departure area.
Then I grin.
“No, this is not God.”
If we were to continue saving ourselves like this, we would die by overpopulation anyway.
For in the beginning, I created the heavens and the earth.
And it is by this time the jeepney comes to an abrupt halt, then I hear the driver swear loudly, and then I would hear, “Sorry. Lost my balance.” It’s Maine’s voice.
It is then I return my fist to my pocket.
As usual.
Jack tap-tap-taps the ceiling.
Then we, all three of us, go down.
That I remember, I reminisce, as Jack bleeds to death while the light from the half-open door blinds us. Yes, this is still the time-freeze moment, the moment of suspense I shall slowly degrade until it doesn’t mean a thing.
This split-second permits me to catch Jack’s eyes, and yes, he is still breathing.
His single, colorless albino eye pierces my own, pleading. Begging.
Pleading.
The same single eye I once saw in a commuter bus, doing the same thing.
Begging.
Pleading.
Even then, he had only one eye. Sporting the same black collared shirt, the same black formal pants. Wearing the same expensive cross necklace. The same slippers. Flip-flops.
We watched him, Maine and me, as he climbed the stairs of the bus. He held a big battered book.
He held the railings above him for balance, and smiling widely to the driver, he said, Thanks.
God bless you.
Maine coughed, and the one-eyed albino began his speech.
“Brothers,” he said.
“My friends in Christ…”
Fellow sons of God, he said.
“Listen.”
He drawled. Imagine your local parish. Your old elementary school principal with his deep voice and calm, hesitant smile, as he delivers the opening remarks every day of your elementary life, saying how blessed kids today are, how everyone will turn out to be a genius and invent the cure of AIDS or create a machine that kills every corrupt government official. Same thing again and again.
“I come here today, in this commuter vehicle, to tell you all…”
Usually, this is the time I’d be humping some porn star in my sleep.
But this is no where near usual.
“… that all of you are just so fucked-up.”
Sometimes, it pays to listen.
Without changing tone, the albino man talked.
“You see people without even listening to them.”
He said, opening the Bible without even looking at it, “We are products of this indifferent society. Wastes of this culture that doesn’t even give a damn.”
And yes, he said, we call ourselves a Christian nation.
“But we are all atheists in our own way.”
I pretend not to listen. I pretend.
And, he said, our culture is devolving.
In this life, there are no givens.
Blessed are the evil, for they don’t fucking care.
Blessed are the weak, for they die easily.
Blessed are the transvestites and the butcher cows and the Hindu cattle, for they have found their purpose in life.
He spoke, without even changing tone.
And right now, I am Sinful.
I am Dark.
I am pretty much really, really stupid.
“And if God really did care, he would have given us the blessing to go on and kill ourselves.
Cause if we needed weeds, we wouldn’t have any.”
And he closed the Bible, smiling. Without flinching, as if he just read on and on.
He procured an empty tissue box from his pocket, and passed it to the nearest passenger.
Which was me.
The box label said, “scream coherence.”
And for the first time, Jack looked at me and winked.
For the first time, he smiled.
He says, “Oh yah.”
I say, wow.
Nice work.
Really original. Clap. He deserves applause. Please.
I tell myself that maybe Maine just right now fulfills his action star dreams. Yeah, just give him just a little more time. If you squint just a little, you can see he is wearing a leather jacket. The biker kind of jacket, the kind with the premium holes and shock-burn bruises fit just right to tell all the other boys you are tougher than them. A chain is strapped above just above his beer belly. It is silver with specks of red.
And Maine says, “Talk.”
Another thing Maine is doing is holding a knife. No, not the Hannibal Lecter kind of knife you see him slice-slice-slice people’s heads off, just the knife you would usually see your mom use as she works in your completely perfect white kitchen, wearing a pink chicken-patterned apron that says in bold Comic Sans ‘LOVE IS MAY SPLENDID THINGS’ as she chop-chop-chops your butcher cow dinner over a new white cutting board. Well, that is if your mom wasn’t away or asleep or divorced or even dead.
I keep standing.
Maine says, “Speak.”
And the poor, weak, helpless victim in today’s deranged screenplay doesn’t even move. He just limps, arms dangling like a cockroach trapped in a spider web, strands of gray hair falling to just below Maine’s chain. He wears a long, silver cross, perhaps a rosary, and you could see all the red blotches of blood squelched all over his black shirt like a chess board stomped on by an menstruating elephant. His black pants, fit for corporate attire, are torn in most places, leaving car-crash legs over his black Havaianas.
And he doesn’t even swear.
Still, I watch. I stand still.
And Maine says to the bloody, gray-haired apostle of God, “Jack.”
One thing you need to really take note of is Maine’s hand. This could be award-winning, this kind of screenplay. You see, he has only four fingers in both his hands, which he claims is the new trend in evolution. The new giant leap for mankind. The next step to being God, or money. Or angels. He calls it…
The new pimple-eyes.
The new wart-ears.
And I say, “Wuh hey.”
Right now, I say to myself, I shall be the hero. Well, not really the princess kissy-kissy Charming type of hero, the Jack Bauer type of hero, the Jason Bourne, with no, no heart at all, maybe, really, just doing my job, what I can, whatever it takes.
Just to get the job done.
Because sometimes, doing is all we could do.
And all of this happens in a rusty, muddy, dirty two-bedroom apartment somewhere in backyard Makati. Located conveniently between the best malls and all your favorite call centers, this oh-so-secret retreat boasts long resident lifespan (1.25 times more than the average drug dealer!) and a door that really locks from the inside. And get this; it is only a phone call away! Choose from Coup d’ etat Getaway or Drug Party suite. Call within the next ten minutes and you get free media misinformation. Or a discount on your next purchase of quality pot.
So call now.
Now.
Now.
Just remember this isn’t toll-free.
This is just a sort of freeze moment between frames. For the message to sink in. For you to quit and start reading another story. For the subliminals to all turn to liminals, or whatever.
Writers call this a ‘plot device.’
And all is well until the door opens. Like every horror-ish type of story, it starts with a fraction of a secondth creak, then a bang. The superhero entrance.
This is the kind of moment every competent writer would write as time being stopped completely, perhaps just for a second, compelling my heart to jump, then stop, then freeze, echoing a moment that would last an eternity, ridding my soul of all knowledge, all wisdom. Yada yada.
But then again I am not most people. Not even competent.
I describe this moment like when you, oh, oh yeah, you are just about to, urgh, ohh, come sperm all over your men’s magazines or laptop monitor with your mouth open, your eyes dilated, your clean-cut shaved face leaning on the wall poster that says, ‘What would Jesus do?’, when someone suddenly opens your bedroom door.
Without knocking.
Turns on the lights.
Asks son, where, do you know where the remote is.
And you say, with your boiling dick aching and your insides just totally fucked up, No, I don’t know. No, idea.
Then the someone says Good Night,
Night, Son.
And everything just about now is just about ruined.
Totally.
Completely.
Tarararan-taran..
Tadaaa.
Maine would have said, “Oh yah.”
Me, I would say, “Wuh hey.”
Whole tons of meaning, senseless or enlightening, useless or Godly, packed up within two words. Makes you think of titles. Or ranks.
And, I recall. Jack really was the quiet type.
Where we were five hours ago was obviously not where we were one minute ago.
Where we were five hours ago was we were riding a jeepney. As usual.
This particular jeepney was emblazoned with a red Coca-Cola bottle on the roof, and inside, on various, random locations were twelve or eleven different first names:
Pedro. Juan. Thress. Quatroh. Etcetera, etcetera.
Just between the driver and Maine, above the dashboard, above the stacks of coins, were the usual stuffed ‘seven little dwarves,’ only there were twelve. Or eleven.
Well, even the driver couldn’t remember.
As usual.
You see, Maine owns a jeepney, drives one, too.
And because of that, blessed by Maine’s wink, Jack and I became extras in this fraternity of jeepney drivers, while Maine rode in the front seat, wearing his trademark sunglasses.
He called them ‘shades.’
‘Cause in the Philippines, we really do treasure such bonds. Such camaraderie.
By this time, someone faceless would sit beside me, and the jeepney is now full.
And, as usual, Jack fakes a cough.
Then runs his hand through his hair. Then snores.
To draw attention.
As if his existence wasn’t eye-catching enough.
This was my entrance.
This was my cue to take a call.
I say to my clenched fist, “Hello.”
One of my brows raise, and I say, “No. This is not God.”
This shall never, ever be God.
I must look angry. Or stupid.
Or handsome. Cause everyone inside is now looking right at me. Me and my empty clenched fist.
If I were God, I say.
If I were God, I wouldn’t have stopped SARS from reaching the Philippines. I wouldn’t have stopped Bird Flu from rearing its ugly wings and killing a few hundred, or thousand, or ten thousand, faceless individuals.
Maybe just one corrupt government official.
Then I smile.
Louder, I say, if I were God, I say, I would have stopped on the fifth day and rested already.
If I were God, “I would send even just a few of my precious angels and just, you know, help people speed up death.”
I would tell them with my booming, thunderous voice, destroy the vaccines.
Kill the antiviruses. Kill all the doctors.
No, not kill I mean, just, you know, deliver them to the departure area.
Then I grin.
“No, this is not God.”
If we were to continue saving ourselves like this, we would die by overpopulation anyway.
For in the beginning, I created the heavens and the earth.
And it is by this time the jeepney comes to an abrupt halt, then I hear the driver swear loudly, and then I would hear, “Sorry. Lost my balance.” It’s Maine’s voice.
It is then I return my fist to my pocket.
As usual.
Jack tap-tap-taps the ceiling.
Then we, all three of us, go down.
That I remember, I reminisce, as Jack bleeds to death while the light from the half-open door blinds us. Yes, this is still the time-freeze moment, the moment of suspense I shall slowly degrade until it doesn’t mean a thing.
This split-second permits me to catch Jack’s eyes, and yes, he is still breathing.
His single, colorless albino eye pierces my own, pleading. Begging.
Pleading.
The same single eye I once saw in a commuter bus, doing the same thing.
Begging.
Pleading.
Even then, he had only one eye. Sporting the same black collared shirt, the same black formal pants. Wearing the same expensive cross necklace. The same slippers. Flip-flops.
We watched him, Maine and me, as he climbed the stairs of the bus. He held a big battered book.
He held the railings above him for balance, and smiling widely to the driver, he said, Thanks.
