after spending an hour in the internet shop…

i've decided to fucking move. it's nice here and all but i'd like something that would:

 1. not take 10 minutes to upload simple, nonsensical updates about my morbid life.

 2. something that would goad me to MOVE ON! OI! not slow doooooowwwwwnnnnn.

 3. something that would not say DRAFT, even if i've actually decided on publishing the post.

 4. something that would not look jumped up. everytime i open this page, everything just seems so… big.

 like most things in life, you never give something totally unworth it, seconds.

 so i've moved here instead. yes, it is girly. and yes it excudes the hi-i'm-eight-and-have-learned-to-blog-10-  minutes-ago vibe.but it is indeed a whole lot faster. and for now, speed is all i'm interested in.

It’s a Saturday and I do not know where I am.

After a couple of hours, I decide to go into a PC shop. I have not written anything in a while and am waiting for the need to kick in.

So I check my email accounts, which I haven't done for some time since our IT department in the office decided, once and for all, to be a total bitch about our internet access.

First, I go to Friendster. I am overwhelmed (can I never be just whelmed about things? does it always have be an excess of emotion, a trick of light?) by the 56 messages I have to respond to. I try to look at the messages that I think would be relevant to me. I am by turns SAD and HOPEFUL. I wonder, for the nth time about the whys of things that have never happened and now, never will.

I look in on some of my friends' profiles. An ex-friend's picture filled me with utter dread ,since included now was her, the subject of our total disgust, smiling cheerly as if she did not mind looking inserted.Out of place.

My inboxes are filled with invitations to MYSpaceVOXTRICKLEMultpilyGOOGLETALKetcetc. I think I'm going to pass out. There are so many letters, different sizes, shapes, colors - more than I know what to do with. I just SKIPSKIP and go back to Friendster. I wonder when I have enabled the feature that  just accepts and accepts these kinds of testimonials:

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The world is broken. I finally believe it.

Then, I come across an email from an ex of mine. He asks me how I am and how I've been. Since before, he was one of the few people who can really ascertain that there is a difference between what was and what is.  Then he asks me to go visit his blog.

And I do. Like all mistakes, it is hard to absorb at first. Like seeing your house burning, and all you can think of is whether or not you left the towel on the bathroom floor.

His blog contains stories about me. Little snippets - this time, that time. A year between sentences, hacked by relentless drafts (I can tell). Me in parentheses (you, the world). Me in a red dress on a cold Sunday, hiding behind Jesus and pillars of grief.

This makes me so sad I feel like puking.  I am suddenly 7 years younger. 

I’ve never known when to say

STOP.

Twenty-four and going

When you say thirteen,
the first thing that would probably come to mind
would be bikes. Or more specifically, bike rides.
Bike rides over the small tuft of land near the backyard,
near the road. You practice little exhibitions infront of  your friends. They copy you meticulously, as if this were a test. Whenever you leap, you choose a place to land on - somewhere that would break your fall if things go wrong.

Finally, when you grow older you ride your bike on the street, braving the new world laid out before you. Notice that I said when, not if. This is certain, this swift moving from one time to another; the passing of certain rituals that you would have to shed lest everyone leaves you young and untroubled.

As the years pass, you acquire new exits. Slowly, you drink in what you think
is your life. You become successful with a few things. You get someone to love and
a pet dog thrown in. You come home every night tired, willing
yourself to stay awake and not give up. The bruises you have accepted remain
like bright goldfish do in filthy aquariums. The bruises you have forgotten stay
silent and watchful, as if they, as well, have been forgiven.

Occasionally, you read new poems, write things that surprise even you, bake a cake, go
on travels to places you have not been to, decide on your faith, take the leap, swing the bow, walk the walk, stand on the edge; your life, a mosaic of cliches that you cannot leap out of. You no longer look in
the mirror. It's been years since you last screamed.

Tomorrow, you wake up and you are twenty-five. All of a sudden, you are
all flabby arms and slight paunch; hoping against hope that today would end soon enough, swiftly. You wish that you had woken up eighty with left-arm arthritis and a  wheezing cat. Or maybe, not at all.

These are the years, talking like stealthy ghosts
and  as you lie on your bed taking time, you discover the finite truth : that there truly is nowhere to land now, finally, stripped as you are.

I am Arnold, age 8

I am eight and I am in love with Mrs. Fields. Everyone else says she isn't a real person but she is.

