The Persecutions of a Pimp Turned Pirate

Author’s note: Based on The Real Life Adventures of A.J. Fernandes
and stories told at Zaifu to Catherine, Czarina and Maria
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometime in September, a pimp traveled throughout the country in search of the most exquisite women. He went to faraway lands like Banawe and Sulu. He encountered different kinds of people like mumbakis, army generals, governors, warlords and ex-cons. And upon discovering his line of trade, they shook his hand and he promised them the best flesh he could find.

Little did he know that the journey would also take him to the most treacherous of territories. A place he’d not yet explored but would have to. The land of Heart, where the most beautiful maidens lived.

He spent a large amount of gold to get to Heart. There, he lured many women. And each one he met seemed more beautiful than the last.

But at one of Heart’s secret villages, he met the most beautiful of them all. The one he knew was meant for him and him alone.

He took her for a walk and they talked until no part of themselves was left unrevealed. That same night, the pimp felt something rare and strange stir inside him.

He listened to the universe’s lullaby as velvet darkness cloaked them. He looked up. And dangling from the night sky, stars winked at him, whispering a mischievous scheme. Slowly, carefully, he closed the distance between him and the woman, driven by a curious need of a once sleeping soul. And in a moment of truth and clarity, he saw that this was too pure, too precious not to pursue.

“I love you,” he said to her. It was the first time he felt it. And the need to express this love overwhelmed him.

He had hope: for her to love him back. He had an agenda: for him to be her keeper.

She looked at the exquisite women behind him. Softly, she said that although she had great affection for him, she could not will herself to love him.

Spurned, he left Heart that instant. And the women he had so far collected, he sent back to their own lands.

The mumbakis, army generals, governors, warlords and ex-cons heard this and demanded payback for a broken promise.

They found him in a wasteland but they never harmed him as planned. For they saw him lying on his back, his mouth agape in a silent scream. His bloody face, one eye less. He had torn it out himself. The eye of possibility. The eye that showed the perfect beauty of a We. A Two of Us.

His suffering satisfied them and they went their way. While Time stayed put and helped him recover. The marred part of his face was covered with a black patch of cloth torn from his shirt.

He came across a puddle and there his reflection told him it would be best to continue his journey not as a pimp but a pirate.

Upon reaching Black Sand Beach, he saw a ship waiting and a crew of men with No Hope, No Agenda like him.

With them, the pirate wandered aimlessly at sea because there was nothing and no one to anchor him on land.

He chased ships and their treasures. But in the secret chambers of his soul, he knew he was really chasing something else. It always escaped him now. But for a time, the elusive was his.

He says it hurts to look at the sky with his one good eye. At night, whenever he gazes at the same stars that not too long ago showed him something spectacular, he wonders with numbing fear—so close to hope—if he will ever experience what happened at Heart again.

~~

Seventy times seven

Inside the room, an old Jesuit priest waited for me.

I took a seat. I opened my mouth. But no words came out.

Only a flood of tears. The pains of my soul.

It wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. He asked my why I was crying.

"I don’t know, Father. I don’t know."

He took my hand, cold and trembling, and clasped it with his, warm and comforting.

Then he whispered, "Tears are a gift from God."

Looking back, I think I wasn’t there to confess my sins. I was there to confess their sins against me.

Absolution should have been denied because I could not find it in my own heart to forgive.

~
082308

Megatron Arrives

The highlight of 03.28.08 Thursday was the coming of the new TOSHIBA photocopier which I immediately took to calling “Megatron,” the Mega Xerox Machine. I’m telling you, the thing is huge and very high tech. It can scan, store, save and even SLEEP. But most importantly, Megatron doesn’t SMELL. Our old copier had this chemical stench—the kind that makes you feel as if you’ll mutate into god knows what the longer you stay there, blasted by suspicious, radioactive elements.

Anyway, another cool thing about Megatron is that it emits a Matrix-green light instead of that blinding white light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel kind. [I can’t think of a better description since NDEs are not out of the question when using ancient photocopying machines].

I’ve partially figured out how to use its uber cool OS. Didn’t pay too much attention during the tech-talk-heavy orientation.

[Yes, Christine, there was an actual orientation.]

graphics by pcorrea 070408

a little piece #2

Smiling mouth, shining eyes

beautiful mask hides 

silent, hurting heart.

the business of writing

There are times when you just stare a lot
at the radioactive monitor
the dirty white ceiling
the cracks on the wall covered with calendars, photos and notes.
You plead to The Powers for inspiration
and still the words won't come out.

Well, sometimes they do
But they're not the words you're looking for
So you press that button
And watch the letters disappear one by one
Until all that's left
is a blank document.

You let out a tired, frustrated sigh.
Procrastinate a little.
Okay, maybe a lot.
And then start again.

And it's all the same.

Minutes, hours, even days pass.
The words are still wrong.
Back arrow. Back arrow.
Delete. Delete!

The cursor blinks back at you
Taunting you again to
-----------------------Write. Write. Write!
It's an exercise in patience.

You hate that your muse is fickle.
Unreliable. Perpetually late.
But then again, you know she'll come
Usually, just before that damn deadline.

Day 29. Here she comes now
Such blinding radiance!
You burn
And the words just flow out of you
---The keyboards ticking nonstop
Sweet, sweet music to your ears

You find yourself creating
Such a lovely composition

But then the phone rings
Your stomach growls
or your neighbor's smelly old dog barks

A nanosecond of distraction
A break in your rhythm
You lose sight of your muse
And come face to face with

Your work.

Priceless?

No.

More like a piece of trash.

You feel like your forehead is bleeding
You thought it was good.
You thought wrong.

And your muse, oh your muse!
That deceitful little b----
-ewitching thing.

Fine, it's not that bad.
Just not good enough.
So you erase that line.
Insert an adjective.
Reconstruct that paragraph.

You sigh. Relieved now
that at least you have something:
A draft.

The first of many, anyway.

This is what I learned from
teachers
bosses
friends.

That writing is rewriting
And rewriting and rewriting...
Until you finally get it right.


~11.24.07~

a little piece #1

Red--

the color of Blood

flows, the river of Life

is a perfect Circle

shaped by the Unseen

does not mean absent

from You.

life's catch

if that apple doesn't fall from the tree...

...do you climb it and get it yourself with the risk of falling on the ground, face shattered, bones broken?

or do you just keep on waiting?
hoping, wishing and praying
for a strong wind to blow. for the earth to shake. for all the elements to conspire to make that apple fall on your waiting hands?

maybe i'll choose the first. never mind the risk of injury. waiting can get tiring.

~

today is a good friend's birthday. i want to thank him for letting me read shel silverstein's "the giving tree," where this image was taken. i hope life is treating him well.