God bless you.
Maine coughed, and the one-eyed albino began his speech.
“Brothers,” he said.
“My friends in Christ…”
Fellow sons of God, he said.
“Listen.”
He drawled. Imagine your local parish. Your old elementary school principal with his deep voice and calm, hesitant smile, as he delivers the opening remarks every day of your elementary life, saying how blessed kids today are, how everyone will turn out to be a genius and invent the cure of AIDS or create a machine that kills every corrupt government official. Same thing again and again.
“I come here today, in this commuter vehicle, to tell you all…”
Usually, this is the time I’d be humping some porn star in my sleep.
But this is no where near usual.
“… that all of you are just so fucked-up.”
Sometimes, it pays to listen.
Without changing tone, the albino man talked.
“You see people without even listening to them.”
He said, opening the Bible without even looking at it, “We are products of this indifferent society. Wastes of this culture that doesn’t even give a damn.”
And yes, he said, we call ourselves a Christian nation.
“But we are all atheists in our own way.”
I pretend not to listen. I pretend.
And, he said, our culture is devolving.
In this life, there are no givens.
Blessed are the evil, for they don’t fucking care.
Blessed are the weak, for they die easily.
Blessed are the transvestites and the butcher cows and the Hindu cattle, for they have found their purpose in life.
He spoke, without even changing tone.
And right now, I am Sinful.
I am Dark.
I am pretty much really, really stupid.
“And if God really did care, he would have given us the blessing to go on and kill ourselves.
Cause if we needed weeds, we wouldn’t have any.”
And he closed the Bible, smiling. Without flinching, as if he just read on and on.
He procured an empty tissue box from his pocket, and passed it to the nearest passenger.
Which was me.
The box label said, “scream coherence.”
And for the first time, Jack looked at me and winked.
For the first time, he smiled.
river of souls.
the clock ticks.
tick.
tick.
tick.
tick.
tick.
and still i am here.
in front of a blinking screen,
faceless, secret.
i am another thumbnail,
an icon.
and people call this
"connecting."
think of words, think of pens.
imagine a new Ancient Philippines.
Uncolonized.
Imagine lack of words.
Imagine a new language.
Imagine the word "tiger."
Pair it with "economy."
silence uncleansed. words cease.
conflict unbecoming.
noise.
noise.
patience amid the darkness. darkness..
thorns crossed. bleeding.
love.
care.
mastery of the night.
flames of oblivion. arrows from everyone.
terror.
terror.
belief undying, soul clenched.
myself myself myself.
me.
torment unreal, untrue.
streaming, ideas.
streaming.
useless, typing of words, markers of the tongue.
makeshift.
unclean.
scream coherence.
scream now. now. now . now. now. now.
patience limited. face unseen.
love. love.
isnt'.
stalk. see. beauty.
condition, unpresent.
faceless.
and the .45 caliber pistol bleeding on my temple says nothing, for it is a .45 caliber pistol.
tick.
tick.
tick.
tick.
tick.
and still i am here.
in front of a blinking screen,
faceless, secret.
i am another thumbnail,
an icon.
and people call this
"connecting."
think of words, think of pens.
imagine a new Ancient Philippines.
Uncolonized.
Imagine lack of words.
Imagine a new language.
Imagine the word "tiger."
Pair it with "economy."
silence uncleansed. words cease.
conflict unbecoming.
noise.
noise.
patience amid the darkness. darkness..
thorns crossed. bleeding.
love.
care.
mastery of the night.
flames of oblivion. arrows from everyone.
terror.
terror.
belief undying, soul clenched.
myself myself myself.
me.
torment unreal, untrue.
streaming, ideas.
streaming.
useless, typing of words, markers of the tongue.
makeshift.
unclean.
scream coherence.
scream now. now. now . now. now. now.
patience limited. face unseen.
love. love.
isnt'.
stalk. see. beauty.
condition, unpresent.
faceless.
and the .45 caliber pistol bleeding on my temple says nothing, for it is a .45 caliber pistol.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
I am little pea.
When you have two exams the next day, encoding meaningless data about early evening news shows doesn't really feel good.
In fact, it sucks.
Chikka. Oh yah.
In fact, it sucks.
Chikka. Oh yah.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
one of those times i just have to write. with helluva lot of requirements under my belt. this doesn't really feel good. but then again. it never does.
Summer 07 was my worst summer ever.
2.5 and 3.0
Days cooped behind a blinking screen.
Loneliness.
Hours warped inside a fictitious world.
Minutes soon forgotten.
Sweat.
Two classes.
2.5 and 3.0.
I took up Psychology 101 last summer.
For shifting. For knowledge.
I had no idea what i was getting in to.
Take up (insert very 'unoable' prof name here).
Don't take David.
"Terror yun."
"Pero astig."
So, stick to the 'astig' part.
Take his class.
Nah, this is just for shifting. Yeah.
Only in one's death do you realize one's influence. Power.
Think of 'mentor.'
Think of 'idol.'
Hard exams. Dopamine.
One in one's death does one realize how much time he has wasted, playing world of warcraft instead of talking. Listening.
For cellphones rob us of our inner voice. Our mind.
"For when I die, when I am ready to die... I wish for no trouble."
2 hours. Dreaded. For no goddamn reason.
10 hours per week.
"After one month, have you learned anything?"
No, maybe not.
After 16 years living, no, maybe i haven't learned anything.
"I would take a shovel, a radio, and, aha, a change of clothes, of course."
Stress. Learning.
Beneath the only neurological psychologist in the Philippines.
Under is the better word.
"And I would dig. For I want no one else to be troubled."
Dopamine. Competing with a stupid Rogue character for neurons, for ideas, for rationale.
"And then, I shall be ready to meet my Maker, Master if you wish, whoever, or whatever she is."
I was known only as "Mr. Celera."
Only in his death do I realize, maybe i wasted his time. Maybe I really haven't learned anything.
Maybe.
Phoenix?
Oh yeah.
Professor Fredegusto David, I hope i haven't wasted your time.
And I, if not we, miss you.
2.5 and 3.0
Days cooped behind a blinking screen.
Loneliness.
Hours warped inside a fictitious world.
Minutes soon forgotten.
Sweat.
Two classes.
2.5 and 3.0.
I took up Psychology 101 last summer.
For shifting. For knowledge.
I had no idea what i was getting in to.
Take up (insert very 'unoable' prof name here).
Don't take David.
"Terror yun."
"Pero astig."
So, stick to the 'astig' part.
Take his class.
Nah, this is just for shifting. Yeah.
Only in one's death do you realize one's influence. Power.
Think of 'mentor.'
Think of 'idol.'
Hard exams. Dopamine.
One in one's death does one realize how much time he has wasted, playing world of warcraft instead of talking. Listening.
For cellphones rob us of our inner voice. Our mind.
"For when I die, when I am ready to die... I wish for no trouble."
2 hours. Dreaded. For no goddamn reason.
10 hours per week.
"After one month, have you learned anything?"
No, maybe not.
After 16 years living, no, maybe i haven't learned anything.
"I would take a shovel, a radio, and, aha, a change of clothes, of course."
Stress. Learning.
Beneath the only neurological psychologist in the Philippines.
Under is the better word.
"And I would dig. For I want no one else to be troubled."
Dopamine. Competing with a stupid Rogue character for neurons, for ideas, for rationale.
"And then, I shall be ready to meet my Maker, Master if you wish, whoever, or whatever she is."
I was known only as "Mr. Celera."
Only in his death do I realize, maybe i wasted his time. Maybe I really haven't learned anything.
Maybe.
Phoenix?
Oh yeah.
Professor Fredegusto David, I hope i haven't wasted your time.
And I, if not we, miss you.
Monday, July 30, 2007
i rarely tell anyone i need to talk to them.
drunks are the waste byproducts of our generation. the products of our indifference, our not caring. our blind ears. for we are forever improving. like the americans. oh yah.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
i like you. not the romeo juliet like, but like the narrator marla like. you know, like. i know you feel the same. viva la "not me."
tired of being waking everyday at 0645 without intending to.
tired of waking.
tired of trying so damn hard for one little thing.
tired of being pushed away.
tired of being so determined to be the best.
tired of being a shadow over the same.
tired of sleeping to the monotonous tone of my own voice, "this is the last time. this is the last time."
tired of cramming.
tired of not being wanted.
tired of writing.
tired of being so damn tired.
tired of caring too much.
tired of wasting too much time caring too much about being pulled by the monotonous tone of last week's homework.]
tired of writing.
tired of being so damn stupid.
tired of friendster.
tired of using internet as a medium for relationships.\
tired of being willingly dragged into a vacuum.
tired of being so stuck up.
tired of being.
tired of hating.
tired of caring.
tired of typing.
tyred of satyre.
terid of nsnoense.
tired of blogger.
tired of having to write everytime.
tired of needing catharsis.
tired of zuihitsu.
tired of being so very, very tired.
tired of not bathing every 0645.
tired of being late.
tired of being tired.
tired of long, long, long lists of some stupid random faceless inhumane assoholic fuckinated bloke who wants to tell the whole damn world about his goddamn problems in very, very, very vague, oh so vague blog posts.
tired.
"if a writer could express himself in any other way, he wouldn't be a writer, would he?"
oh yeah, tired of quotes.
so very, very tired.
tired of waking.
tired of trying so damn hard for one little thing.
tired of being pushed away.
tired of being so determined to be the best.
tired of being a shadow over the same.
tired of sleeping to the monotonous tone of my own voice, "this is the last time. this is the last time."
tired of cramming.
tired of not being wanted.
tired of writing.
tired of being so damn tired.
tired of caring too much.
tired of wasting too much time caring too much about being pulled by the monotonous tone of last week's homework.]
tired of writing.
tired of being so damn stupid.
tired of friendster.
tired of using internet as a medium for relationships.\
tired of being willingly dragged into a vacuum.
tired of being so stuck up.
tired of being.
tired of hating.
tired of caring.
tired of typing.
tyred of satyre.
terid of nsnoense.
tired of blogger.
tired of having to write everytime.
tired of needing catharsis.
tired of zuihitsu.
tired of being so very, very tired.
tired of not bathing every 0645.
tired of being late.
tired of being tired.
tired of long, long, long lists of some stupid random faceless inhumane assoholic fuckinated bloke who wants to tell the whole damn world about his goddamn problems in very, very, very vague, oh so vague blog posts.
tired.
