until home.
i am swamped with leftover work, and chores, and last-minute shopping, and goodbyes to friends. But oh, by this time tomorrow i swear not to swear at how difficult it is to get a cab, the traffic, the lines at the airport, how much longer the wait.
i talked to my dad yesterday and he said he had cleaned our old room for us, my sisters and me. he was tired but happy he said. i know i said. i know exactly.
l. was worried about how weird the cats were acting a few days ago. a sign of an earthquake we were wondering. but he is home now. so are d. and w. i am just doing every to-do left in my list, checking the boxes, counting the hours.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Facts versus Romance, v.2
I was arrogant of course. That's survival. If this didn't work out, it would be just another start: tried on for size but did not fit, one of many. I was beginning to think myself a quitter--or forever the scientist. This another experiment to find out yes or no.
***
"Yes, it is," the light seemed to say on the balcony seven floors up the building where I used to live. It was white now, that single CFL bulb. It was yellow seven years ago and incandescent; I had begun to write in my journal again, all the while thinking about being seven floors up and how quick the fall.
I stood across the street staring at that balcony for some time. I had been walking home, it was midnight. I could see it, midnight in another time: The little black table, its surface pocked with rust, the grey pages of the journal, the green cloth of the folding chair that cupped my butt like a chute but was hell on my back. My left hand cramping trying to write as fast as I could think, my right hand holding a cigarette. The smoke rising then curling and curling unto itself. Funny but whenever I'd look down from that balcony then, (a morbid anticipation of the possible out-of-body experience sure to follow,) I would always see shards of red clay and soil held together by thin yellow roots like hair, the green plant. Why is it still green I had always wondered. Where's the body?
I crossed the street and looked down on that spot now and, though I felt foolish, swept my foot over nothing on the floor. A quick swipe like trying to look for something in the sand.
***
"Because there are so many things I want to say but can't. Or won't," this my nervous answer to the question why I write.
He was a fellow of the same workshop some nine years ago, and has been coming back to the island every year since. I imagine him throwing the question at a newbie every year and every time, catching her by surprise. He had the look of a professor despite being my age. It was the eyeglasses, magnifying patience more than his curiosity. At my reply he nods a meaningless nod, teacher-speak for That's not the right answer.
It was the first Friday of three, our first real night off where we could pretend to be on vacation, a week of the work over. We--fellows, facilitators, visitors--were at a bar a block from the hotel. It was dingy under the murky sky, incandescent bulbs hung like Christmas lights overhead, like fake stars. I look at them trying to think.
"What is your problematic," he tried again, and ruins my concentration. I try to spell the word in my head, still looking up. Is it with a -c or –que if it’s a noun?
*****
To be continued...
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Four reasons: Mine but not mine.
1. From Caye, from The Descent of Man, by T.C. Boyle
Orlando sets and checks lobster traps. All the men on the island set and check lobster traps. The traps are made of wooden strips, shaped like Quonset huts, a conical entranceway at one end. Bait is unnecessary. The lobster, scouting the margins of the reef, the sea chanting over him, will prowl around this trap until he finds the conical entranceway. He will scrabble into the trap, delighted, secure from attack. The lobster psyche takes solace in holes. When the traps are hauled the law requires fishermen to release any lobster whose tails is smaller than three inches, a seeding measure. The fishermen do not release the lobsters whose tails are smaller than three inches--nor do they take them to the market. Instead they twist off the heads, make a welter of the sweet curled tails, black against the frayed and blanched floorboards of their boats, carry the bloodless white meat home to their pots. Orlando tells me that the lobster catch is smaller this season than it was a year ago, and that a year ago it was smaller than the preceding season. I nod my head. Like the point of a cone I say.
2. From Hurricane, by Bob Dylan
Rubin could take a man out with just one punch
But he never did like to talk about it all that much
It's my work, he'd say, and I do it for pay
And when it's over I'd just as soon go on my way
Up to some paradise
Where the trout streams flow and the air is nice
And ride a horse along a trail
But then they took him to the jailhouse
Where they try to turn a man into a mouse
All of Rubin's cards were marked in advance
The trial was a pig-circus, he never had a chance
The judge made Rubin's witnesses drunkards from the slums
To the white folks who watched he was a revolutionary bum
And to the black folks he was just a crazy nigger
No one doubted that he pulled the trigger
And though they could not produce the gun
The D.A. said he was the one who did the deed
And the all-white jury agreed
Rubin Carter was falsely tried
The crime was murder one, guess who testified?
Bello and Bradley and they both baldly lied
And the newspapers, they all went along for the ride
How can the life of such a man
Be in the palm of some fools hand?
To see him obviously framed
Couldn't help but make me feel ashamed to live in a land
Where justice is a game
Now all the criminals in their coats and their ties
Are free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise
While Rubin sits like Buddha in a ten-foot cell
An innocent man in a living hell
That's the story of the Hurricane,
But it wont be over till they clear his name
And give him back the time he's done
Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world
3. Pacemaker by W.D. Snodgrass
aaaaaaaaaaI
"One Snodgrass, two Snodgrass, three Snodgrass, four . . .
aaaaaaI took my own rollcall when I counted the seconds;
"One two three, Two two three, Three . . .," the drum score
aaaaaaShowed only long rests to the tympani's entrance.
"Oh-oh-oh leff; leff; lef-toh-righ-toh-leff,"
aaaaaaThe sergeant cadenced us footsore recruits;
The heart, poor drummer, gone lame, deaf,
aaaaaaThen AWOL, gets frogmarched to the noose.
aaaaaaaaaaII
Old coots, at the Veterans', might catch breath
aaaaaaIf their cheeks got slapped by a nurse's aide,
Then come back to life; just so, at their birth,
aaaaaaYoung rumps had been tendered warm accolades.
This kick-ass rude attitude, smart-assed insult,
aaaaaaThe acid-fueled book review just might shock
Us back to the brawl like smelling salts
aaaaaaMight sting the lulled heart up off its blocks.
aaaaaaaaaIII
I thought I'd always favor rubato
aaaOr syncopation, scorning fixed rhythms;
aaaaaaThought my old heartthrobs could stand up to stress;
Believed one's bloodpump should skip a few beats
aaaIf it fell into company with sleek young women;
aaaaaaBelieved my own bruit could beat with the best.