I've seen her. She wears a red-striped apron, tied surely and wisely around her waist as if she is always afraid that it would fall off and leave her extaposed. She is as thin as one of the Somalians I've seen on a picture once. She also has brown skin, like she has been kissed by sunshine many times. A strand of her hair keeps falling out of her neat bun and she tucks it in and looks around, hoping that no one has seen her . I have but I don't count because I'm just eight and have baby fat.

I go to her every Sunday, after mass. I tell my parents I'm going to meet some friends but really, I'm just going to the mall to see her. I stand by her stall, watching her put delicious cookies into small paper bags for customers who do not care about her. Maybe they're afraid of Mr. Fields. But I'm not. One day, I'll earn enough money and go to her and say "You never have to work here anymore." Just like how my dad said it to my mom before he got l-a-i-d o-f-f and started drinking. One time, I saw Mama hide a bruise under her left shin. She saw me look at it and she covered it with the hem of her skirt and said, "Bobby let's play." Mama thinks I don't understand but I do.

Mrs. Fields, she won't get no bruises from me. I will love her and love her so much and she'd feed me little bits of those crunchy cookies Mama likes so much. And I will be un-fat and su-sesful and very strong. And Mrs. Fields, she'd be so darn happy, she'll change her last name to Santos.

On my way to my lover’s house.

When I stepped on that train, it was easy to forget you
and think about another. Forgive me but it was.
I looked at street signs instead and was reminded
how, one afternoon, he said, the green light is you.

It surprises
me, how easily I shed you. It's as if the years have
fallen like leaves.

I shake my head and try to think about you, on
my way to my lover. This is because I do not
want to be too confident about him, about the way
his inexperienced eyes travel all over me. I think I am
something new altogether.

This does not feel at all like cheating - my coming
and going, turning around to face a world that is rid of you.
This chair is not yours, for once;
this heart, these singular feelings.

I know that I have waited for this. I have crouched under
the bed and thought less and less about
the sinews of your body, your bright eyes. It's as if
this was written somewhere,as if the road that I am
travelling now is taking me somewhere entirely new, hopeful.

I like it because it is simple. It is simple because I like it.

BUS

Miguel Pancho 

samahan mo kaya ako
sa paglakbay sa mundong ito?
abutin ang mga pangarap
lumangoy sa mga ulap
o kaya’y magtampisaw sa baha ng Cubao
magmeryenda ng isaw
mangdaot ng tao
habang kumakain ng halo-halo ni aling
rosario
isusulat ko ang lahat
dito sa aking aklat
parang ang bus na ito
may mga bagahe
may kuwento
pero ayoko din namang magsumamo
na sige na, subukan natin’to
ang gusto ko’y manggaling din sa ‘yo
lambingin mo ako
bigyan ng mga rosas
mahalin ng walang kupas
sana nga ganito ang bukas
isang pagsasamang wagas
nguni’t basbas ng Maylikha
ay hindi ko pa nakikita
kailan kaya malalaman
na ikaw na nga ang walang hanggan.
hayaan mong namnamin ko muna ang bawat araw
na ang kapiling ay ikaw

why i write about you.

1.

I have written a lot of poems about you because it
is easy to write about you. Let's say today, I think about
the way your neck arches and expands when you are reaching
for something. I say, on paper, "Your neck is a gazelle's" because that
is what I feel like writing at that particular moment. Or yesterday, your eyes twinkled when
I said " I think you are all the Christmas trees of my life." which may mean that
you are heavy, solid, built for further use. But you do not think this and
do not ask any questions because it is flattering to be
simplified on paper. Because you think that it is hard to lie about things
one writes. You are right, I do not lie when I write about you but as I've said,
it is easy. I can do it with my eyes closed, like I did you one night
in September. I groped and grappled for your warm, welcoming
body and eased my way in out in out until you cried and said
no more no more.

After this narrative, I could say that I
loved you less or  I loved you more but I really could not put that
down in print because it might be held against me.

2.

There are a lot of people who say that
it is hard to write about love. I don't think so. You can just dream up one scene
where the heroine looks like Wynona Rider in Reality Bites and the
main guy would look exactly like Johnny Depp.

They are in a library. (Do you notice that libraries are romantic? Musty books and a hand intertwined with yours, for once, not your own. Heartbeats beating with Poe's)

He says aloud "I do not want to live alone in a world of beautiful words."
She says "I feel the same."

She bends and hides some imaginary tears, happy for once.