"if a writer could express himself in any other way, he wouldn't be a writer, would he?"
oh yeah, tired of quotes.
so very, very tired.
start your own fight club.
be your own robert paulson.
be your own tyler durden.
be yourself.
care not the fuck what happens.
the fuck what happens.
fuck what happens.
fuck what.
fuck.
viva la hemophilia.
be your own tyler durden.
be yourself.
care not the fuck what happens.
the fuck what happens.
fuck what happens.
fuck what.
fuck.
viva la hemophilia.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
http://www.friendster.com/someeideguy
www.whatsanotherwordforparody.blogspot.com
ayan. pagdating ko sa computer shop, tinamad nakong magsulat.
buses, jeeps, and the mrt encourages philosophical thinking.
i'd love a girl who's smart enough to know i do not love her.
-some 'Eide' guy.
Ok. Wait. Wait.
Random thoughts are never random. They are stimulated by countless experiences that blah blah blah.
Think of the word "tweezer."
Imagine me on a vertical pole.
Top hat.
Cane.
Overcoat.
Pinstripes.
Baton.
Imagine pale skin.
Dark eyes.
Black hair.
Falling, oh, so perfectly on the eyes.
Imagine a tightrope.
Then fill in the blanks.
Imagine Illidan Stormrage.
Dead. Beaten. Looted.
Imagine a new ancient Philippines.
Think of the word "atheist."
Pair it with "society."
Pair it with "industrialized."
We are in no great plan.
We are in reality.
We just call it "destiny."
Count One,
Two.
Three..
Wait.
Wait for the happy ending.
Force yourself to believe you have a happy ending.
And force yourself hard.
Real hard.
if you can't have her, then write a story that you'll have her. Play an RPG. Listen to a song. Lie. Close your eyes. Drown yourself in detail. Lie. Dream. This is how i get by. --Some Eide guy
If only writing could make someone fall in love. If only words could charm. If only. Yeah. If only.
ayan. pagdating ko sa computer shop, tinamad nakong magsulat.
buses, jeeps, and the mrt encourages philosophical thinking.
i'd love a girl who's smart enough to know i do not love her.
-some 'Eide' guy.
Ok. Wait. Wait.
Random thoughts are never random. They are stimulated by countless experiences that blah blah blah.
Think of the word "tweezer."
Imagine me on a vertical pole.
Top hat.
Cane.
Overcoat.
Pinstripes.
Baton.
Imagine pale skin.
Dark eyes.
Black hair.
Falling, oh, so perfectly on the eyes.
Imagine a tightrope.
Then fill in the blanks.
Imagine Illidan Stormrage.
Dead. Beaten. Looted.
Imagine a new ancient Philippines.
Think of the word "atheist."
Pair it with "society."
Pair it with "industrialized."
We are in no great plan.
We are in reality.
We just call it "destiny."
Count One,
Two.
Three..
Wait.
Wait for the happy ending.
Force yourself to believe you have a happy ending.
And force yourself hard.
Real hard.
if you can't have her, then write a story that you'll have her. Play an RPG. Listen to a song. Lie. Close your eyes. Drown yourself in detail. Lie. Dream. This is how i get by. --Some Eide guy
If only writing could make someone fall in love. If only words could charm. If only. Yeah. If only.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
The weather today is stupid. Really, really stupid. Think of the word "stupid." Pair with "stupid." Then think of someone stupid. Viva la stupid(ity)
soldier. cunnilingus. strike. avenge. lacerate. compensate. sinuate. stig,
pawn. make. covenant. lacerate. tivo.
lalalalalallalaalalallalallaa.
craaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap.
pawn. make. covenant. lacerate. tivo.
lalalalalallalaalalallalallaa.
craaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap.
oo. idaan nalang natin sa mga pacute na mga sinusulat na inaasahan nating basahin nila. oo, magaling! tas pag personal na, mangasar nalang tayo! cooL!
magulo ang mundo. magulo ang ating mga utak. kung sana'y kaya natin maging (insert malalim na filipino word for transparent here), kung sana kaya natin maging bukas sa lahat.
walking.
scouting.
throb. throb.
cool.
you suddenly become aware of your breathing.
you forget the best joke you could ever say.
you sigh.
you laugh.
you tease.
you feel reeaally reeaally stupid.
viva la, uh, basta viva nalang.
walking.
scouting.
throb. throb.
cool.
you suddenly become aware of your breathing.
you forget the best joke you could ever say.
you sigh.
you laugh.
you tease.
you feel reeaally reeaally stupid.
viva la, uh, basta viva nalang.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
picture this. picture that. picture something else.
When someone uses your writing style, conscious or not, you should be flattered, i think. well, unless she insists its hers.
is chauvinist, yeah?
viva la feminista.
die author die.
kill the novel.
"the dawn of really tea tv"
is chauvinist, yeah?
viva la feminista.
die author die.
kill the novel.
"the dawn of really tea tv"
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Saturday, July 7, 2007
boredom or dare or just trying to hit rock bottom to rise to fall again to rise again to help others rise to fall again and be reborn
at tayo'y magmukmok at umiyak sa magpakailanmang pag-ahit ng ating mga buhok't bigote't balbas.
tayo'y magdusa sa pagsigaw, at matutong sumigaw.
tayo'y dumako sa isang pang talata ng ating buhay.
viva los rotc.
tayo'y magdusa sa pagsigaw, at matutong sumigaw.
tayo'y dumako sa isang pang talata ng ating buhay.
viva los rotc.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
vice.
as dragons damning their own lives for pleasure.
for finite joy.
as wolves hungered by blood.
devouring their own.
for finite joy.
as wolves hungered by blood.
devouring their own.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Off.
Click.
Clickity-click-click.
Obsessive compulsion.
Doofus Exponential.
Vandalism. Penned by an author unknown.
Penned. by some another guy.
When nothing is ever original, defy. Defy definition.
Defy convention.
Learn to just damn learn.
We don't pay thousands for a piece of paper.
Click.
Phase shift.
Nothingness.
Clickity-click-click.
Obsessive compulsion.
Doofus Exponential.
Vandalism. Penned by an author unknown.
Penned. by some another guy.
When nothing is ever original, defy. Defy definition.
Defy convention.
Learn to just damn learn.
We don't pay thousands for a piece of paper.
Click.
Phase shift.
Nothingness.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Draft
If only writing could daze.
If only writing could seize the mind, arrest. Seize.
If only writing could prompt seizures. Seize.
If only. Yeah. If only.
If only writing could charm. Daze.
If only writing could do more than just bore. Seize.
If only writing could...
(kunyari na DC)
If only writing could seize the mind, arrest. Seize.
If only writing could prompt seizures. Seize.
If only. Yeah. If only.
If only writing could charm. Daze.
If only writing could do more than just bore. Seize.
If only writing could...
(kunyari na DC)
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Ang kasangkapan ng pitong kalangitang itim na tumatakbo sa dapithapon ng kaarawan ni BUddha.
Ubo.
Ako ay umuubo.
Nagtatanong.
Naghihingalo.
Kumaripas ng takbo. Takbo lang.
Isa-isip ang kadiliman.
Kalangitan.
Umaapaw ng mga tala, tahimik.
O kay tahimik.
Isa-isip ang isang basahan, basa
At tumutulo.
Puno ng pawis, ng dugo.
Isa-isip ang tumatakbo.
Hubad.
Maitim.
Nag-iisa.
Isipin ang kalangitan.
Tahimik. O kay tahimik..
Sadyang masaklap ang kapalaran.
Isipin and salitang "May."
Ipares ito sa "Kapal."
Isipin si Bathala.
Isipin ang Diyos.
Isipin ang Kaniyang kamay na walang magawa.
Tak-tataktak-tak.
Isipin ang kanyang mga daliri. Nagsusulat.
Gumagawa.
Isipin ang salitang "martilyo".
Ipares sa "pako."
Isipin ang salitang "Paa, Mabigat."
Ipares sa "Langgam."
Ipares sa "Ipis."
Ipares sa "Bangkay."
Isipin ang kalangitan. Tahimik. O kay tahimik.
Maaaring ganito ang pagiging Diyos.
Maaaring "Ipis."
Ikaw ang husga.
Ako ay umuubo.
Nagtatanong.
Naghihingalo.
Kumaripas ng takbo. Takbo lang.
Isa-isip ang kadiliman.
Kalangitan.
Umaapaw ng mga tala, tahimik.
O kay tahimik.
Isa-isip ang isang basahan, basa
At tumutulo.
Puno ng pawis, ng dugo.
Isa-isip ang tumatakbo.
Hubad.
Maitim.
Nag-iisa.
Isipin ang kalangitan.
Tahimik. O kay tahimik..
Sadyang masaklap ang kapalaran.
Isipin and salitang "May."
Ipares ito sa "Kapal."
Isipin si Bathala.
Isipin ang Diyos.
Isipin ang Kaniyang kamay na walang magawa.
Tak-tataktak-tak.
Isipin ang kanyang mga daliri. Nagsusulat.
Gumagawa.
Isipin ang salitang "martilyo".
Ipares sa "pako."
Isipin ang salitang "Paa, Mabigat."
Ipares sa "Langgam."
Ipares sa "Ipis."
Ipares sa "Bangkay."
Isipin ang kalangitan. Tahimik. O kay tahimik.
Maaaring ganito ang pagiging Diyos.
Maaaring "Ipis."
Ikaw ang husga.
Friday, June 8, 2007
My lips can't speak what the moonis trying to vanquicsh in the middle of the dark howling sky's moulin rouge.
Fight Club all over again.
I want her.
She wants the other guy.
But, the other guy doesn't want me.
He wants her, too.
I think.
Asterisk space "CHOKING, VOMITING" space Asterisk
(In writing,) When you realize you've lost, or on your way to losingdom, don't bother with the plot. Bother with the characters, the "other guy."
Annoy.
Pest.
Make him insecure.
Make everyone else lose.
Besides, the only reason why we ask people about their problems is so we realize
1. how oh, so very pleasantly, happily, good. our lives are.
2. so we get comforted.
in this world, every man is for himself.
for his mouth.
for his you know what.
for his stomach.
his 'form.'
our own personal time capsule.
Oh yah. Very much Oh yah.
Imagine a thought bubble.
See yourself typing.
Wet hair falling oh, so perfectly above the eyes, dripping.