Wrong again, Snodgrass! This new gold gadget,
aaaSnug as the watch on my wife's warm wrist,
aaaaaaDrives my pulsetempo near twice its old pace--
Go, nonstop watch! Go, clockwork rabbit,
aaaKeeping this lame old dog synchronized,
aaaaaaSteady, sparked up, still in the race.
4. Epigraph I saw on the last chapter of a romance novel, which was really an epitaph on the monument of some Italian invalid:
I was well; I would be better; I am here.
Orlando sets and checks lobster traps. All the men on the island set and check lobster traps. The traps are made of wooden strips, shaped like Quonset huts, a conical entranceway at one end. Bait is unnecessary. The lobster, scouting the margins of the reef, the sea chanting over him, will prowl around this trap until he finds the conical entranceway. He will scrabble into the trap, delighted, secure from attack. The lobster psyche takes solace in holes. When the traps are hauled the law requires fishermen to release any lobster whose tails is smaller than three inches, a seeding measure. The fishermen do not release the lobsters whose tails are smaller than three inches--nor do they take them to the market. Instead they twist off the heads, make a welter of the sweet curled tails, black against the frayed and blanched floorboards of their boats, carry the bloodless white meat home to their pots. Orlando tells me that the lobster catch is smaller this season than it was a year ago, and that a year ago it was smaller than the preceding season. I nod my head. Like the point of a cone I say.
2. From Hurricane, by Bob Dylan
Rubin could take a man out with just one punch
But he never did like to talk about it all that much
It's my work, he'd say, and I do it for pay
And when it's over I'd just as soon go on my way
Up to some paradise
Where the trout streams flow and the air is nice
And ride a horse along a trail
But then they took him to the jailhouse
Where they try to turn a man into a mouse
All of Rubin's cards were marked in advance
The trial was a pig-circus, he never had a chance
The judge made Rubin's witnesses drunkards from the slums
To the white folks who watched he was a revolutionary bum
And to the black folks he was just a crazy nigger
No one doubted that he pulled the trigger
And though they could not produce the gun
The D.A. said he was the one who did the deed
And the all-white jury agreed
Rubin Carter was falsely tried
The crime was murder one, guess who testified?
Bello and Bradley and they both baldly lied
And the newspapers, they all went along for the ride
How can the life of such a man
Be in the palm of some fools hand?
To see him obviously framed
Couldn't help but make me feel ashamed to live in a land
Where justice is a game
Now all the criminals in their coats and their ties
Are free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise
While Rubin sits like Buddha in a ten-foot cell
An innocent man in a living hell
That's the story of the Hurricane,
But it wont be over till they clear his name
And give him back the time he's done
Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world
3. Pacemaker by W.D. Snodgrass
aaaaaaaaaaI
"One Snodgrass, two Snodgrass, three Snodgrass, four . . .
aaaaaaI took my own rollcall when I counted the seconds;
"One two three, Two two three, Three . . .," the drum score
aaaaaaShowed only long rests to the tympani's entrance.
"Oh-oh-oh leff; leff; lef-toh-righ-toh-leff,"
aaaaaaThe sergeant cadenced us footsore recruits;
The heart, poor drummer, gone lame, deaf,
aaaaaaThen AWOL, gets frogmarched to the noose.
aaaaaaaaaaII
Old coots, at the Veterans', might catch breath
aaaaaaIf their cheeks got slapped by a nurse's aide,
Then come back to life; just so, at their birth,
aaaaaaYoung rumps had been tendered warm accolades.
This kick-ass rude attitude, smart-assed insult,
aaaaaaThe acid-fueled book review just might shock
Us back to the brawl like smelling salts
aaaaaaMight sting the lulled heart up off its blocks.
aaaaaaaaaIII
I thought I'd always favor rubato
aaaOr syncopation, scorning fixed rhythms;
aaaaaaThought my old heartthrobs could stand up to stress;
Believed one's bloodpump should skip a few beats
aaaIf it fell into company with sleek young women;
aaaaaaBelieved my own bruit could beat with the best.
Wrong again, Snodgrass! This new gold gadget,
aaaSnug as the watch on my wife's warm wrist,
aaaaaaDrives my pulsetempo near twice its old pace--
Go, nonstop watch! Go, clockwork rabbit,
aaaKeeping this lame old dog synchronized,
aaaaaaSteady, sparked up, still in the race.
4. Epigraph I saw on the last chapter of a romance novel, which was really an epitaph on the monument of some Italian invalid:
I was well; I would be better; I am here.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Moon over you.
Now showing in the Philippine night sky: A smiling face formed by the rare alignment of planets Venus and Jupiter and directly below it, the crescent moon. -- From the Inquirer, 03/12/08
Look at that waning moon
Smiling in her demise
Stars in her eyes
The little loon.
Has she always been
A woman, that lunatic?
Is that look automatic--
Eyes too bright and not too keen?
Faced with a great smile
Or a shiny bauble
Her brain starts to wobble,
Then collapses. Without guile
Then, without a single thought?
Tomorrow with the sun
The face is barren and dun
And with many disasters, pocked.
Then again the sun is always he
who tells the tale, and never she.
Look at that waning moon
Smiling in her demise
Stars in her eyes
The little loon.
Has she always been
A woman, that lunatic?
Is that look automatic--
Eyes too bright and not too keen?
Faced with a great smile
Or a shiny bauble
Her brain starts to wobble,
Then collapses. Without guile
Then, without a single thought?
Tomorrow with the sun
The face is barren and dun
And with many disasters, pocked.
Then again the sun is always he
who tells the tale, and never she.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Yesterday
Fall and break yourself
Walk away and leave the shards
But do not forget
(Apologies to Larry, for trying to copy)
Walk away and leave the shards
But do not forget
(Apologies to Larry, for trying to copy)
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
When in doubt, waste time.
1. If I were a doll, the accessories packaged with me would be:
A library and rec room with a big stereo. No ice cream maker and ice cream parlor for this Barbie! Wait...
2. I have a fear of:
Big, hairy... spiders.
3. What type of food do you eat at your grandparents house:
Uga or dried fish, lots and lots of fruits, tubo!
4. What did you weigh when you were born?
Less than what I'd like to lose now, probably.
5. What would you do if you were stranded on an island with the person you hate most?
How big is the island? I'll vote him off the island. Rape, murder, it's just a shot away, it's just a shot away...
