|-out of context-|

Megatron Arrives

2008-07-04T07:32:00.001-07:00

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

the business of writing

2008-04-30T16:53:00.000-07:00

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~

life's catch

2008-04-07T19:45:00.000-07:00

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.

See Me See You (Do You See Me See You?)

2009-02-15T23:37:00.000-08:00

"Tell me why again."

"Because when you look at me, all you see is what I lack."

"My eyes see what they see."

"That's true."

"—but that's not all there is to it. My heart, it sees what it should see. All the sides that matter and all that shouldn’t. And you don't see that."

"My eyes are clear."

"It's not. Because you can't see how I love you. You know what that means?"

"Some."

"It means I see you with my heart. You should see that, but you don’t.”

"My eyes see what they see."

"That's true. That's true."

~

He shall love my soul as though
body were not all,
he shall love your body,
untroubled by the soul,
love cram love’s two divisions
yet keep his substance whole.
William Butler Yeats, The Lady’s Second Song

04.05.08

100% Fluff

2009-01-26T18:25:00.000-08:00

I saw ArchiBaby today.

ArchiBaby is my one and only crush-in-the-corporate-world and he’s totally not my usual type. He is about 5’7. Fair skinned. Really clean cut. And he wears glasses that give him this goody-goody, geeky-geeky look. Also, according to pacqui he is an architect. When I found out he has The Brenz to go with The Fez, I went gaga.

ArchiBaby also reminds me of cotton candy for some reason. Maybe because he always looks like he smells so damn good even though he smokes. I know of his sinful addiction not because I stalk him (it’s a crush, not an obsession), but because of one happy, lunch break encounter: I just bought a sachet of coffee from the nearby Ministop and while walking up the steps leading back to the office building, I caught a whiff of something offensive. I turned to find the source of this unnecessary pollution and there he was, macking on the cancer stick with his buddies.

C’mon baby light mah fire…

In another universe, I imagine our eyes meeting the exact moment I turn. I’d pat my pockets for a box of Virgin while he, a vintage Zippo. Sparks would literally fly as he lights up mah ciggy and I take mah first drag because we’ve finally, finally met our smokin’ hot, smoker counterparts. And by the end of the day, after we’ve consumed a pack or two, we’d be satisfying our oral fixes on each other.

Oh yeah.

However, in this verse, I’m a non-smoker. And neither am I smokin’ hot. So I settled on making moon eyes.

Had I channeled smoker!me, it would have been a very messy and eventually fatal scenario.

First, I’d have to rush back to Ministop and suffer the indignity of asking for a free, supposedly not only repackaged but also reformulated Hope ciggy {illyria}, pacqui and I always snub. I think you also have to answer a survey if you get one. Talk about h-a-s-s-le, tsong!

Let’s go to the part where I finally get the nerve to walk up to ArchiBaby and ask for a light. This is where adolescent experimentation comes handy. I’d dig around my mental archive—folder 1993—and draw from a certain experience how to take drag without coughing.

We’d exchange smiles amid fumes curling in the air. He’d think how nice it is to meet another buddy for his favorite activity. I’d think how nice it is if all this act of sucking and blowing (how crude!) is but a prelude to something even more interesting….

But the joys of smoking under the scorching hot Makati sun would eventually be interrupted.

I’d feel it. That unmistakable itch deep within my lungs’ cavities.

I’d cough. And cough. Cough until I collapse.

Baby Come Back//You Can Blame It All On Me…

Screams. Sirens. Silence.

I’d be rushed to MMC for lung failure. He’d be stunned. In the hospital halls, my distraught friends would accost him. The confrontation, the blaming, one way or another, would lead to The Big Reveal that I did a stupid thing all because of a harmless crush. The irony is not lost to me.

ArchiBaby would be flattered—no, flabbergasted—I pulled a life-threatening stunt just so I can meet him. But then, he’d be grief-stricken. Because his newfound yosi buddy would soon be nothing but a stiffie-in-a-coffin.