Eyes. Heavy. Transparent. Un-there.
There is a kind of light that makes dark men fair. And fair men perfect.
Hands. Scrammering. Elgapatating. Sinuing.
Meaninglessness. Vagueness.
This is how it must feel to be God.
This is writing. Without thinking.
Summarize whole lives in a book.
Simplify a whole day in a blog post.
Make the whole world a piece of paper.
Tra-la-la-lala-lala.. Ooohh.. Ooohh.
Tra-la-la-lala-laal.. Ooohh.. Oohhh.
Drum beat.
Fade. Fade.
I want her.
She wants the other guy.
But, the other guy doesn't want me.
He wants her, too.
I think.
Asterisk space "CHOKING, VOMITING" space Asterisk
(In writing,) When you realize you've lost, or on your way to losingdom, don't bother with the plot. Bother with the characters, the "other guy."
Annoy.
Pest.
Make him insecure.
Make everyone else lose.
Besides, the only reason why we ask people about their problems is so we realize
1. how oh, so very pleasantly, happily, good. our lives are.
2. so we get comforted.
in this world, every man is for himself.
for his mouth.
for his you know what.
for his stomach.
his 'form.'
our own personal time capsule.
Oh yah. Very much Oh yah.
Imagine a thought bubble.
See yourself typing.
Wet hair falling oh, so perfectly above the eyes, dripping.
Eyes. Heavy. Transparent. Un-there.
There is a kind of light that makes dark men fair. And fair men perfect.
Hands. Scrammering. Elgapatating. Sinuing.
Meaninglessness. Vagueness.
This is how it must feel to be God.
This is writing. Without thinking.
Summarize whole lives in a book.
Simplify a whole day in a blog post.
Make the whole world a piece of paper.
Tra-la-la-lala-lala.. Ooohh.. Ooohh.
Tra-la-la-lala-laal.. Ooohh.. Oohhh.
Drum beat.
Fade. Fade.
sanitarium.
Imagine a cow run over by a pedestal pierced by and infamous lesbian goat-deer hybrid.
THink of the word 'torrent.'
YEah.
INsanity irrElevant.
THink of the word 'torrent.'
YEah.
INsanity irrElevant.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
I am just bad news. And yes, I am a liar. Strike Four.
I am simply a narrator.
You shall be my main character.
Force yourself to believe you are the main character.
And force yourself hard. Real hard.
Maybe this is what it feels like to be God.
This is how it feels to write.
You shall be my main character.
Force yourself to believe you are the main character.
And force yourself hard. Real hard.
Maybe this is what it feels like to be God.
This is how it feels to write.
Monday, June 4, 2007
My faith is wavering.
Sadly, my sword has been crushed. My anthem has been silenced. My class has been dissolved.
We are born, when born is loosely used, we are born idealists.
Perfection.
Unique.
Ideal.
As we grow older, we learn how stupid we are. We realize how too much faith and love and care and hope is simply, and not just simply, stupid.
"Assoholic."
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Expect the damn worst. Not the damn 'worse.'
Do not assume.
In the words of Thomas Harris's Jack Crawford,
"When you assume, you make an ASS out of U and ME." and mostly, yourself.
You realize how, lost you are.
You comfort yourself by the thought someone cares for you.
Then you see her hands clenched. Eyes locked. Locked. Stunned. Incapacitated.
You then comfort yourself with how young you are.
"Age. Maturity. Life is a dream. Oh yah."
Then a sixteen-year old graduates summa cum laude.
three cheers for irony.
You then lose faith. Aww. How sad. Tragic, really.
But then again no one cares. Why should they?
Pull a lever. Push a button.
Everyone's too busy feeding themselves.
Zoom out. Fade to black. The counterstrike fade to black.
The one where you see your dead body. The victory spray paint. The blood. The stolen gun.
Ah. your very own emo video.
Have an epiphany. Realize how you so damn hate the damn word. Realize how you try to maintain the Godly image by only using damn. not fucking, not shitty, just damn.
Use the word realize again and again. For continuity. Whatever the hell it means.
This is not angst.
This is not pain.
This is reality. However angsty and painsy it sounds.
Hell do i care.
We are born, when born is loosely used, we are born idealists.
Perfection.
Unique.
Ideal.
As we grow older, we learn how stupid we are. We realize how too much faith and love and care and hope is simply, and not just simply, stupid.
"Assoholic."
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Expect the damn worst. Not the damn 'worse.'
Do not assume.
In the words of Thomas Harris's Jack Crawford,
"When you assume, you make an ASS out of U and ME." and mostly, yourself.
You realize how, lost you are.
You comfort yourself by the thought someone cares for you.
Then you see her hands clenched. Eyes locked. Locked. Stunned. Incapacitated.
You then comfort yourself with how young you are.
"Age. Maturity. Life is a dream. Oh yah."
Then a sixteen-year old graduates summa cum laude.
three cheers for irony.
You then lose faith. Aww. How sad. Tragic, really.
But then again no one cares. Why should they?
Pull a lever. Push a button.
Everyone's too busy feeding themselves.
Zoom out. Fade to black. The counterstrike fade to black.
The one where you see your dead body. The victory spray paint. The blood. The stolen gun.
Ah. your very own emo video.
Have an epiphany. Realize how you so damn hate the damn word. Realize how you try to maintain the Godly image by only using damn. not fucking, not shitty, just damn.
Use the word realize again and again. For continuity. Whatever the hell it means.
This is not angst.
This is not pain.
This is reality. However angsty and painsy it sounds.
Hell do i care.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
... in what the critics say
Just for the record, the weather today is increasingly nervous with increasing tendencies of compulsive spending.
Yes. I can feel this.
And this sucks.
Yes. I can feel this.
And this sucks.
Monday, May 14, 2007
My computer has "crashed" but not really. My video card is sick and all my files, papers, Take Note: Papers, and files are there.
marerecover pa yon. i am sure. yes. i shall force myself to believe it shall.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
30 Minutes Before CW10 Passing Hour.
Lovers’ Cancer
“I did not want this; why, do you think I do; but it’s not my fault; yes, it is; no, it isn’t; but you started it; and how did I do that?; I don’t know, but I know you did it; I did not; yes you did; ok maybe a little; aha, so you admit it; admit what?; uh, you know, that; what that; about the you know, thing; oh you mean the thing, what thing, which; ah, I hate you so much; oh, you forgot, didn’t you?; no, I didn’t, I just uh, don’t want to mention it; oh, you really forgot; no, I didn’t; forgetful; ok, so I did forget, why does it matter; then it means you love me again; no, I don’t; yes, you do; no, I don’t; it is just so obvious; hey, stop that; stop what; hey, that tickles; no, it doesn’t; hey, stop that, now; I don’t want to; ok, then don’t; sure I’ll stop; hey, don’t; we were having a talk, right; yes, but; let us continue the talk; fine, what do you have to say; I say we need to continue to pay for the car; huh, what car?; the car that we’re paying for; what car are we paying for?; the car I am buying; you are buying a car?; yes I am; since when?; yesterday; and when did we even talk about buying a car?; today; and why do we need a car, mister, you work at home; because you love me; yeah, right; yes, you do; and what does that have to do with a car; nothing; ok, so nothing; I love you; huh?; I said I love you; ok, so please don’t buy a car; why?; because you love me; what does that. . .; didn’t you say you loved me?; yes, but. . .; oh, I thought you loved me, I was wrong; that’s not true; you’ll not buy a car?; uhm, uhh...; you’ve changed; what?; you weren’t the man I fell in love with; hey, hey where are you getting at?; I forgot; hey, please; what was that? I seemed to have forgotten what I said; ok, I’m sorry, I’m sorry; you’ll no longer buy a car?; yes, I won’t, I won’t; that’s nice, dear, goodnight, (mwah); oh, hey. . . shit. . . not again. . .”
“I did not want this; why, do you think I do; but it’s not my fault; yes, it is; no, it isn’t; but you started it; and how did I do that?; I don’t know, but I know you did it; I did not; yes you did; ok maybe a little; aha, so you admit it; admit what?; uh, you know, that; what that; about the you know, thing; oh you mean the thing, what thing, which; ah, I hate you so much; oh, you forgot, didn’t you?; no, I didn’t, I just uh, don’t want to mention it; oh, you really forgot; no, I didn’t; forgetful; ok, so I did forget, why does it matter; then it means you love me again; no, I don’t; yes, you do; no, I don’t; it is just so obvious; hey, stop that; stop what; hey, that tickles; no, it doesn’t; hey, stop that, now; I don’t want to; ok, then don’t; sure I’ll stop; hey, don’t; we were having a talk, right; yes, but; let us continue the talk; fine, what do you have to say; I say we need to continue to pay for the car; huh, what car?; the car that we’re paying for; what car are we paying for?; the car I am buying; you are buying a car?; yes I am; since when?; yesterday; and when did we even talk about buying a car?; today; and why do we need a car, mister, you work at home; because you love me; yeah, right; yes, you do; and what does that have to do with a car; nothing; ok, so nothing; I love you; huh?; I said I love you; ok, so please don’t buy a car; why?; because you love me; what does that. . .; didn’t you say you loved me?; yes, but. . .; oh, I thought you loved me, I was wrong; that’s not true; you’ll not buy a car?; uhm, uhh...; you’ve changed; what?; you weren’t the man I fell in love with; hey, hey where are you getting at?; I forgot; hey, please; what was that? I seemed to have forgotten what I said; ok, I’m sorry, I’m sorry; you’ll no longer buy a car?; yes, I won’t, I won’t; that’s nice, dear, goodnight, (mwah); oh, hey. . . shit. . . not again. . .”
Well, something like this. This isn't exact. From Fight Club. One of the most romantic lines I've ever read.
"i don't really love you. I sorta, like, just like you, too."
Shifting. part1. by parts due to laziness.
There are ants crawling on the wall on my right. There is a large cockroach on the wall on my left. Perhaps a foot's length separates me from each of them, and i am on a staircase.
The sign outside says something like "PSY,,, something."
Walking.
Upstairs.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Walking.
Another corridor. Stairs again.
Tappity-tap. Tap. Tap.
There is a faucet dripping, somewhere, above.
It grows louder. Tap. Tappity-tap-tap-tap-tap.
And i walk upstairs. Towards the faucet.
There is always a light at the end of the tunnel. Either that or you're just lucky. And right now I am. Though this is no tunnel. And that is no sun."