6. What would you do if you found out you had been cheated on?
Cheat on him too, with someone better-looking, and better in bed.
7. Do you stalk anyone on myspace?
Nope, I like to google google. I like to... Google!
8. I find the thought of childbirth:
Painful.
9. Next door to my house was:
Pen Medina. Seriously. I almost fell down the little canal leading to the house once, becase he was staring at me and I didn't want to look away first. He smiled.
10. My feet are:
Sooo ugly. Especially with the Polish/Indonesian-flag toenail. I really have to go to the salon.
11. My preferred style of jeans are:
Comfortable.
12. Why is your #1 your #1?
Because I always look out for it.
13. Know how to cook?
If I feel like it.
14. I am annoyed by:
Stupidity and insincerity and impoliteness.
15. What is the worst way you were dumped?
Over the phone. Because I cheated on him. According to him.
16. What sea creature scares you?
Jelly fish. Yes, from experience.
17. What color hair do most of the people you are around have?
Black. I would have said so when I was in Japan, too. But apparently, the Japanese are born with blond hair, that turn blue, or green, or purple (yes! purple) when they (especially the women) grow old.
18. What object have you broken most recently?
Hmmm. I sat on my glasses recently, but I guess they're unbreakable.
19 . Name one of the Spice Girls.
Britney Spears.
20. What was the last thing to make you cry?
The remaining balance in my bank account.
21. What are the stems on wine glasses for?
To hold with three fingers while your pinky is in the air.
22. My favorite shoes are:
Chucks.
23. Can you use chopsticks?
For anything other than eating? Nope.
24. Do you prefer beaches or forests?
Water trumps earth everyday.
25. What serial killer do you find most disturbing?
What serial killer won't you find disturbing? Okay... I'm getting bored na.
26. Who knows a secret or two about you?
Anybody who's willing to buy me drinks and keep them coming.
27. Have you ever burned yourself?
Who hasn't?
28. Who is probably talking a load of crap about you right now?
The me who's so bored she's doing this survey.
29. Where is your sister right now?
Which one? But probably both in school.
30. Do you believe that love lasts forever?
Not as long as this survey. Has it been a thousand years, darling?
31. What are you listening to?
Fiona Apple. Paper bag.
32 . What do you smell like?
What the fuck? Like freshly laundered linens. A meadow. The reddest rose. Vanilla ice cream. What the fuck?
34. Does anyone regularly tell you they love you?
God.
35. What's the most confusing thing for you?
That people think I look Indian. Would you stop it already?
36. Do you have any bad habits?
Why? What have you heard?
37. Did you ever wanted to be a teacher?
I have been a teacher.
38. What is your favorite color?
Okay. I quit.
39. Is there something that you're waiting for?
This.
I tag anyone who has the time.
A library and rec room with a big stereo. No ice cream maker and ice cream parlor for this Barbie! Wait...
2. I have a fear of:
Big, hairy... spiders.
3. What type of food do you eat at your grandparents house:
Uga or dried fish, lots and lots of fruits, tubo!
4. What did you weigh when you were born?
Less than what I'd like to lose now, probably.
5. What would you do if you were stranded on an island with the person you hate most?
How big is the island? I'll vote him off the island. Rape, murder, it's just a shot away, it's just a shot away...
6. What would you do if you found out you had been cheated on?
Cheat on him too, with someone better-looking, and better in bed.
7. Do you stalk anyone on myspace?
Nope, I like to google google. I like to... Google!
8. I find the thought of childbirth:
Painful.
9. Next door to my house was:
Pen Medina. Seriously. I almost fell down the little canal leading to the house once, becase he was staring at me and I didn't want to look away first. He smiled.
10. My feet are:
Sooo ugly. Especially with the Polish/Indonesian-flag toenail. I really have to go to the salon.
11. My preferred style of jeans are:
Comfortable.
12. Why is your #1 your #1?
Because I always look out for it.
13. Know how to cook?
If I feel like it.
14. I am annoyed by:
Stupidity and insincerity and impoliteness.
15. What is the worst way you were dumped?
Over the phone. Because I cheated on him. According to him.
16. What sea creature scares you?
Jelly fish. Yes, from experience.
17. What color hair do most of the people you are around have?
Black. I would have said so when I was in Japan, too. But apparently, the Japanese are born with blond hair, that turn blue, or green, or purple (yes! purple) when they (especially the women) grow old.
18. What object have you broken most recently?
Hmmm. I sat on my glasses recently, but I guess they're unbreakable.
19 . Name one of the Spice Girls.
Britney Spears.
20. What was the last thing to make you cry?
The remaining balance in my bank account.
21. What are the stems on wine glasses for?
To hold with three fingers while your pinky is in the air.
22. My favorite shoes are:
Chucks.
23. Can you use chopsticks?
For anything other than eating? Nope.
24. Do you prefer beaches or forests?
Water trumps earth everyday.
25. What serial killer do you find most disturbing?
What serial killer won't you find disturbing? Okay... I'm getting bored na.
26. Who knows a secret or two about you?
Anybody who's willing to buy me drinks and keep them coming.
27. Have you ever burned yourself?
Who hasn't?
28. Who is probably talking a load of crap about you right now?
The me who's so bored she's doing this survey.
29. Where is your sister right now?
Which one? But probably both in school.
30. Do you believe that love lasts forever?
Not as long as this survey. Has it been a thousand years, darling?
31. What are you listening to?
Fiona Apple. Paper bag.
32 . What do you smell like?
What the fuck? Like freshly laundered linens. A meadow. The reddest rose. Vanilla ice cream. What the fuck?
34. Does anyone regularly tell you they love you?
God.
35. What's the most confusing thing for you?
That people think I look Indian. Would you stop it already?
36. Do you have any bad habits?
Why? What have you heard?
37. Did you ever wanted to be a teacher?
I have been a teacher.
38. What is your favorite color?
Okay. I quit.
39. Is there something that you're waiting for?
This.
I tag anyone who has the time.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Woman as woman
Courage is the everyday word for it, but I really prefer valor. It connotes more a willingness, a determination, a battle, rather than just the luck-of-the-draw reaction to circumstance, to everyday.