Things are as simple as that.

3.

Another scene. The girl is late. He is looking at his watch and
around the dingy bar where they've decided to meet for
the nth time. He decides to dream about her before she gets there.  How the conversation will
unfold. How, little by little,  they would trick themselves into thinking
that this is the way things should be. They will hide behind curtains, indiscreet for once
because they think this is right.

But she never shows. He hails a taxi, looks out the window and notices that it is raining.

Things are as simple as this.

4.

So you see, I find it easy to write about you.
On paper, I set the stage; different meeting places, different scenarios,
all of which end with you walking away. In secret, I have a penchant for
scenes of you leaving. It is more interesting really,
than if you had stayed. If you had, you would complain about growing old
while growing old. Slowly, your face would turn into a live wire map
of uncertainty.

But not when you leave. When you walk away in my dreams, my heart is broken 25 ways til Sunday. I can sense it, throbbing neatly, almost elegantly; without any real blood spilled, any real feeling.

5.

Yesterday though, I wrote about your hands. How
fitful they seem at times, especially when
you try and undress me. They tremble so
much that I undo my buttons myself.

I am worried about you.

But one time, I remember when it rained and
you managed to cup some of the raindrops in your hands. Your hands,
steady and unfrightened for once; your mouth saying, suddenly, "look! look!"

6.

There are days when I'd like to write about
something else. Something more relevant and soulful like hungry children
in Somalia, war-stricken veterans who have lost the
will to hear things, women who are abused by their own fathers. I have
to admit, when I write about you, their images cross my mind. They are as fierce
as tigers. They say, Politics! Commitment! Atrophy! Integrity!

But I like this, what I have with you.
I hide under the blankets. I am not ready to
give anything back.

To Petra, who decides not to return

The day you decide when you've had
enough of America,
I know that you will start longing
for the tart taste of fish sauce on
your tongue, the smell of onions emanating from your
mother's fried rice, weather that's as inconsistent
as a lover, the privilege
of spitting on walls that are stained with
irresponsibility.

That day, I know that you will
be talking about how it was during
afternoons when you watched that funny game show host
and laughed loudly, wholly
with your friends, whose skins were as
brown as yours was. You will talk about how
hollow you felt
that day when you were walking along
the cold, unfamiliar streets when everyone,
for minutes, looked like patches. You remember hugging
yourself fearfully, wondering how you came to this.

Then, I will know that it has happened;
You pack and unpack the memories that you
stowed away in boxes to make them seem less real to you, less
reachable somehow. You let them caress you now; let them bear fruit.

I realize that we now speak in different languages.
I can no longer tell you that
there is nothing more beautiful than
walking home in the afternoons and watch the sky turn grey
after a rare rainshower. Or how
good it feels to read DH Lawrence while eating
pumpkin sweets in the afternoon
Or even just the simple clamor that the bottle collector's bell
makes as he goes home
to his five children, all of whom do not know
the difference between an empty and a full stomach.

One day, I plan on sending you a postcard. On it, there will be nothing but
a quaint picture of dried leaves and at the back, I will write
Forgive my happiness.
I have betrayed you all.

kung plano mong magpaalam, sulatan mo ako ng tulang ganito.

Stepping Backward

Adrienne Rich
   
 
Good-by to you whom I shall see tomorrow,
Next year and when I'm fifty; still good-by.
This is the leave we never really take.
If you were dead or gone to live in China
The event might draw your stature in my mind.
I should be forced to look upon you whole
The way we look upon the things we lose.
We see each other daily and in segments;
Parting might make us meet anew, entire.

You asked me once, and I could give no answer,
How far dare we throw off the daily ruse,
Official treacheries of face and name,
Have out our true identity? I could hazard
An answer now, if you are asking still.
We are a small and lonely human race
Showing no sign of mastering solitude
Out on this stony planet that we farm.
The most that we can do for one another
Is let our blunders and our blind mischances
Argue a certain brusque abrupt compassion.
We might as well be truthful. I should say
They're luckiest who know they're not unique;
But only art or common interchange
Can teach that kindest truth. And even art
Can only hint at what disturbed a Melville
Or calmed a Mahler's frenzy; you and I
Still look from separate windows every morning
Upon the same white daylight in the square.