"Good evening. I presume you are, uh, Mr. Diaz."
Tap-tap-tap.
Yes, I am, I say, I believe so, but please correct me if i'm wrong.
I smile. I imagine my braces shine.
Fuck you.
"Very well, please come inside."
Jet black hair. A semi-crumpled shirt. Dark, fair face. Black eyes. A white band of skin just beneath the edge of the shirt's sleeve.
You bastard.
A desk. Two chairs. A secretary with messed-up hair. Good evening to you, too. Yes, nice day. Oh, so I'm the last one today, that's nice, too. Late, again. The bathroom faucet needs repairs, and so she's noticed. Wow, so coincidental. So unplanned.
Bitch.
"Mr. Diaz."
A revolving chair. Two couches. The one's you watch on your television where rich, a-little-crazy people lay down, while rubbing their foreheads, chins, or anything else for that matter, sporting overcoats, canes, and tophats. Beside is the lamp, the lamp as tall as you; it changes intensity if you tap it.
Tap-tap-tap.
And here I am, imagining myself in black slacks with accentuating, off-white, pinstripes. Whoa.
"So, what is your problem, today, Mr. Diaz. Wait, first of all, what do you want me to call you?"
Asshole. Fuckass. Stupid. You decide.
"Mr. Diaz, then."
I have earphones in my ears, and I am listening to nothing. Emptiness. And by the way, I feel empty. I lack something. I feel nothing. I am not numb, but I can't feel anything. Emotionally, I add, quickly. I sort of fear, i say, pain. Maybe, I say-- though perhaps would be better.
Tap-tap-tap.
"Pain makes us alive; it makes us human. Blood is our lifestream, the force that makes us feel--"
The ribbon on my wrist says 'Do not open before Christmas.'
Asshole.
"That's not what I meant. We need to stop fearing pain; that is the first step for our recovery. Perhaps your fear for pain causes this. The fear itself causes the numbness, the unfeeling that you say."
My earphones say nothing, but i hear everything, ringing. And i speak what they are whispering.
Tap-tap-tap.
Ok. Now I feel really better. It is now 'we' who has the problem, not 'i.' Real great.
Bastard.
"What you need to see, Mr. Diaz, is that problems can be cured, solved. They just need some--"
Well imagine, I sing, a high note, as i, my speech slows, changes, returns to normal, am in my childhood days. No permanent friends. No permanent school. Computers. Books. Pens. Nothingness.
"Oh, I see."
And remember the friends, I say, the friends we knew for about a year, then we'll move again. Remember, remember, i say.
-------
The sign outside says something like "PSY,,, something."
Walking.
Upstairs.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Walking.
Another corridor. Stairs again.
Tappity-tap. Tap. Tap.
There is a faucet dripping, somewhere, above.
It grows louder. Tap. Tappity-tap-tap-tap-tap.
And i walk upstairs. Towards the faucet.
There is always a light at the end of the tunnel. Either that or you're just lucky. And right now I am. Though this is no tunnel. And that is no sun."
"Good evening. I presume you are, uh, Mr. Diaz."
Tap-tap-tap.
Yes, I am, I say, I believe so, but please correct me if i'm wrong.
I smile. I imagine my braces shine.
Fuck you.
"Very well, please come inside."
Jet black hair. A semi-crumpled shirt. Dark, fair face. Black eyes. A white band of skin just beneath the edge of the shirt's sleeve.
You bastard.
A desk. Two chairs. A secretary with messed-up hair. Good evening to you, too. Yes, nice day. Oh, so I'm the last one today, that's nice, too. Late, again. The bathroom faucet needs repairs, and so she's noticed. Wow, so coincidental. So unplanned.
Bitch.
"Mr. Diaz."
A revolving chair. Two couches. The one's you watch on your television where rich, a-little-crazy people lay down, while rubbing their foreheads, chins, or anything else for that matter, sporting overcoats, canes, and tophats. Beside is the lamp, the lamp as tall as you; it changes intensity if you tap it.
Tap-tap-tap.
And here I am, imagining myself in black slacks with accentuating, off-white, pinstripes. Whoa.
"So, what is your problem, today, Mr. Diaz. Wait, first of all, what do you want me to call you?"
Asshole. Fuckass. Stupid. You decide.
"Mr. Diaz, then."
I have earphones in my ears, and I am listening to nothing. Emptiness. And by the way, I feel empty. I lack something. I feel nothing. I am not numb, but I can't feel anything. Emotionally, I add, quickly. I sort of fear, i say, pain. Maybe, I say-- though perhaps would be better.
Tap-tap-tap.
"Pain makes us alive; it makes us human. Blood is our lifestream, the force that makes us feel--"
The ribbon on my wrist says 'Do not open before Christmas.'
Asshole.
"That's not what I meant. We need to stop fearing pain; that is the first step for our recovery. Perhaps your fear for pain causes this. The fear itself causes the numbness, the unfeeling that you say."
My earphones say nothing, but i hear everything, ringing. And i speak what they are whispering.
Tap-tap-tap.
Ok. Now I feel really better. It is now 'we' who has the problem, not 'i.' Real great.
Bastard.
"What you need to see, Mr. Diaz, is that problems can be cured, solved. They just need some--"
Well imagine, I sing, a high note, as i, my speech slows, changes, returns to normal, am in my childhood days. No permanent friends. No permanent school. Computers. Books. Pens. Nothingness.
"Oh, I see."
And remember the friends, I say, the friends we knew for about a year, then we'll move again. Remember, remember, i say.
-------
Monday, May 7, 2007
Friendster Profile Trash
manhid ka ba talaga o sadyang may pagkatanga lang?
calling yourself smart just because you're from UP is a signal of insecurity. it breeds arrogance, and fosters contempt.
villains are the megaphones of the people who are sick and tired of life's unfairness. heroes are the off switches.
i realized. i am used to people turning their backs at me. i am used to not saying what i feel. i am used to emotional masochism. i am used to all the attention i do not have. i am used to being ugly. i am used to being weird. i am used to this society that has created me, molded me into what i am. i am used to being talked about behind my back. i am used to mutterings. i am used to not being noticed. i am used to not being the 'best' friend. i am used to fear. i am used to the stereotypes and standards that have been thrust upon me.
but what i am not used to is failing. and failing hard.
"force yourself to believe [insert belief here]. and force yourself hard. real hard."
i am not by any means 'emo.' if by some chance i am 'emo,' then i was 'emo' even before 'emo' existed.
oo nga naman. how can you miss someone you don't really see often?
After one year in college, or rather, sixteen years in life, I didn't really learn anything.
I just got tired.
i'm an addict for dramatics.
i confuse the two for love.
Age isn't the best measure of maturity. It's the easiest. The same goes for grades, for intelligence.
i should be happy for you, then.
calling yourself smart just because you're from UP is a signal of insecurity. it breeds arrogance, and fosters contempt.
villains are the megaphones of the people who are sick and tired of life's unfairness. heroes are the off switches.
i realized. i am used to people turning their backs at me. i am used to not saying what i feel. i am used to emotional masochism. i am used to all the attention i do not have. i am used to being ugly. i am used to being weird. i am used to this society that has created me, molded me into what i am. i am used to being talked about behind my back. i am used to mutterings. i am used to not being noticed. i am used to not being the 'best' friend. i am used to fear. i am used to the stereotypes and standards that have been thrust upon me.
but what i am not used to is failing. and failing hard.
"force yourself to believe [insert belief here]. and force yourself hard. real hard."
i am not by any means 'emo.' if by some chance i am 'emo,' then i was 'emo' even before 'emo' existed.
oo nga naman. how can you miss someone you don't really see often?
After one year in college, or rather, sixteen years in life, I didn't really learn anything.
I just got tired.
i'm an addict for dramatics.
i confuse the two for love.
Age isn't the best measure of maturity. It's the easiest. The same goes for grades, for intelligence.
i should be happy for you, then.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Glass Slippers
Well imagine...
Imagine... As I'm walking. Walking, simply walking. Walking just after waking. Waking after the train stopped. Stopped at Taft. Three o'clock. Then walking, walking with a 1-ton bag unbearably dragging my aching shoulders. Towards the escalator-- the broken escalator, the barricaded escalator.
Well, simply imagine how i must look. tired. sweaty. at least several layers of dirty, slimy oil cover my blotched, pimply face. Messy hair. Black, trying-hard shirt too large for my lean frame, few sheets of crumpled paper sticking out of my pants' pockets. Pungent smell from the pungent seatmate. Silver, twisted cords lead to my ears, surgically attached.
And here i am, walking. Walking through the crowd, the unburdened crowd. Oh. if only they knew my burden. this heavy weight drawing me to the earth. Oh, if they knew.
Somehow, i manage. I manage to walk past. The sound of the machine accepting my used-up card. The sounds of swearing men, the humble pleas of aged women trying, trying to walk past. And yet i manage. I shift the bag to my left. The sting of relief shivers over my right shoulder.
I walk forward. Then I walk down. Down, down towards the buses, the young children screaming for passengers, the aged, unwomanly women shouting for cabs and buses, hoping for mercy, for pity, for the equivalent of a few silver coins, and if they're lucky, a golden coin.
I wipe my grimy face. And i hope you imagine. Imagine my tired face, my dirty hair, my messy clothes. also, imagine my gigantic bag, and the pain it must bring to me, the uncomfort, the pain.
I continue walking. Now towards the non-existent pedestrian line, the dirt-ridden street, granite black, yet dirty. dirty, mosquito-filled puddles, scattered, torn plastics, crying street children.
At the division between the two sides of the street was an old lady, a vendor. sleeping. sleeping with the cement pedestal as her cold, uncaring pillow. her tray of sweet crystal candies, sultry cigarettes, and cheap chocolates laying on the ground before her.
I can imagine how easy it would be to simple reach down, snatch a few candies, and rob her of her living, rob her of her family's future, her children's next meal. I imagine how she must feel this very instant. Tired. Oh so very tired. Tired day after day. Tired of life. Tired of living. Tired of having to wake up every morning, needing to cook what she can of her children, her grandchildren, her nieces, her nephews. Tired of having to sit down under the sun's heat, cement as her only pillow, her sole comfort.
I hope my imagination is wrong.
And yet, still i walk. walk past. Onto the other side of the street. Past the shirtless jeepney drivers. Past the stalls of cheap, pornographic cds, past the bearded men, sporting sandos, their little sons with tails behind their hair. I approach my destination.