I remember when I was younger, having a resentment of the most valiant picture of woman as mother. Why the mother? I asked. Never leader, president, soldier, worker, thinker. This is the 21st century and haven't we any gone further than being different from man because of a collection of reproductive organs? Biology, yes, renders the woman inferior every time, all the time: the monthly periods, the dysmenorrhea that renders one invalid, the risk of pregnancy, the question of abortion, career vs. family. Of these things, man has been spared.
And though I am not naive enough now to discount the un-feeling girl, the in-different woman--the one who will, without question, without second thought discount marriage, homemaking, the one who will say yes without hesitation to abortion--perhaps it is our biggest achievement to be able to carry life within us, to bear the weight and the pain, and to live with them always: the pain and the weight of creation, the nurturing, letting go.
Perhaps the ultimate feminism lies in motherhood, despite decades of fight. This might be our single claim to valor: that we choose to face the consequence, become aware of it, and deal with it to the best of our abilities, all the while knowing that we have no choice but to let go. Perhaps this is why all the stories begin like this: Once there was a child.
For my friend Ina, the most valiant of women.
I remember when I was younger, having a resentment of the most valiant picture of woman as mother. Why the mother? I asked. Never leader, president, soldier, worker, thinker. This is the 21st century and haven't we any gone further than being different from man because of a collection of reproductive organs? Biology, yes, renders the woman inferior every time, all the time: the monthly periods, the dysmenorrhea that renders one invalid, the risk of pregnancy, the question of abortion, career vs. family. Of these things, man has been spared.
And though I am not naive enough now to discount the un-feeling girl, the in-different woman--the one who will, without question, without second thought discount marriage, homemaking, the one who will say yes without hesitation to abortion--perhaps it is our biggest achievement to be able to carry life within us, to bear the weight and the pain, and to live with them always: the pain and the weight of creation, the nurturing, letting go.
Perhaps the ultimate feminism lies in motherhood, despite decades of fight. This might be our single claim to valor: that we choose to face the consequence, become aware of it, and deal with it to the best of our abilities, all the while knowing that we have no choice but to let go. Perhaps this is why all the stories begin like this: Once there was a child.
For my friend Ina, the most valiant of women.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Dear Diary,
I saw Carlo today. Hahaha. You remember that commercial? Hahaha. Hotdogs, of all possible things. Galing nga eh, cos I had a hotdog sandwich din for dinner. Fits, diba? Tapos, tapos, I really did see a Carlo today! Galeeeng! Parang deus ex-machina. But anyway, that's not what I want to talk about.
Haaay, Diary, I am so tired. My legs are so heavy, they're logs. Hahaha, get it? Legs = logs? Hahaha. Oh my, I really have to stop explaining jokes. Writers are told you never explain the joke, but really, sometimes, that's the funniest part for me. Explanations are so funny. Sometimes I don't even listen to the explanations themselves. It's just sooo funny to ask for the explanation. You get what I mean? Of course you get it. You know me better than any other person. And you know that my secret ambition is to be a writer. A funny writer pa, that's my dream, diba?
But speaking of feet, today is such a "Murphy's Law" day. I mean, I'm tired, my legs are logs na nga (Hahaha, sometimes I kill myself! I'm sooo funny! Hahaha), and I take off my socks ready to crash on my bed, only to accidentally tear a toenail in the process. Clear hati pa! As in, in half! Murphy's talaga! No, no, it didn't hurt, but it's just so ugly now. Sooo ugly. I was planning pa naman to have my nails done this weekend. You know that the red polish is already chipping, so I really planned to have a mani-pedi this weekend. And now, this. Hati in the center. My big toe now looks like the flag of Poland. Or is it Indonesia? (Note to self: Google which flag it is.) So now, kahit magpa-mani-pedi pa ako, it's still gonna be ugly. I wonder if I can have the manicurista put fake nails on my big toe para to cover it up?
(Gosh! I sound so insecure and vain! I never want others to think that of me, no! That's why I wore yellow today. I read kasi in a fwd email na people daw who wear yellow know they're beautiful. So I want people to know that I'm beautiful, kahit, to be honest, I'm really insecure about my looks. But diba, like I always say, if I cannot be honest here with you, kanino pa? Diba, Diary?)
But, again, that's not what I want to talk about. (God, I really have to focus my writing. Remember what Mr. dela Cruz said? Topic sentence.) So, anyway, I went to the Green Papaya reading. It was Yol and Margie , and the host (some Indian-looking girl, I didn't get her name 'cuz she forgot to introduce herself, she just introduced Yol and Margie) said she chose the two daw for humor. And ang galeeeng, Diary, kasi they were so funny! Margie and Yol, so funny talaga, it was hilarious. What Margie read, "Yaya", it was so excellent. Especially her voice pa. And buti na lang she read it in that tone, kasi when I first read it on paper, by myself, I didn't get it that it was supposed to be funny. Akala ko actually sad sya eh. Akala ko super serious, like with class symbolism, and reflection on society kinda thing. But now I know it's supposed to be funny lang pala.
Si Yol din, funny din sya! Grabeeeh, buti na lang I was sitting on the floor, otherwise I would have fallen off my chair laughing. Hahaha! Yung binasa ni Yol, funny din! Like he was talking about dapat nagsusulat sya for his thesis, pero instead nagbo-blog sya. Tapos funny yung blog entry nya. Ateneo jokes pa lahat!!! I so get it, all his jokes, feel na feel ko na Atenista kami. Hahaha! Galeeeng! Sana walang taga-Lasalle sa audience, kasi baka na-OP sila, diba? Kawawa naman kasi di nila gets yung Ateneo jokes... Tapos akala ko pa when he was reading about giving blow jobs, akala ko sa kanya yun! Pero kay Margie pala yun! Na-shock nga ako 'cuz I thought hundi sya bading, tapos I thought, "Bading pala sya?" (kasi nga blow jobs yung topic, tapos lalake sya, diba?), tapos only to find out later on na kay Margie pala yun. So hindi sya bading.
Anyway, great, great, educational night. There were writers pa in the group, tapos medyo over my head na yung pinag-uusapan nila, pero great pa rin that entire night. Sorry lang nga ako kasi they were kinda lecturing na, tapos this guy Carlo (intelligent, well-articulated guy!) who was really asking good questions (kahit hindi na sya masyado nakikinig sa answers, pero intelligent kasi sya, Diary eh! Galing-galing ng guy na yun.) kinda shut-up na after the writers started talking. Especially si Indian-girl-host, parang, di ko talaga gets what she was trying to say pero her tone of voice was like she wanted Carlo to shut-up na. Kasi she wanted Yol and Margie to talk, so I guess I really can't blame her. Pero parang epal lang. Just because you're the host, doesn't mean you have the right to shut people up no! Some people talaga, no manners whatsoever.