And when we come into each other's rooms
Once in awhile, encumbered and self-conscious,
We hover awkwardly about the threshold
And usually regret the visit later.
Perhaps the harshest fact is, only lovers–
And once in a while two with the grace of lovers–
Unlearn that clumsiness of rare intrusion
And let each other freely come and go.
Most of us shut too quickly into cupboards
The margin-scribbled books, the dried geranium,
The penny horoscope, letters never mailed.
The door may open, but the room is altered;
Not the same room we look from night and day.

It takes a late and slowly blooming wisdom
To learn that those we marked infallible
Are tragi-comic stumblers like ourselves.
The knowledge breeds reserve. We walk on tiptoe,
Demanding more than we know how to render.
Two-edged discovery hunts us finally down;
The human act will make us real again,
And then perhaps we come to know each other.

Let us return to imperfection's school.
No longer wandering after Plato's ghost,
Seeking the garden where all fruit is flawless,
We must at last renounce that ultimate blue
And take a walk in other kinds of weather.
The sourest apple makes its wry announcement
That imperfection has a certain tang.
Maybe we shouldn't turn our pockets out
To the last crumb or lingering bit of fluff,
But all we can confess of what we are
Has in it the defeat of isolation–
If not our own, then someone's, anyway.

So I come back to saying this good-by,
A sort of ceremony of my own,
This stepping backward for another glance.
Perhaps you'll say we need no ceremony,
Because we know each other, crack and flaw,
Like two irregular stones that fit together.
Yet still good-by, because we live by inches
And only sometimes see the full dimension.
Your stature's one I want to memorize–
Your whole level of being, to impose
On any other comers, man or woman.
I'd ask them that they carry what they are
With your particular bearing, as you wear
The flaws that make you both yourself and human.
 
 

So me

Ruphas the Terrible People Iced: Twenty Car Bombs Planted: Sixteen Favorite Weapon Switch-Blade Arms Broken: Six Eyes Gouged: Thirty Two Tongues Cut Off: Seven Biggest Enemy: Mickey Z Get Your HITMAN Name AWSOME-GAME

Carlos, it was nothing.

Carlos, it was nothing

just soft rain, rare tulips

shading my head, bursting with radiant misnomers;

a look, a silent gaze that, for a moment, can be

mistaken for salvation. It was

nothing. Just a walk in the beach, a summer's

worth of bleeding. It was nothing

like your fingertips, grazing the hem of

my skirt, chasing sorrows out of mornings. Nothing like your laughter,

mixed with mine. Or, when you are near,

the confusion of which heartbeat is yours.

Chapter 7

I am looking at a tall glass. I am not going to say if it's half-full or half-empty because I hate that witticism. I look at the time. He is late.

I tap the edge of the spoon on the glass. Tink tink. I am bored and do not have time to waste.  

Last year was different. Last year was rainy. Like the day we met, for instance. I was almost soaked to my skin because the place where he said he'd meet me was so far, I had to take three trips from where I was then staying. When I got off the taxi, he wasn't there. I hesitated going up because 1) I did not have a ticket on me 2) there were a lot of his artsy fartsy friends lounging on chairs, smoking cigarettes in the rain. They looked frightfully ridiculous so I decided to disassociate myself lest I run into someone I knew (which I highly doubted).

I was disappointed at first because he looked so normal. But then he took me upstairs and literally shook me dry. IN front of all the raindrenched smoking farts (all of whom apparently decided to come up and make use of their common sense). I have never received such open affection from a complete stranger.

Then afterwards, the dance. I've never seen so many dancing poets before. But the Beatles were on and strangely, he said, here's your song. I hear the first lines of 'do you want to know a secret?' Dwarfed as I was under his thick coat, I could hear him humming along.

And it did not seem real at that point but I told myself, I will not knock this. I will not overanalyze this and shred it to pieces until there is nothing left.

But because we were then products of desertion, we could not hurt the other. No one voiced out what the end might be like, unlike many of my former lovers. We went to this gallery and that, with him trying his best to disentangle himself from every situation that may involve long discourses on subjects unknown to me while I tried my best to stay in the shadows. But most days, we preferred being alone. Behind a library. Under a tree. Reading books while crossing bridges (something that no one has ever done with me). Sometimes, I would catch him humming You'll never know how much I really love you… You'll never know how much I really care…

Those were perfect days. We were A MURAKAMI NOVEL!!!! I was A MUSE!!!!! Minutes filled with concocting lovelorn poetry in my name or bits and pieces of songs written in bright pink post its- stuck in the corners of gnarly bus seats, left on chairs, thrown in the wind. And nobody knows that they were all about me.

