... 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.

it isnt

ayun.

nakalimutan ko anong gusto kong isulat.^^

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.

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. . .”

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.

-------

I know you'll read this.

You need him.

I could be him.


Sure. "could have," then.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Check out this site! It has a real-time GPS phone tracker. Disturbingly accurate (and an invasion of privacy) but, wow.

http://www.sat-gps-locate.com/english/index.html

forget it, dude

tsk.

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.

Irony

Mahirap mag'blog sa computer shop.