Another bad trip is they kept talking about tone. Gets ko yung point ni Carlo talaga. All writing come from personal experience, and richer sya pag ganyan. But sabi nung iba dun, not necessarily daw. Tone daw can be achieved depende sa choice of words chorva-chorva. Pero hello! Tone of voice nga eh. Duh?! Voice!!! As in the sound that comes out of your throat when you talk? Kaya nga ang galing ni Margie magbasa. Mas na-understand ko yung work nya dahil sya talaga nagbasa. Personal experience talaga, that's what matters. Kaya nga ako nagsusulat dito sa journal, diba? To practice telling people about my stories. And it can be as simple as, "What happened to you today?", sabi nga ni Sir dela Cruz. I wish you were there, Diary.
Anyway, to get back to my point: I really did see a Carlo today! So winner, no? It circles around lang talaga, like a coiled cobra, head to tail! And that commercial was so funny pa, to boot. I want to write like that!
Haay, this is so long na. I'm so sleepy na Diary. I'll sleep na, ha? Thanks for always listening to me! See you tomorrow!
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaGoodnight,
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaRhissa
Haaay, Diary, I am so tired. My legs are so heavy, they're logs. Hahaha, get it? Legs = logs? Hahaha. Oh my, I really have to stop explaining jokes. Writers are told you never explain the joke, but really, sometimes, that's the funniest part for me. Explanations are so funny. Sometimes I don't even listen to the explanations themselves. It's just sooo funny to ask for the explanation. You get what I mean? Of course you get it. You know me better than any other person. And you know that my secret ambition is to be a writer. A funny writer pa, that's my dream, diba?
But speaking of feet, today is such a "Murphy's Law" day. I mean, I'm tired, my legs are logs na nga (Hahaha, sometimes I kill myself! I'm sooo funny! Hahaha), and I take off my socks ready to crash on my bed, only to accidentally tear a toenail in the process. Clear hati pa! As in, in half! Murphy's talaga! No, no, it didn't hurt, but it's just so ugly now. Sooo ugly. I was planning pa naman to have my nails done this weekend. You know that the red polish is already chipping, so I really planned to have a mani-pedi this weekend. And now, this. Hati in the center. My big toe now looks like the flag of Poland. Or is it Indonesia? (Note to self: Google which flag it is.) So now, kahit magpa-mani-pedi pa ako, it's still gonna be ugly. I wonder if I can have the manicurista put fake nails on my big toe para to cover it up?
(Gosh! I sound so insecure and vain! I never want others to think that of me, no! That's why I wore yellow today. I read kasi in a fwd email na people daw who wear yellow know they're beautiful. So I want people to know that I'm beautiful, kahit, to be honest, I'm really insecure about my looks. But diba, like I always say, if I cannot be honest here with you, kanino pa? Diba, Diary?)
But, again, that's not what I want to talk about. (God, I really have to focus my writing. Remember what Mr. dela Cruz said? Topic sentence.) So, anyway, I went to the Green Papaya reading. It was Yol and Margie , and the host (some Indian-looking girl, I didn't get her name 'cuz she forgot to introduce herself, she just introduced Yol and Margie) said she chose the two daw for humor. And ang galeeeng, Diary, kasi they were so funny! Margie and Yol, so funny talaga, it was hilarious. What Margie read, "Yaya", it was so excellent. Especially her voice pa. And buti na lang she read it in that tone, kasi when I first read it on paper, by myself, I didn't get it that it was supposed to be funny. Akala ko actually sad sya eh. Akala ko super serious, like with class symbolism, and reflection on society kinda thing. But now I know it's supposed to be funny lang pala.
Si Yol din, funny din sya! Grabeeeh, buti na lang I was sitting on the floor, otherwise I would have fallen off my chair laughing. Hahaha! Yung binasa ni Yol, funny din! Like he was talking about dapat nagsusulat sya for his thesis, pero instead nagbo-blog sya. Tapos funny yung blog entry nya. Ateneo jokes pa lahat!!! I so get it, all his jokes, feel na feel ko na Atenista kami. Hahaha! Galeeeng! Sana walang taga-Lasalle sa audience, kasi baka na-OP sila, diba? Kawawa naman kasi di nila gets yung Ateneo jokes... Tapos akala ko pa when he was reading about giving blow jobs, akala ko sa kanya yun! Pero kay Margie pala yun! Na-shock nga ako 'cuz I thought hundi sya bading, tapos I thought, "Bading pala sya?" (kasi nga blow jobs yung topic, tapos lalake sya, diba?), tapos only to find out later on na kay Margie pala yun. So hindi sya bading.
Anyway, great, great, educational night. There were writers pa in the group, tapos medyo over my head na yung pinag-uusapan nila, pero great pa rin that entire night. Sorry lang nga ako kasi they were kinda lecturing na, tapos this guy Carlo (intelligent, well-articulated guy!) who was really asking good questions (kahit hindi na sya masyado nakikinig sa answers, pero intelligent kasi sya, Diary eh! Galing-galing ng guy na yun.) kinda shut-up na after the writers started talking. Especially si Indian-girl-host, parang, di ko talaga gets what she was trying to say pero her tone of voice was like she wanted Carlo to shut-up na. Kasi she wanted Yol and Margie to talk, so I guess I really can't blame her. Pero parang epal lang. Just because you're the host, doesn't mean you have the right to shut people up no! Some people talaga, no manners whatsoever.
Another bad trip is they kept talking about tone. Gets ko yung point ni Carlo talaga. All writing come from personal experience, and richer sya pag ganyan. But sabi nung iba dun, not necessarily daw. Tone daw can be achieved depende sa choice of words chorva-chorva. Pero hello! Tone of voice nga eh. Duh?! Voice!!! As in the sound that comes out of your throat when you talk? Kaya nga ang galing ni Margie magbasa. Mas na-understand ko yung work nya dahil sya talaga nagbasa. Personal experience talaga, that's what matters. Kaya nga ako nagsusulat dito sa journal, diba? To practice telling people about my stories. And it can be as simple as, "What happened to you today?", sabi nga ni Sir dela Cruz. I wish you were there, Diary.