But I run away from things I am afraid of. Perhaps he knew this about me, perhaps not. But my mind told me that these things happened in novels and we were just another one of those stories I hate where everything is distorted and hopless and everyone ends up running into themselves.

One night,  when we were having a "It's your movie. No, it's mine!" (his idea, of course) night, we decided to watch Breakfast at Tiffany's.  When it came to the part where Holly Golightly ran after Paul under the rain, he turned to me and lay his head on my shoulder. His head felt heavy, thick with curls. Minutes after, I hear him snoring.

Next morning, I ran away. Ran as fast as my legs would carry me. Mamang Pandesal, the bread vendor looked at me with horror as I plummeted towards him but I did manage to miss him at the last minute. My eyes were blurry from sleep. Where to go? I do not remember what I did after that.

A year passes. Sometimes, he would remember to say hello and the call would end abruptly, like all our other endings did. There were days when he was especially happy and say:

Did you receive my poem?

What poem?

I sent it. Express mail. And this time, I put your name on it. I specifically said that it was meant for you.

What poem?

I could almost imagine him smiling. You will get it because it is yours. All those words, for once, yours.

And I would cry silently in my open hand.

———–

But it is April again. I am waiting for him, like I said earlier, in a now almost empty restaurant.  Everything seems dimmer because it is the afternoon and the blinds are drawn.  When I pick up the phone, I hear his voice.

I'm sorry. I can't make it. Are you there already?

Yep. Just got in.

That's a lie.

What does it matter? Why aren't you coming anyway?

Because.

Okay. Have it your way, then. So when?

I dunno. Maybe next summer?

You can bet your rat's ass I won't be available for that one.

I have some things to attend to.

You know that I do, too. But where am I now?

Silence.

Please come.

It is seconds before I realize that he is not longer there. I stare at my phone for a while, put it in my bag and leave.

——————–

Two days after, I buy a newspaper on the way home from the market. It is Sunday, after all. I feel thirsty and hungry and think about what to cook for later. I smooth out the paper as best as I can. On the front page, beneath an article about an expose on a senatoriable, I see his face. I see the words:

 Writer missing!

I feel disembodied for a while, as if my soul has run off ahead of me. I reel a little and  decide to read on before I panic.The newsbeat says that he has been missing for three days now. Everything is being done to track him down but there is no sign of him anywhere. His family does not know where he is. His friends are all shaking their heads. His current girlfriend was crying during their interview with her.

After all these accounts, they run a short backgrounder on him. Simple kid who got good reviews, all of which eventually persuaded some hotshot organization to nominate him for an international award. No political leanings. No organizations. Clean, smooth record.

I feel my knees wobble a little. I am alarmed by the heat. My shoulders feel hurt, as if I've just been sunbathing.I hear a strange humming and then nothing at all.

________

Did you thank her?

Of course I did. What do you take me for? I even paid her 5 pesos.

So are you saying that I'm worth 5 pesos?

Oh shut up. Be grateful for something, for once. Here's a cuppa.

Thanks.

I walk past my brother and prop the pillows up on the sofa with my free hand. I put the cup of coffee down on the table I lie down with my eyes open.

He shuffles towards me. I close my eyes a bit, remembering what I tell him about shuffling. He never listens.

Are you okay?

I guess.

What happened out there?

Nothing.

He stares me full in the face. Should I worry about you?

No.

Okay.

He goes to his room and I hear his light switch click. I listen to him preparing for bed. I stare at the light and think about him, about me, about nothing really.

I go to my room and take my books off the shelves. I first arrange them alphabetically, then rearraange them into no particular order. Next, I smooth their jackets out and take care to fix the dogearred corners. I stare and stare at them until my eyes feel tired and heavy. Then I open each one, trying to find favorite passages and leaving them that way. So many words. All useless now, it seems. Even if I scream these words aloud, it won't make him come and sit with me. And stay.

I whisper, I won't run. I am tired. Please come back. I say these phrases over and over again to make them true for him, to make them summon him out of the void where I cannot follow.

story of my life

You know what's wrong with you, Miss Whoever-you-are? You're chicken, you've got no guts. You're afraid to stick out your chin and say, "Okay, life's a fact, people do fall in love, people do belong to each other, because that's the only chance anybody's got for real happiness." You call yourself a free spirit, a "wild thing," and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it's not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or in the east by Somali-land. It's wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself. - Paul, Breakfast at Tiffany's

I’m not anal. I’m Oedipal.