"Paliparan, po."
"Dito, dito Paliparan. Maluwag pa, yan. Konting usod lang po." A man with long, ragged hair points to a brown van. Heavily tinted. Seemingly dashed with uncomfort.
"Citta Italia lang po ako. Sa may pintuan na lang po ako."
He nods, and i open the van's door. Only a few inches of space separates a woman holding a child and the door. I smirk sarcastically. I feel my temples throbbing. The ragged man notices, and tells me it would be best to wait for the next van. He points at a gray van, windows not heavily tinted, but covered with basketball posters.
I notice yet the few people inside. I swear to God I won't regret this. I swear under my breath with all my might. I want to go home right now.
"Dun nalang po ako sasakay." I utter coldly, pointing at the next van syndicate, the next illegal station, a few meters ahead. I hate waiting. I hate having to carry this bag even for a few more minutes.
Besides, I never ride here. I dislike the crappy service. I force myself to believe i prefer the station a few meters further.
And so i walk toward it. Pride, ego glowing. I do not wait for anyone. I control my life, I am the captain of my fate.
I spot somewhat young man with a megaphone, a bandanna under his chin, sunglasses over his heavily-bagged eyes.
"Boss, Paliparan o."
"Citta Italia lang po ako. Dito nalang po ako sa may harapan."
"Sige, po, bossing. Basta ikaw."
I recognize the familiar Filipino tone. The semi-sarcastic, the semi-indifferent, partly kind voice. I argue with myself if i shall swear yet again. i don't.
Now i have to wait. No, no more walking, no more. No more burden to drag me to one side every time for every step i take. Relief, relief. home. I sit down on a a bench. Beside me was a trashcan.
No, nothing special.
The same litter: The Jollibee cups, the beer bottles, the stack of cigarette butts, the plastics, the wet spots of phlegm,
the three young children rummaging.
Two girls, one boy-- i couldn't tell the difference except perhaps by their voice. Shuddering, i remember my sister. They all perhaps had the same height, the same age, the same thin frame.
But my sister did not have the spots of grease that were covering their faces, the splash of phlegm thatt covered their cheeks, the giant, loose clothes they had on.
They didn't have the princess dresses, the books, the toys. The maid, ready to attend. A good life. A good family.
I couldn't help but listen, listen to their conversation. How many bottles did they already have.
How much more did they need.
Would tatay spank them if the came home right now.
I couldn't help but just listen. Passivity. How passive i am. How passive i shouldn't be.
Finally, they turn away, off to the next trashcan, off to their next meal. How innocent they were. How patient, how clueless. How obedient to their father's wishes. Oh if everyone were like them in that very way, and hopefully, only in that way. . .
"Boss, dito na ho o. Kayo nalang hinihintay." The barker calls.
Normally, i should be embarassed, ashamed. Ashamed of being waited upon, when even I hate waiting.
My bag feels light, undragging, unburdening.
As I enter the van, i dare not notice the warm drops of sweat profusely erupting from my scalp, onto my temples, my armpits. I dare not notice the tiny space i needed to snug in. The position i would have to be in, bearing my bag on my lap, either my arms stretched forward, or curled, with my elbows nudging my stomach. I dare not swear. I swear to God, I would not swear, and befoul this already foul earth.
A hand beats on the side of the van, near me. near my ear. Signals for the driver to back up, move, back up again, now to the right, then left. then forward.
I notice my bare wrist. and the lighter patch of skin.
I lost my watch the other day.
While i was eating-- fresh, good food, great even. Good ventilation. Good space. i forgot exactly how, and yet, now, i simply do not wish to remember. i do not deserve it.
The posts that i see through the window are tall, ever so tall. The buildings behind them are even larger, intimidating.
I see people walk, walk past the posts and buildings. Some frowning. Some smiling, hands clasped, together. Some sad, faces, eyes to the ground, some were happy, or pretending to be, crystal eyes, curved lips.
Some oblivious, caring only for themselves, their own well-being. Themselves. Caring only for the weight they carried. The temporal pain. The present.
Again i imagine. i remember. I again remember a day, not long ago, not so much pains and trials before, i remember that jeepney. Beside me were dormmates, sleeping, waiting amidst the traffic.
A family sat in front of me. Clearly i remember the woman wore a dress, patched by one side, mildly torn on the other. She looked old, but she probably wasn't. Poverty has a way of doing this people. she held hands with a young girl. six, or seven years old, i guess. The father sat beside the child, his face drooping. a crumpled polo shirt above a white, severely torn sando. he held a plastic bag, and i guessed a wallet was inside, or maybe only money. They paid the desperate minimum: twelve pesos for the two adults, the child could sit on the parent's lap.
With tears i couldn't let out, i saw the child was crying. crying. for that is what a child does. suddenly crying. crying, calling for, facing her mother.
she asked for food, for she was hungry, she said. her hands covered her face; i noticed she had a neat dress, clean. her slippers wasn't bad.
clearly her parents loved her.
"Wag ka mag-alala, anak. Hindi ka na magugutom ulit. Eto o.. Marami na tayong pagkain, kaya wag ka mag-alala."
with sad, understanding eyes, i saw what her mother held: a plastic: two turon, one siopao, a stick of bananacue. a lifetime of love.
as I sit here, eyes closed, fingers drawn. pockets heavy, a little bit too heavy. thumbs a little too calloused, hands just a little too smooth.
And i hope, I wish you imagine. And remember.
Imagine... As I'm walking. Walking, simply walking. Walking just after waking. Waking after the train stopped. Stopped at Taft. Three o'clock. Then walking, walking with a 1-ton bag unbearably dragging my aching shoulders. Towards the escalator-- the broken escalator, the barricaded escalator.
Well, simply imagine how i must look. tired. sweaty. at least several layers of dirty, slimy oil cover my blotched, pimply face. Messy hair. Black, trying-hard shirt too large for my lean frame, few sheets of crumpled paper sticking out of my pants' pockets. Pungent smell from the pungent seatmate. Silver, twisted cords lead to my ears, surgically attached.
And here i am, walking. Walking through the crowd, the unburdened crowd. Oh. if only they knew my burden. this heavy weight drawing me to the earth. Oh, if they knew.
Somehow, i manage. I manage to walk past. The sound of the machine accepting my used-up card. The sounds of swearing men, the humble pleas of aged women trying, trying to walk past. And yet i manage. I shift the bag to my left. The sting of relief shivers over my right shoulder.
I walk forward. Then I walk down. Down, down towards the buses, the young children screaming for passengers, the aged, unwomanly women shouting for cabs and buses, hoping for mercy, for pity, for the equivalent of a few silver coins, and if they're lucky, a golden coin.
I wipe my grimy face. And i hope you imagine. Imagine my tired face, my dirty hair, my messy clothes. also, imagine my gigantic bag, and the pain it must bring to me, the uncomfort, the pain.
I continue walking. Now towards the non-existent pedestrian line, the dirt-ridden street, granite black, yet dirty. dirty, mosquito-filled puddles, scattered, torn plastics, crying street children.
At the division between the two sides of the street was an old lady, a vendor. sleeping. sleeping with the cement pedestal as her cold, uncaring pillow. her tray of sweet crystal candies, sultry cigarettes, and cheap chocolates laying on the ground before her.
I can imagine how easy it would be to simple reach down, snatch a few candies, and rob her of her living, rob her of her family's future, her children's next meal. I imagine how she must feel this very instant. Tired. Oh so very tired. Tired day after day. Tired of life. Tired of living. Tired of having to wake up every morning, needing to cook what she can of her children, her grandchildren, her nieces, her nephews. Tired of having to sit down under the sun's heat, cement as her only pillow, her sole comfort.
I hope my imagination is wrong.
And yet, still i walk. walk past. Onto the other side of the street. Past the shirtless jeepney drivers. Past the stalls of cheap, pornographic cds, past the bearded men, sporting sandos, their little sons with tails behind their hair. I approach my destination.
"Paliparan, po."
"Dito, dito Paliparan. Maluwag pa, yan. Konting usod lang po." A man with long, ragged hair points to a brown van. Heavily tinted. Seemingly dashed with uncomfort.
"Citta Italia lang po ako. Sa may pintuan na lang po ako."
He nods, and i open the van's door. Only a few inches of space separates a woman holding a child and the door. I smirk sarcastically. I feel my temples throbbing. The ragged man notices, and tells me it would be best to wait for the next van. He points at a gray van, windows not heavily tinted, but covered with basketball posters.
I notice yet the few people inside. I swear to God I won't regret this. I swear under my breath with all my might. I want to go home right now.
"Dun nalang po ako sasakay." I utter coldly, pointing at the next van syndicate, the next illegal station, a few meters ahead. I hate waiting. I hate having to carry this bag even for a few more minutes.
Besides, I never ride here. I dislike the crappy service. I force myself to believe i prefer the station a few meters further.
And so i walk toward it. Pride, ego glowing. I do not wait for anyone. I control my life, I am the captain of my fate.
I spot somewhat young man with a megaphone, a bandanna under his chin, sunglasses over his heavily-bagged eyes.
"Boss, Paliparan o."
"Citta Italia lang po ako. Dito nalang po ako sa may harapan."
"Sige, po, bossing. Basta ikaw."
I recognize the familiar Filipino tone. The semi-sarcastic, the semi-indifferent, partly kind voice. I argue with myself if i shall swear yet again. i don't.
Now i have to wait. No, no more walking, no more. No more burden to drag me to one side every time for every step i take. Relief, relief. home. I sit down on a a bench. Beside me was a trashcan.
No, nothing special.
The same litter: The Jollibee cups, the beer bottles, the stack of cigarette butts, the plastics, the wet spots of phlegm,
the three young children rummaging.
Two girls, one boy-- i couldn't tell the difference except perhaps by their voice. Shuddering, i remember my sister. They all perhaps had the same height, the same age, the same thin frame.
But my sister did not have the spots of grease that were covering their faces, the splash of phlegm thatt covered their cheeks, the giant, loose clothes they had on.
They didn't have the princess dresses, the books, the toys. The maid, ready to attend. A good life. A good family.
I couldn't help but listen, listen to their conversation. How many bottles did they already have.
How much more did they need.
Would tatay spank them if the came home right now.
I couldn't help but just listen. Passivity. How passive i am. How passive i shouldn't be.