Anyway, to get back to my point: I really did see a Carlo today! So winner, no? It circles around lang talaga, like a coiled cobra, head to tail! And that commercial was so funny pa, to boot. I want to write like that!
Haay, this is so long na. I'm so sleepy na Diary. I'll sleep na, ha? Thanks for always listening to me! See you tomorrow!
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaGoodnight,
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaRhissa
Monday, November 24, 2008
Miyerkules na sa Green Papaya!
WHO'S THAT GIRL? Green Papaya Wednesday-i'm-N-love monthly poetry readings
Wednesday (siyempre!), 26 November, 8PM.
We're featuring Marguerite de Leon and Yol Jamendang in conversation (conversion din pwede!). Anything and everything under the sun, nothing is sacred blah blah blah, including yayas, phone sex, Bayani Fernando, kahit pa Johnsons No Tears Baby Shampoo. And if all else fails, hubaran na!
Ang Green Papaya ay nasa 41 T. Gener corner Kamuning Road, sa QC. P30 = beer! Woohoo!
Wednesday (siyempre!), 26 November, 8PM.
We're featuring Marguerite de Leon and Yol Jamendang in conversation (conversion din pwede!). Anything and everything under the sun, nothing is sacred blah blah blah, including yayas, phone sex, Bayani Fernando, kahit pa Johnsons No Tears Baby Shampoo. And if all else fails, hubaran na!
Ang Green Papaya ay nasa 41 T. Gener corner Kamuning Road, sa QC. P30 = beer! Woohoo!
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Music it is.
One can really fool herself into thinking that symbols become the fact. Perhaps it's only the start, but nothing is never better. Not silence but music, someone told me. And the tune that's playing now, is not here to stay. Not lovely yet, but it's there.
Poet congratulates herself on a job well done
And shivers as the last
Syllables vibrate on the roof
Of her mouth
Somebody has yet to wrap
His tongue around her words
Make a present of it
For someone else.
#at
Poet congratulates herself on a job well done
And shivers as the last
Syllables vibrate on the roof
Of her mouth
Somebody has yet to wrap
His tongue around her words
Make a present of it
For someone else.
#at
Friday, November 14, 2008
Sunday, November 09, 2008
So this is how it’s done: I watch her
“If those wounds dry up, the words die with them.”
— Stephen King
So this is how it’s done: I watch her
fingers clutch at the scissors, bloody
from the one long slice to open up the fish,
the many pluckings to get rid of the bones.
She is quick and it looks painless
but then again
the fish won’t feel it,
The blood has long drained and the stains
on her hands, on the blades
could have come from any number,
any source--
I imagine it would take her as long to finish
this one, as it would me
to fork up a slice of the same fish—
to chew hesitantly, my tongue still
feeling around for the bones
she might have left behind,
to catch them with my teeth
push them out between my lips
and catch them with my fingers,
Wipe them on the side of my plate
before they could catch at my throat--
I pay her the extra ten to do this
I can afford it
and I don’t have the time.
***
No really, I don't have the time.
My watch says it's 9:47
too early for sleep, but too late for the coffee
I want, especially. At the back of my mind,
I have to wake up at 4:30.
Playing 'round and 'round my head
Please call me baby
but I have left my phone
At the house I couldn't stand
it anymore, so I took a walk.
I wished to God it would rain
but it never does, not like in the movies
or in the songs. It does in this one, because
We do crazy things when we're wounded, he sings
and I would've liked to cry
but I could never do that
in public, especially.
Except when it doesn't mean anything
and I would like it to mean
something. Like the one time
on the road and everyone's phone rang
except mine
other people looking for other people
and I wished to God for a phone call
even the one I didn't want
because I wanted to cry
and I wanted it to mean something
to be able to say,
So this is how it feels like
I wanted a witness.
Not others' but mine
captured like in the movies,
or in the songs. Not life
like taking a walk, buying that coffee
then coming home
to wait--It is one in the morning now--
to sleep.
***
She sleeps with her mouth open,
and I watch her
like she has something to say
I wait for it
But she never does, she's not one to talk
in her sleep or awake,
even then she is quiet
I have tried to decipher
the silences like overcast skies
or her bright talk when she does
the sudden movement of clouds
to let the sun through
Her moods not like the weather:
thunderstorms make her happy
or at least I think so
watching her
Pressed against the windows
mouth again open--
the fog of her breath on the glass
appear, disappear in rhythm
like the catch
and release of a heart.
— Stephen King
So this is how it’s done: I watch her
fingers clutch at the scissors, bloody
from the one long slice to open up the fish,
the many pluckings to get rid of the bones.
She is quick and it looks painless
but then again
the fish won’t feel it,
The blood has long drained and the stains
on her hands, on the blades
could have come from any number,
any source--
I imagine it would take her as long to finish
this one, as it would me
to fork up a slice of the same fish—
to chew hesitantly, my tongue still
feeling around for the bones
she might have left behind,
to catch them with my teeth
push them out between my lips
and catch them with my fingers,
Wipe them on the side of my plate
before they could catch at my throat--
I pay her the extra ten to do this
I can afford it
and I don’t have the time.
***
No really, I don't have the time.
My watch says it's 9:47
too early for sleep, but too late for the coffee
I want, especially. At the back of my mind,
I have to wake up at 4:30.
Playing 'round and 'round my head
Please call me baby
but I have left my phone
At the house I couldn't stand
it anymore, so I took a walk.
I wished to God it would rain
but it never does, not like in the movies
or in the songs. It does in this one, because
We do crazy things when we're wounded, he sings
and I would've liked to cry
but I could never do that
in public, especially.
Except when it doesn't mean anything
and I would like it to mean
something. Like the one time
on the road and everyone's phone rang
except mine
other people looking for other people
and I wished to God for a phone call
even the one I didn't want
because I wanted to cry
and I wanted it to mean something
to be able to say,
So this is how it feels like
I wanted a witness.
Not others' but mine
captured like in the movies,
or in the songs. Not life
like taking a walk, buying that coffee
then coming home
to wait--It is one in the morning now--
to sleep.