B is a bit bothered about her mother’s boyfriend. She thinks the mother has acceptance issues, the whole Oedipal-Complex-Times-Three complex. Whenever she goes to church with them, she hears her boyfriend’s church mates teasing his mother, saying,

Oy, kelan ba ang kasal?

The mother, whom B avoids looking at closely for fear of having an irresistible, unexplainable urge to run, says

Ha? Ano ba kayo? Tagal pa yan. Mga bata pa.

Funny thing about it is, they’re getting married next month.

When does she plan on telling them, she asks me. The day before?

Maybe she’ll just say, Come over, there’s a party at our house. And they’ll say, What for? And she’ll say, Oh because I love the Lord so much. And the whole time, they’ll think that that party was for Jesus.

B blinks. You depress me, sometimes.

Well, what are the odds of it being my day everyday, babe?

dreaming in sepia

Today, I have had the luxury of sleeping in the afternoon, curled up next to a lion, who has also decided to extend his napping hours. 

I dreamt about my parents. My dreams are usually a mess, hacked up into bits and pieces that are, by turns, terrifying and funny. But this one had continuity to it, a grainy texture to each scene, as if everything was an old silent movie.

This is the dream:

The first scene shows the back portion of a church - the white steeple rising to meet clouds that looked hazy and askew. Then the lens that I am seeing through shows me and the Griffin living in a small, clean room near the church. I know it is clean because there are no books and where there are no books, there can’t really be anything else.

My mother, it seems, lives in a small room near ours. I go visit her. Hers is not a clean room. There are large, multicolored urns with elephant caricatures on them. There are Persian rugs, unscrolled or still wrapped in what seems to be purple plastic. She picks up after herself and does not look at me.

Next scene, The Griffin is driving (Driving!) me and Papa to a restaurant where we have decided to eat. Once there, I notice the table is covered with red and white plaid tablecoths. We sit down, careful to let Papa be in the center of it all. I believe I felt happy.

This scene is gone too soon. I see myself answering the phone, talking to my cousin K, arguing with her about God knows what.

Then in the next scene, there is a ruckus caused by my living relatives. They are angry about something. I think, automatically (in character, as always) that it is my fault, that it had something to do with the conversation I had with my cousin that day. But instead, I find out that they are angry with my mother. It was something she did, something that had to do with their Bingo game. There was someone she offended, they said. Then it was all of them. It is the last thing I remember, this phrase: All of them.

I remember waking up in the middle of this dream, thinking, Wait til I tell Mommy. As if she were still here.

When I actually do wake up, I feel nothing. I stare out a window and my eyes focus on a small leaf, floating listlessly a little above the ground.

+++++++

Three questions regarding this dream. One is:

Are they apart now, where they are?

Second is:

Is the purpose of this dream to warn me about something? Or is it just something that they sent me to let me know how they are doing?

Third, and most relevant question is:

Why are my relatives so fucking meddlesome?

Sunday Bloody Sunday

This is what I call a lazy Sunday. Hour after hour of splendid nothingness. Of lying down, reading. Standing up and squinting at the sun. Of stretching. Patting the dog and letting myself be licked by the dog. Eating a chocolate bar while listening to a man yap about a blender on the Home TV Shopping Channel. Chatting with The Griffin. Going to town on a tricycle, the wind blowing my hair into a frenzy.

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We go out to buy some black tape for his drumsticks. The weather is unsurprisingly warm and there are a lot of people milling about, looking at street wares, looking at each other.

When we reach the hardware store, I stare at his profile, then at the curve of his back. There is nothing different about him today, unlike other days whe he is neither this nor anything. I imagine taking a photograph of him here, where everything is bustling and busy and he is looking on, as if transfixed on something. I like how still he is during these moments. It touches me; making me see how he is the same as everyone else and yet is not.

I like imagining him as the subject of future photographs that I will take. I see him in market places, in obscure restaurants, reading a book with his back turned to me. I want to believe he belongs to these kinds places; surroundings where I can fit gracefully in, too. Nothing that would involve too much pizzazz, too much proof of expectations.  Not because I don’t believe that he will fit in. It’s because in my heart, I am afraid that he would be swallowed completely by the grandeur, by the effervescent newness of it all. In the end, I will live with the truth I have always known - he will be lost to me. The  photographs,emptied, will bear witness to the places as they really are in daylight – random and sad. Bereft.