Finally, they turn away, off to the next trashcan, off to their next meal. How innocent they were. How patient, how clueless. How obedient to their father's wishes. Oh if everyone were like them in that very way, and hopefully, only in that way. . .
"Boss, dito na ho o. Kayo nalang hinihintay." The barker calls.
Normally, i should be embarassed, ashamed. Ashamed of being waited upon, when even I hate waiting.
My bag feels light, undragging, unburdening.
As I enter the van, i dare not notice the warm drops of sweat profusely erupting from my scalp, onto my temples, my armpits. I dare not notice the tiny space i needed to snug in. The position i would have to be in, bearing my bag on my lap, either my arms stretched forward, or curled, with my elbows nudging my stomach. I dare not swear. I swear to God, I would not swear, and befoul this already foul earth.
A hand beats on the side of the van, near me. near my ear. Signals for the driver to back up, move, back up again, now to the right, then left. then forward.
I notice my bare wrist. and the lighter patch of skin.
I lost my watch the other day.
While i was eating-- fresh, good food, great even. Good ventilation. Good space. i forgot exactly how, and yet, now, i simply do not wish to remember. i do not deserve it.
The posts that i see through the window are tall, ever so tall. The buildings behind them are even larger, intimidating.
I see people walk, walk past the posts and buildings. Some frowning. Some smiling, hands clasped, together. Some sad, faces, eyes to the ground, some were happy, or pretending to be, crystal eyes, curved lips.
Some oblivious, caring only for themselves, their own well-being. Themselves. Caring only for the weight they carried. The temporal pain. The present.
Again i imagine. i remember. I again remember a day, not long ago, not so much pains and trials before, i remember that jeepney. Beside me were dormmates, sleeping, waiting amidst the traffic.
A family sat in front of me. Clearly i remember the woman wore a dress, patched by one side, mildly torn on the other. She looked old, but she probably wasn't. Poverty has a way of doing this people. she held hands with a young girl. six, or seven years old, i guess. The father sat beside the child, his face drooping. a crumpled polo shirt above a white, severely torn sando. he held a plastic bag, and i guessed a wallet was inside, or maybe only money. They paid the desperate minimum: twelve pesos for the two adults, the child could sit on the parent's lap.
With tears i couldn't let out, i saw the child was crying. crying. for that is what a child does. suddenly crying. crying, calling for, facing her mother.
she asked for food, for she was hungry, she said. her hands covered her face; i noticed she had a neat dress, clean. her slippers wasn't bad.
clearly her parents loved her.
"Wag ka mag-alala, anak. Hindi ka na magugutom ulit. Eto o.. Marami na tayong pagkain, kaya wag ka mag-alala."
with sad, understanding eyes, i saw what her mother held: a plastic: two turon, one siopao, a stick of bananacue. a lifetime of love.
as I sit here, eyes closed, fingers drawn. pockets heavy, a little bit too heavy. thumbs a little too calloused, hands just a little too smooth.
And i hope, I wish you imagine. And remember.
Oh, dear Manila,
Oh, beautiful, horrible Manila,
Your beguiling poetry, your fading dreams,
Our shared hopes. . .
Filipinas, has thou forsaken us?
Remember, and sing, sing until our lungs give out,
"Ang bayan kong Pilipinas,
lupain ng ginto't bulaklak..."
A pause, an epiphany, and yet,
When gold goes to fools,
And all the flowers that remain are for mourning,
We can't help but sigh,
And do we ask,
And do we wonder,
And as we desire,
And as we dream,
And can't help but wish,
And can't help but hope,
Because we need to keep living.
And sometimes,
This is all we can do.
Friday, May 4, 2007
i've noticed.
my writing is too cramped. filled with double meanings. crude. how crude. i dislike formal writing. so this is how i write. confusing. comma-filled. romantic. hell.
epiphany. hm. i do not know why i hate this word but one thing that i do know, is that i make really long titles.
some things we do are stupid. pointless. meaning, we try in vain to extract meaning, twists. we are fans of turnarounds-- intriguing, dramatic, sensual.. but most of the time, twists do not happen. and sometimes, when we least expect it, the worse happen.
still, we hope. pleading, crying for destiny. Luck. God. conscience, prayers, we plead, oh do we plead. we wish to change what has been done. we wish to have the best possible outcome. we have ideals. we have dreams. we have great ideas wishing, oh wishing to be screamed. spoken. written.
oftentimes, we hope in spite of all else, against reason, against logic. we pursue what we 'believe in,' and yet, in truth, only hope for.
we hope, for we are people.
we are people born with our own set of ideals.
we hope we never grow up. we accept. we absorb:
study well. study hard. get rich. richer than us. taller than me. be intelligent. excel. excel beyond your farthest dreams.
we readily absorb these ideals. we treat them, accept them, as facts of life. we treat them as sweet gifts of life's meaning, life's purpose. the victory road after the long, tiring journey. this rough caricature of a divine parody. travesty.
we grow older. we begin to doubt. we begin to, drift. we begin, we find ourselves. we achieve personal autonomy. we begin. we write.
we realize the pangs of reality. the guilts, the trials, the errors we must face. we hear the uncold, unwarm, child, your chest is bare tonight. slowly, we look into his eyes, teary inside, perhaps, and we, however painfully, oh how so painfully, smile. smile for all it's worth. smile for all the help it may bring. smile.
we smile. for it confuses people.
we write. for it is impersonal. untragic. fiction-- a ready excuse.
we decide to grow up, grow old. we decide to face the pangs, the fangs, the trials. we decide for our own. on our own. the golden clouds of shame and ego distract us. we lose sight of our ideals. grades do not measure intelligence. graduation is just a perk, rely on the 'form'. never forget the 'form.'
we rely on twists.
we toss a coin for the goblet. it beckons. we drink, we eat, we be merry. we feast. we raise our goblets, we light our pipes, and wave our pens. our coats dancing in the blissful wind, lights behind us-- making us tall-- darkly silhouetted. we value 'form.' we feast. we vainly feast.
slow. once in a while, the goblet breaks, the pipes run out, our pens strike the ground, and melt. they are no more. no more.
and yet we strive to gather the pieces. we hope. and oh. do we hope. everything shall be better. we write about it. we hope people read. and again we hope. for we are people, we hope.
having hope in spite of hopelessness and hate is like hearkening to sins, we heed holiness, we ask for coherence, and yet speak heresy. high nights. high crimes. holiness, sanctity. halos happily held high, hands holding, forcibly holding, bleeding, stinging horns, hard, hysterically we wave, hopelessly we wave, seeking heaven, hoping in spite of hopelessness and hate we hope. oh do we hope.
i am not saying that hoping is not good. i wouldn't even go saying it is bad. the fact is, hope, like lies, often, only delay.
the main difference is: lies prolong, and worsen.
while hope acts as a cushion, a cushion to break the fall, a cushion for the tears to back up, disappear. hoping is the pessimist's closest to optimism. it is the threshold of despair, the alternative for wishing.
so, shall i continue on hoping? the tears have already backed up. and have disappeared. they are still there, and yet i hold them back. blame stereotypes. blame hope.
and here i am, hoping, yet more properly, wishing, for
"all candor to leave me."
perhaps it shall. perhaps.
still, we hope. pleading, crying for destiny. Luck. God. conscience, prayers, we plead, oh do we plead. we wish to change what has been done. we wish to have the best possible outcome. we have ideals. we have dreams. we have great ideas wishing, oh wishing to be screamed. spoken. written.
oftentimes, we hope in spite of all else, against reason, against logic. we pursue what we 'believe in,' and yet, in truth, only hope for.
we hope, for we are people.
we are people born with our own set of ideals.
we hope we never grow up. we accept. we absorb:
study well. study hard. get rich. richer than us. taller than me. be intelligent. excel. excel beyond your farthest dreams.
we readily absorb these ideals. we treat them, accept them, as facts of life. we treat them as sweet gifts of life's meaning, life's purpose. the victory road after the long, tiring journey. this rough caricature of a divine parody. travesty.
we grow older. we begin to doubt. we begin to, drift. we begin, we find ourselves. we achieve personal autonomy. we begin. we write.
we realize the pangs of reality. the guilts, the trials, the errors we must face. we hear the uncold, unwarm, child, your chest is bare tonight. slowly, we look into his eyes, teary inside, perhaps, and we, however painfully, oh how so painfully, smile. smile for all it's worth. smile for all the help it may bring. smile.
we smile. for it confuses people.
we write. for it is impersonal. untragic. fiction-- a ready excuse.
we decide to grow up, grow old. we decide to face the pangs, the fangs, the trials. we decide for our own. on our own. the golden clouds of shame and ego distract us. we lose sight of our ideals. grades do not measure intelligence. graduation is just a perk, rely on the 'form'. never forget the 'form.'
we rely on twists.
we toss a coin for the goblet. it beckons. we drink, we eat, we be merry. we feast. we raise our goblets, we light our pipes, and wave our pens. our coats dancing in the blissful wind, lights behind us-- making us tall-- darkly silhouetted. we value 'form.' we feast. we vainly feast.
slow. once in a while, the goblet breaks, the pipes run out, our pens strike the ground, and melt. they are no more. no more.
and yet we strive to gather the pieces. we hope. and oh. do we hope. everything shall be better. we write about it. we hope people read. and again we hope. for we are people, we hope.
having hope in spite of hopelessness and hate is like hearkening to sins, we heed holiness, we ask for coherence, and yet speak heresy. high nights. high crimes. holiness, sanctity. halos happily held high, hands holding, forcibly holding, bleeding, stinging horns, hard, hysterically we wave, hopelessly we wave, seeking heaven, hoping in spite of hopelessness and hate we hope. oh do we hope.
i am not saying that hoping is not good. i wouldn't even go saying it is bad. the fact is, hope, like lies, often, only delay.
the main difference is: lies prolong, and worsen.
while hope acts as a cushion, a cushion to break the fall, a cushion for the tears to back up, disappear. hoping is the pessimist's closest to optimism. it is the threshold of despair, the alternative for wishing.
so, shall i continue on hoping? the tears have already backed up. and have disappeared. they are still there, and yet i hold them back. blame stereotypes. blame hope.
and here i am, hoping, yet more properly, wishing, for
"all candor to leave me."
perhaps it shall. perhaps.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
i don't know how i am going to post posts while in this computer shop. WoW is down.
never expect, for you will be disappointed.
don't assume. you'll just be embarassed.
this sucks.
don't assume. you'll just be embarassed.
this sucks.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
It's funny how you can play around with words, letters even.