***
She sleeps with her mouth open,
and I watch her
like she has something to say
I wait for it
But she never does, she's not one to talk
in her sleep or awake,
even then she is quiet
I have tried to decipher
the silences like overcast skies
or her bright talk when she does
the sudden movement of clouds
to let the sun through
Her moods not like the weather:
thunderstorms make her happy
or at least I think so
watching her
Pressed against the windows
mouth again open--
the fog of her breath on the glass
appear, disappear in rhythm
like the catch
and release of a heart.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Would you have a better tomorrow?
Because free web-based email is, in my opinion, required to leak *some* spam email into your inbox (and vice versa, so you're forced to check your spam), I have a beef with how they deal with email adverts. (By the way, is spam made of pork? or does it fall under a whole different "meat" category?)
You might share some of this. Here is my current top 5:
5. Free Dell laptop. I already have a free Dell laptop. Whom I love. But, question: How come they never offer a free Mac?
4. Viagra. I don't need it, and I am not interested in any man (off the top of my head, anyway) who needs it yet. (Hmmm, wait. Let me think that over...)
3. Porn. Do I really need to see what Paris, Miley, and other stars have done over the weekend, and with a weiner, or a dog, or with an entire football team? No. I've had a discussion with friends over the whole [Put name of school here] sex scandal enterprise, complete with "visual aids" (for discussion purposes, of course), and they all cater to men.
2. 40s Christian dating. I have nothing against dating. Most of the time, I have nothing against Christians, either. But 40s? C'mon! That's just fucking insulting. The only reason it falls to number two is (1) I've only received it once, and (2) a day later and ever since, I only got spam for 30s Christian dating. I always, and I do mean always, appreciate people who do their research. Which leads me to the next:
1. Penis enlargement. Last I checked, hey! I don't have one! And last I heard, you don't just "magically grow" one. But what galls me is that they can't even be bothered with market research. I am woman, hear me roar. And no, I am not interested in any man who needs it either. (Hmm, wait. (Ha!) This last statement can be construed 1.5 times over. Just like the ad claim.)
But. There have been a few gems, and luckily, this one was sent to my inbox:
Dear sir/Madam:
Please allow us to disturb your precious time! We are the Chinese biggest foreign trade wholesaler. the company mainly sells, the digital cameras, mobile, the LCD TV,PSP,Xbox, the Laptops Notebooks, the Digital Video, Mp4, GPS,Electronics toy,and so on.If you want to products, we can sell you our products. If you have time,please visit our website, Please look our products.We will give you a satisfying answer. we hope we can set up a good and long cooperation relationship with you.
this is our website; <http://www.zgdsyw.com>
MSN: zgdsyw18@hotmail.com
Mail: zgdsyw@zgdsyw.com
Thank you for reading our the message, Would you have a better tomorrow!
Cheers!
It sure beats "Live long and prosper", doesn't it?
Thank you for reading my the post. Would you have a better tomorrow, I say to you.
You might share some of this. Here is my current top 5:
5. Free Dell laptop. I already have a free Dell laptop. Whom I love. But, question: How come they never offer a free Mac?
4. Viagra. I don't need it, and I am not interested in any man (off the top of my head, anyway) who needs it yet. (Hmmm, wait. Let me think that over...)
3. Porn. Do I really need to see what Paris, Miley, and other stars have done over the weekend, and with a weiner, or a dog, or with an entire football team? No. I've had a discussion with friends over the whole [Put name of school here] sex scandal enterprise, complete with "visual aids" (for discussion purposes, of course), and they all cater to men.
2. 40s Christian dating. I have nothing against dating. Most of the time, I have nothing against Christians, either. But 40s? C'mon! That's just fucking insulting. The only reason it falls to number two is (1) I've only received it once, and (2) a day later and ever since, I only got spam for 30s Christian dating. I always, and I do mean always, appreciate people who do their research. Which leads me to the next:
1. Penis enlargement. Last I checked, hey! I don't have one! And last I heard, you don't just "magically grow" one. But what galls me is that they can't even be bothered with market research. I am woman, hear me roar. And no, I am not interested in any man who needs it either. (Hmm, wait. (Ha!) This last statement can be construed 1.5 times over. Just like the ad claim.)
But. There have been a few gems, and luckily, this one was sent to my inbox:
Dear sir/Madam:
Please allow us to disturb your precious time! We are the Chinese biggest foreign trade wholesaler. the company mainly sells, the digital cameras, mobile, the LCD TV,PSP,Xbox, the Laptops Notebooks, the Digital Video, Mp4, GPS,Electronics toy,and so on.If you want to products, we can sell you our products. If you have time,please visit our website, Please look our products.We will give you a satisfying answer. we hope we can set up a good and long cooperation relationship with you.
this is our website; <http://www.zgdsyw.com>
MSN: zgdsyw18@hotmail.com
Mail: zgdsyw@zgdsyw.com
Thank you for reading our the message, Would you have a better tomorrow!
Cheers!
It sure beats "Live long and prosper", doesn't it?
Thank you for reading my the post. Would you have a better tomorrow, I say to you.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Little blog of horrors
Something I saw in an old blog which I never finished (the post, the blog is way, way over). Sounds familiar? But I don't know why I never clicked on [Publish this post], because having seen it again, it amused me no end. (Na-amuse sa sariling sinulat? Winner. Kaya nga "shameless self-promotion" eh.) And made me think about my idea of making an(other) anonymous-kuno, unlinked blog where I could... never mind. Here it is:
"So. I have a problem.
"So. I have a problem.
But I realize, there is no bigger bullshit than to just "be yourself." Just! Look how easy, Just be yourself! (Remember this tag line? It was popularized by the clothing store geared towards the ever impressionable, peer-pressure-able teen crowd.) We all have alternate egos, and you're a liar if you say any different. In my case, there's Drey-with-her-family, Drey-at-work, Drey-all-by-herself, Drey-with-friends, Drey-with-people-she-has-just-met. Perhaps there might even be a Drey-with-a-cute-guy alterego. And though we pretty much get along, it kinda gets crowded if I introduce every Drey to whomever I meet every time. Or if I attempt to mix-and-mingle with the whole gamut of categories. So.
What's the problem again? Who are you talking to? Which Drey?"
Nyahahahahaha.