My death after a few agonizing hours of wheezing in the ICU would affect him so. Oh, he’d survived for a year. But the guilt of being part of the following news stories—

SMOKING KILLS WRITER; ARCHITECT BLAMED (The Philippine Star)

DESIGNED FOR INSTANT DEATH
Architect reveals new perils of cigarette smoking.
(Philippine Daily Inquirer)

GMA CALLS FOR BAN ON LUNCHBREAK SMOKING (Manila Bulletin)

TOBACCO INDUSTRY—TOAST! (Business World)

ARCHITECT ON WRITER’S DEATH:’I did not know.’ (People ASIA)

and

BABAENG NAGPANGGAP MARUNONG MAG-YOSI…PATAY! (TV Patrol Broadcast)

—would be too much for him. I imagine he’s fackin’ emo, so he’d find a poetic way to die. Maybe set his bedroom on fire with one of the cigarette sticks left from that fatal day (he hasn’t puffed another since). Tsk. And the Earth would be deprived of another cutie.

What a tragedy.

So it’s good I just made with the secret moon eyes. By doing so, I saved his life. It feels incredibly good that he’s indebted to me, really.

Baby, Now that I’ve Found You I Won’t Let You Go…

It was during a serendipitous elevator ride when I first saw ArchiBaby. He was already inside, holding the doors open. As I stepped in, I think I was yawning wide enough to show my molars but the moment I saw the snuggable-huggable-cuteness that is him, I quickly clamped my mouth shut.

How could you not be overly conscious when someone looks that good at 8:00 a.m.?!

My brain triggered the release of happy hormones. I was so high in my delight –what a visual treat for a Monday morning!—that when he got off, I didn’t notice what floor it was. I was busy staring at his lean form as he walked away. So it was months later when I was able acquire that piece of information. And that happened while leshay and I were going down to buy merienda. At 3:00 p.m., the elevator doors opened…revealing him in all his doable glory.

The vision once again threw me off balance. Blinded by this man-boy’s beauty, my steps came into an abrupt halt, causing me to stumble slightly. And to top it off, I was wearing a deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression that would put leshay’s own to shame!

It was so embarrassing. In my mind, I cried:

Eat me, Earth! Eat me!

But my pleas were in all in vain.

To save face, pretend nothing happened. That’s the rule (or in absolutely mortifying cases like tripping on the shoe laces of your Doc Martens and falling face first on the street—PLAY DEAD. Don't move an inch. See how fast mocking laughter transforms to panicked worry. Trust me, it works). So I simply stepped in. Thank the PTBs he only spared a questioning glance at the clumsy girl holding up the elevator trip.

But as the doors closed, effectively creating my own little Nirvana, I had to bite my lip hard. A sudden fit of giggles threatened to erupt. How ridiculous! But I discovered—and accepted—that this is some kind of uncontrollable reaction whenever he’s in close proximity.

As the elevator went down, leshay had no idea such fantastic feelings were coursing through my veins. Then, ArchiBaby got off at the 14th floor. Leaving traces of his sugary scent. And a very flushed admirer behind….

Ooooh Baby I Love Your Way…Everyday…

When I see him, I feel like 12 again. Crushing on the boy-next-door. Scheming how to catch him in a game of cops-and-robbers. Swearing I would just DIE if he doesn’t smile in my direction.

I don’t know ArchiBaby’s name. And I’m fine with that. I don’t need to know his name. I just need to see him now and then because I like how he makes me feel.

Oh-so-girly.

I can’t think of a better way to end this unnecessarily long entry than with a dreamy *sigh.*

~~~

The Persecutions of a Pimp Turned Pirate

2008-09-19T01:57:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-22T20:43:00.000-07:00

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

a little piece #2

2008-06-26T10:21:00.000-07:00

Smiling mouth, shining eyes

beautiful mask hides

silent, hurting heart.

a little piece #1

2008-04-09T20:45:00.000-07:00

Red--

the color of Blood

flows, the river of Life

is a perfect Circle

shaped by the Unseen

does not mean absent

from You.