Silence pounds on my ear through surgically-attached earphones. My fingers are punching the keys of a keyboard, slippery, moist, sticky even. Silent, oh so silent. I turn off the fan behind me, slowly, romantically, if you may. And my fingers slip, yet remain.
Remain, oh i hope you remain.
Remain. Remain. Sense eludes me, or does it? Dozens of, perhaps questions, answers, questions with answers. Answers of silent summer singing. Silent sins begets silent stutters. Mutterings. Anxieties. Shit society. Pounding on my ear. Words, wording, so am I haunted. or haunted? Pounding. Ever pounding. Silence.
We fear what we do not understand. And yet understanding makes us fear. Hear my words, and wording. Hear them if you will. Listen. We fear what we never will understand. What we could have understood. Stand up, and listen. The griping silence is sticky, moist even.
And now, the screen is blank, full of emptiness, nothingness, void.
Mistakes and sins are often confused for one another.
Unconsciously i hear beats of drums, pangs of strings, high-pitch. References to a Christian atheist.
And yet the silence remains, remains.
jhocnsoesaideoiilsLeuid.-- extra letters, maybe?
Remain, oh i hope you remain.
Remain. Remain. Sense eludes me, or does it? Dozens of, perhaps questions, answers, questions with answers. Answers of silent summer singing. Silent sins begets silent stutters. Mutterings. Anxieties. Shit society. Pounding on my ear. Words, wording, so am I haunted. or haunted? Pounding. Ever pounding. Silence.
We fear what we do not understand. And yet understanding makes us fear. Hear my words, and wording. Hear them if you will. Listen. We fear what we never will understand. What we could have understood. Stand up, and listen. The griping silence is sticky, moist even.
And now, the screen is blank, full of emptiness, nothingness, void.
Mistakes and sins are often confused for one another.
Unconsciously i hear beats of drums, pangs of strings, high-pitch. References to a Christian atheist.
And yet the silence remains, remains.
jhocnsoesaideoiilsLeuid.-- extra letters, maybe?
This ain't an intro, It's a goddamn typing contest.
Boredom has forced me create a blog. Yep. Expect seemingly random, stupid posts. and when i say seemingly, i think i mean it. i think.
Why, yes. This is a post. No, it doesn't make any sense.
“The Vertically Ungifted, almost Blood-Colored Head Covering Device of which the word ‘Riding’ is being used to modify,
and the stupid little girl who wore it”
An adequately past era of time before this, in an equally adequately distant space, there (of which there means both here and the location of where the story will take place) existed one in which the term “Little Red Riding Hood” shall be implied to from now on. ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ coexisted with a maternal being of which she (the exact gender is unknown) has been conceived upon. The second being asked (the word force is heavily discouraged) ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ (LRRH from now on since the writer is too lazy) to distribute an indefinite amount of edible matter among other group of beings we shall call ‘relatives’. This group ‘relatives’ was once a huge battalion of elite soldiers who fought for the sake of ‘good’, hence the name ‘good guys’ in a past era of time, but of course, the name was pirated, especially by the Justice League (stupid Superman, Grr...). But due to various kinds of STDs and other such diseases like ebola, their numerical value has declined greatly, leaving only one. We shall refer to that being as ‘her’ or ‘grandma’. So ‘LRRH’ has been asked to share edible matter with ‘grandma’, or as we call it, bring food to her hermit for a grandmother.
‘LRRH’ had to navigate through a scattered area of leafy, barky, and bushy material to get to ‘grandma’s house’, or location. During the said navigational trek, ‘LRRH’ had a confidential meeting with a being calling himself (the exact gender is unknown) ‘Big Bad Wolf’ of which we shall refer to as ‘BBW’ (I said I hate typing).
During the exchange of auditory-sensible material, they exchanged about politics and love and life. As they continued in the said manner, they came upon the topic of ‘grandma’, in the middle of which ‘BBW’ spawned up an imaginary glowing light bulb over his head and thought of countering ‘LRRH’s’ plan by capturing ‘grandma’ and forcing her into his mouth. ‘BBW’ made ‘LRRH’ lose her way by conjuring a cleverly disguised visual disorder infliction device, obviously known to normal, ordinary people as a smoke bomb, and reached ‘grandma’ safely.
Upon reaching the oh-so-secret location and breaching the ‘relative’s’ security, he moved into the room classified as ‘bedroom’ without being seen. As he reached the said room, he was filled with a seemingly happy sensation as he found ‘grandma’ asleep but still wearing her very conservative gown (this is a children’s story). Another light bulb appeared and levitated above ‘BBW’s’ head. He mysteriously forced ‘grandma’ into his stomach without destroying the gown, or any other article of clothing for that matter (I said this was a children’s story).
After he finished covering himself with the gown and lying on where ‘grandma’ laid previously, immediately and purely coincidentally ‘LRRH’ entered the ‘bedroom’.
What transpired was another exchange of auditory-sensible material. ‘LRRH’ felt an awed feeling of an aww-like manner (the feeling when you want to say AWW....). She inquired of the reason why the visual orbs of ‘grandma’ were greatly disproportioned. ‘BBW’ then stated that it was for her to transmit visual images to her brain better. The same question was asked for the lobes that hung on ‘grandma’s’ sides. The same reply was wrought, though now about the ears, duh.
Yet when ‘LRRH’ asked for the reason why her ‘grandma’s’ dental protrusions were incredibly, shall we say, different, not to mention extremely putrid, ‘grandma’, or better yet, ‘BBW’, couldn’t help but express his desire for ‘LRRH’s’ uh, belongings and in short, eat her. ‘LRRH’ was flattered, though she too had an earlier prepared course-of-action.
She whipped up a 1-meter shotgun and shot the brains out of the wolf. She then got a knife and cut the dead wolf’s stomach and took her grandma out (of course with clothes, this really is a children’s story) and then put some stones on the wolf’s stomach. She then resurrected big bad wolf by wickedly dark witchcraft, dug a hole on the ground, buried the unconscious beast alive, leaving only the head, cut his cheeks with the same stupid knife, and left the stupid beast to go and stupidly die.
A few days later, she committed hardcore suicide.
THE END
MORAL OF THE STORY: Avoid, or in most cases, never approve the exchange of linguistic material realizable in the auditory sense with other beings that your knowledge of is less that what defines a friend. And don’t do drugs, or something.
and the stupid little girl who wore it”
An adequately past era of time before this, in an equally adequately distant space, there (of which there means both here and the location of where the story will take place) existed one in which the term “Little Red Riding Hood” shall be implied to from now on. ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ coexisted with a maternal being of which she (the exact gender is unknown) has been conceived upon. The second being asked (the word force is heavily discouraged) ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ (LRRH from now on since the writer is too lazy) to distribute an indefinite amount of edible matter among other group of beings we shall call ‘relatives’. This group ‘relatives’ was once a huge battalion of elite soldiers who fought for the sake of ‘good’, hence the name ‘good guys’ in a past era of time, but of course, the name was pirated, especially by the Justice League (stupid Superman, Grr...). But due to various kinds of STDs and other such diseases like ebola, their numerical value has declined greatly, leaving only one. We shall refer to that being as ‘her’ or ‘grandma’. So ‘LRRH’ has been asked to share edible matter with ‘grandma’, or as we call it, bring food to her hermit for a grandmother.
‘LRRH’ had to navigate through a scattered area of leafy, barky, and bushy material to get to ‘grandma’s house’, or location. During the said navigational trek, ‘LRRH’ had a confidential meeting with a being calling himself (the exact gender is unknown) ‘Big Bad Wolf’ of which we shall refer to as ‘BBW’ (I said I hate typing).
During the exchange of auditory-sensible material, they exchanged about politics and love and life. As they continued in the said manner, they came upon the topic of ‘grandma’, in the middle of which ‘BBW’ spawned up an imaginary glowing light bulb over his head and thought of countering ‘LRRH’s’ plan by capturing ‘grandma’ and forcing her into his mouth. ‘BBW’ made ‘LRRH’ lose her way by conjuring a cleverly disguised visual disorder infliction device, obviously known to normal, ordinary people as a smoke bomb, and reached ‘grandma’ safely.
Upon reaching the oh-so-secret location and breaching the ‘relative’s’ security, he moved into the room classified as ‘bedroom’ without being seen. As he reached the said room, he was filled with a seemingly happy sensation as he found ‘grandma’ asleep but still wearing her very conservative gown (this is a children’s story). Another light bulb appeared and levitated above ‘BBW’s’ head. He mysteriously forced ‘grandma’ into his stomach without destroying the gown, or any other article of clothing for that matter (I said this was a children’s story).
After he finished covering himself with the gown and lying on where ‘grandma’ laid previously, immediately and purely coincidentally ‘LRRH’ entered the ‘bedroom’.
What transpired was another exchange of auditory-sensible material. ‘LRRH’ felt an awed feeling of an aww-like manner (the feeling when you want to say AWW....). She inquired of the reason why the visual orbs of ‘grandma’ were greatly disproportioned. ‘BBW’ then stated that it was for her to transmit visual images to her brain better. The same question was asked for the lobes that hung on ‘grandma’s’ sides. The same reply was wrought, though now about the ears, duh.
Yet when ‘LRRH’ asked for the reason why her ‘grandma’s’ dental protrusions were incredibly, shall we say, different, not to mention extremely putrid, ‘grandma’, or better yet, ‘BBW’, couldn’t help but express his desire for ‘LRRH’s’ uh, belongings and in short, eat her. ‘LRRH’ was flattered, though she too had an earlier prepared course-of-action.
She whipped up a 1-meter shotgun and shot the brains out of the wolf. She then got a knife and cut the dead wolf’s stomach and took her grandma out (of course with clothes, this really is a children’s story) and then put some stones on the wolf’s stomach. She then resurrected big bad wolf by wickedly dark witchcraft, dug a hole on the ground, buried the unconscious beast alive, leaving only the head, cut his cheeks with the same stupid knife, and left the stupid beast to go and stupidly die.
A few days later, she committed hardcore suicide.
THE END
MORAL OF THE STORY: Avoid, or in most cases, never approve the exchange of linguistic material realizable in the auditory sense with other beings that your knowledge of is less that what defines a friend. And don’t do drugs, or something.
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