I waste:

5 hours each day talking to blighted blimey blippity blip citizens and having conversations like these:

Me: Maam, our address is Filinvest corp. city, block 44, Northgate Cyberzone…

Whoever the hell it was: Ano maam? 444 Northkiss Cyberzone?

Or

Me: Could you kindly desribe yourself.

Grade-A Idiot: I am 5’6 , 120 pounds and I like foreigners. (which, of course, she pronounced as Porengers)

1 hour flipping though TV channels that host shows which are and will never be relevant to me.

Say, for example, the Big Brother show that we mistakenly watched one uneventful evening.

In comes Contestant Number One who claims that he is a War Craft addict. I forget where he was from but he sure did think with an accent. Inspite of the sweat streaming ( I am not exaggerating) down his face, he still had the audacity to leer at the hostess’ boobies which were, of course, unsubtly pushing through her rather skimpy top. This guy is in his boxers and in a thin, nondescript blue sando shirt and he looks like he is shivering. I hold my breath for an embarrassing boner that will defeat all his hopes of reappearing on TV. Ever again.

Hostess asks: So if you were to pick a celebrity to stay in the house with you, who would it be.

Guy who thinks with an accent: I-cow (which may have meant several things, really.)

Next comes Contestant Number Two, who is sporting a tiny, white number with one of those fashionable belts tied fetchingly at one side of her waist. She removes her blindfold and smiles gamely into the camera. Then, the shot is cut and they begin rolling a shortie about her life. It is, as usual, an unbelievably sad life. One that will make you want to tear your heart out and give it to the needy.

She lays down the works: wrong side of town, father up and gone; mother barely making ends meet. And inspite of all this, she says she tries her best to present a happy front to the world.

She says, “Ano naman ako, kenkoy. Medyo bakla.” And you see tiny, almost inconspicuous beads of tears working their way down the corner of her eyes.

Why is she so thin, though? asks my officemate the next day.

Probably because all she eats is talahib and little bugs. I retort.

Ano ka ba naman? She laughs.

She’s supposed to be poor, remember? Were you expecting that she give dieting tips?

Ah, poor, malnourished, wretched girls. You will always be among us.

Contestant Number Five is, simply put, a nutjob. Here are the reasons why I think so:

1. She joined the contest even though she seems filthy rich. She’s a cheerleader at some hotshot private U. There were sickening shots that showed her doing regular, normal things like studying, laughing (wine glass in hand, no doubt) with her perky friends, her doing cartwheels. She is under the delusion that she is doing this as a service to mankind. I do strongly doubt, though, that this is the kind of, erm, service that men would like to receive from her.

2.There is a part when she was shown laughing with their ‘workers’, as she called them. She’s a regular Joe, this girl. She says she enjoys nothing more than hanging out with ‘em locals. Then she enjoys getting banged up by them after drinking sessions. But her upbringing still shows through – the rule still is one at a time, folks!

She looks like your typical snotty, up-your-ass socialite but really she fixes tires  

in her spare time. Without gloves. Wow, that must be something. Really.

3. The Big Brother hostess introduced her as a girl of 21 but has 8 kids. But wait, there’s more to this monstrosity – the eldest kid is supposed to be 15 years old already. Then after this astounding announcement, they cleverly paused for a break, the rats.

Of course, we surmised about it. How can that be possible? Maybe they’re dogs, or aliens. I shout Offsprings of the workers! My fellow watchers split their eyes at me. We racked our brains, we pulled our hair out, we prayed to the Gods of TV Hell to put the show back on. Then, after a few moments, there she was again, smiling that calculated smile of hers.

Then, the hosts say, So, tell us about your 8 kids.

Actually, she says, without batting a perfectly primped eyelash, they’re dolls.

Out come her relatives, all holding smelly, gnarly toys.

The hostess reads a letter aloud. It’s from Big Brother. The letter says that he is graciously giving our poor little rich girl (who probably has more money than Channel 2 does) the opportunity to bring one of her dolls along. She gives a little dance and says, “Pamela.”

We, the astounded watchers silently mouthed, Who the hell is Pamela?

And she stretches her arms out to the rattiest, smelliest-looking, bald reproduction of Prince William and holds it to her tiny tits. She smiles.

Bakit siya ang napili mo? the hostess asked.

Siya kasi ang panganay, she says. The girl smiles to herself, allowing herself to be transported into yet another world.

I hate these rich bitches. They get me every time.

Now I am rooting for Contestant Number 6. He is a hulking mass of flesh who can’t speak one iota of English, nevermind Filipino. It was perfectly clear to everyone that he could not understand particular English words because his face kept contorting to a moue of confusion. And when the hostess says Sana naman naiintindihan mo ang sinasabi ko, you know who the real idiot is.

When he goes into the House, no one speaks to him. We just hear a chorus of dumb voices, repeating Ano daw? Ano daw?

He was such a sorry sight – holding his hands out to gesture that someone should help him get the stupid handcuffs off his wrists – that I could not help but sympathize. And since I almost always want any story to end in a hilarious note, I guess having him win is the most laughable way to go.

As you may have noticed I skipped giving detailed accounts for Contestant Number Three and Contestant Number Four. This is because they were downright ugly and that’s all I have to say about the matter.

20 minutes doing one thing I even enjoy doing – Eating.

I spend the shortest time possible on eating because I now eat:

Breakfast:

1 oatmeal (35 grams)

1 banana (if I’m lucky)

Lunch:

1 sandwich

1 cup Century Tuna

Dinner:

Anything I want because I get dastardly hungry by this time and no conscience of mine is going to stop me.

30 minutes blog-surfing

More on these series of unfortunate events in future post because it would involve some in-depth, true to form proof that will surely, surely convince you that the end of days is nigh.

60 minutes of daydreaming/soul searching

If  character X will be accompanied by J, I will be able to find Q and H.

So what?

For I

It’s a funny word: estrangement. Until today, I associate it with the word ‘string’, which is truly peculiar since a string is meant to connect things, to pull things together, while being estranged is to set apart, to stretch out an unexplicable void between two entities.

Some of its synonyms are: rift, separation, rupture, division, drifting apart.

But no matter how my mind perceives this word and no matter how many synonyms I can attach to it, the unavoidable fact is that this is what we are now: estranged. And even if I have turned the events of the past weeks over and over in my mind until I finally cave in to exhaustion, there is not a single thing that I remember doing wrong.

But forgive my vanity. Maybe this is just me - being my own savior again. Making excuses for myself so that I can find living in this body, under this particular sun, bearable.

When I lose people I love, I try my damndest to never beg, to never ask them to come back. I see that you know this about me. This knowledge is in your smile, in your quick gestures as you prepare to go home, your back always turned to me now. I have never pictured you as relentless, or unforgiving. But seeing that you are makes it easier for me to imagine that someone else is now inhabiting your body, someone else stirring the spoon in your cup of coffee, someone else who fits in your swivel chair.

The saddest thing about all this is the fact that I have realized that inspite of all my brave declarations; the belief that I have built around myself to establish that I am distinct from all other survivors that have been left in various places, in uncountable ways, I am still a very, very young soul. I am still not used to goodbyes.

But to you, my nether-sister, I am saying it. Let it bring you peace.

Goodbye.

if you aren’t here, where am I?

Lately, I have noticed that there seconds in my life which are devoid of music. Seconds when I can hear nothing else but the common sounds of everyday. When I am looking at a stranger, when I smell my aunt’s cooking, when something particularly melodramatic happens to me, there is nothing – no lilting backdrop, nothing that makes me associate the moment with something that is tangible; no harbinger that will make the memory repeat itself in my mind.

This void is something that I realize I have consciously accepted and have not given much thought to ‘til today.

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I remember, though, a story my mother told when I was a child. It was an ordinary afternoon and she was folding clothes in her room. I rush in, my eyes wide open, my hands clamped on my ears. Ma, I can’t hear a thing! I can’t hear a thing! Can you still see me?

Ma was alarmed, of course. She was a woman who was charmingly susceptible to urban legends and medical mishaps (which was one and the same, she told me) so always, the solution for any kind of sickness or pain was a friendly visit to the provincial hospital. So she took me there, asking all the while what was happening to me. What was I feeling?

Then I said, with all the innocence that a five year old can muster, I always used to hear the song More (a favorite of Papa’s) in my head and now it’s gone. And I thought I was gone with it.

My mother used to love telling this story to other mothers she knew. They gave appropriate comments like Isn’t she a bright girl? or How sweet!

But after that day, my father, in moments, looked at me rather peculiarly, as if he were checking if I was still really there.

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I think I still disappear sometimes. Now, more than ever.