Now I want to meet all of them Dreys I was talking about. Like an out-of-body experience where I observe all these little selves (Is this an Oliver Sacks essay, "Selves"? Someone else?) in action while spirit-Drey is floating overhead, arms akimbo, wearing an amused little smile. Occasional mutters of "What a crock of shit!" "Winner ang posturing!" and "Booola!" floating around in thought bubbles. All done with indulgent patience, like I imagine on my Mom's face when I told her I'd give her my first pay check as a little tribute. (She was kind enough not to laugh and blurt out a sarcastic "Right!" to my face.)
Hahaha. Tangina. Looking over old blog posts is (weird and a little too self-serving, yes) like listening to your family recount stories of past bloopers you don't even remember.
As a matter of fact, my mom actually scoffed at the offer, adding, "Tapos ano? Hingi ka ng allowance?"
Winner. Yun lang. Winner.
Nyahahahahaha.
Now I want to meet all of them Dreys I was talking about. Like an out-of-body experience where I observe all these little selves (Is this an Oliver Sacks essay, "Selves"? Someone else?) in action while spirit-Drey is floating overhead, arms akimbo, wearing an amused little smile. Occasional mutters of "What a crock of shit!" "Winner ang posturing!" and "Booola!" floating around in thought bubbles. All done with indulgent patience, like I imagine on my Mom's face when I told her I'd give her my first pay check as a little tribute. (She was kind enough not to laugh and blurt out a sarcastic "Right!" to my face.)
Hahaha. Tangina. Looking over old blog posts is (weird and a little too self-serving, yes) like listening to your family recount stories of past bloopers you don't even remember.
As a matter of fact, my mom actually scoffed at the offer, adding, "Tapos ano? Hingi ka ng allowance?"
Winner. Yun lang. Winner.
Octo-pussy.
Why is it that when I'm rushing head-on towards a deadline, I find it so conducive to blog? I remember sneaking out of Japanese class to write, and now this. Someone had mentioned maybe it's a stand-up thing, you know, that that's the attraction of writing for me--the getting away from what I really have to do.
Not that this is a masterpiece. But. There are many reasons for this post:
1. The weather held long enough for the championship bonfire--But having rained before the whole thing left Bel field muddy. Some conversations:
Over the phone with A: Drey, you remember 2002? Your flip flops got sucked into the mud and you lost one of them?
I don't remember exactly, but apparently everybody does.
At the Bel field, meeting up with friends: Hey, you remember in 2002 when I lost my...
Unanimous response: We all know the story, Drey! We were laughing about it on the way here.
6-year improvement: My feet might've been caked in mud now, but I left with two pairs of slippers. Woo-hoo.
2. It's birthday month, and I'm turning 28.
Random birthday conversation #1
Him: Hey did you know a lot of people kill themselves when their age is divisible by 7?
Me: Knowledge is power, so it says. Not necessarily helpful, but powerful. Thanks. Really, thanks.
Random birthday conversation #2
Him: Ma'am, what's your birthdate?
Me: October --, 1980
Him: Ay, ako 1982.
New saying: Unnecessary knowledge is annoying.
3. I am redefining the six-degrees-of-separation theory by the number of returned results in Google. Example, you search for Nonoy Baclao, and this blog shows up at#3! Close kami, or what?
4. I just wanted to remind you my birthday's coming up soon. If you don't know when it is, then hindi tayo close.
5. This is not getting my work done. But it's a lot more fun.
6. May iban gid ya nga sugilanon, kung sa tuod-tuod lang. Pero indi diri. Hagara ko bala, inom ta. Kay i-istroya ko guid sa imo.
Not that this is a masterpiece. But. There are many reasons for this post:
1. The weather held long enough for the championship bonfire--But having rained before the whole thing left Bel field muddy. Some conversations:
Over the phone with A: Drey, you remember 2002? Your flip flops got sucked into the mud and you lost one of them?
I don't remember exactly, but apparently everybody does.
At the Bel field, meeting up with friends: Hey, you remember in 2002 when I lost my...
Unanimous response: We all know the story, Drey! We were laughing about it on the way here.
6-year improvement: My feet might've been caked in mud now, but I left with two pairs of slippers. Woo-hoo.
2. It's birthday month, and I'm turning 28.
Random birthday conversation #1
Him: Hey did you know a lot of people kill themselves when their age is divisible by 7?
Me: Knowledge is power, so it says. Not necessarily helpful, but powerful. Thanks. Really, thanks.
Random birthday conversation #2
Him: Ma'am, what's your birthdate?
Me: October --, 1980
Him: Ay, ako 1982.
New saying: Unnecessary knowledge is annoying.
3. I am redefining the six-degrees-of-separation theory by the number of returned results in Google. Example, you search for Nonoy Baclao, and this blog shows up at#3! Close kami, or what?
4. I just wanted to remind you my birthday's coming up soon. If you don't know when it is, then hindi tayo close.
5. This is not getting my work done. But it's a lot more fun.
6. May iban gid ya nga sugilanon, kung sa tuod-tuod lang. Pero indi diri. Hagara ko bala, inom ta. Kay i-istroya ko guid sa imo.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
When the talk is of bonfires, then
"Please be prepared for the possibility of rainfall"
is the most important thing to mention. But, here and now, it's just necessary fine print. Like anything can dampen our spirits now.
is the most important thing to mention. But, here and now, it's just necessary fine print. Like anything can dampen our spirits now.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Work Break #1
Anticipating no sleep for work is like asking to be distracted, to be taken away--
I am in the middle of an Excel worksheet, work I usually like, work that can usually consume my focus so completely, I forget where and when I am, like I am alone in the world and I don't mind it. I am in the middle of numbers and figures and I realize I am interpreting data that probably no one else has before, and I think to myself--If I write this up into a report perhaps I can submit it for publication, instead of condensing it into a presentation for the purposes of my work. And I think about it: I've done the research, I have the data, if I can analyze these into bullet points, then surely I can stretch it out, can't I? And I can submit it to a journal and should it get published, surely I can add that to my resume?
But this is not what I want to write.
Every hour or so into this work, I take a little break. Maybe light a cigarette, or drink my coffee-gone-cold, or get a glass of water. But always, I open this book I've decided to re-read for the nth time, read a chapter or so. And every time I say to myself, this is how I want to write. This is what I want to sound like when I write. And this tone now, this one I employ--too earnest, pleading, whiney even--this is not that tone.
I remember once I was on vacation in San Joaquin with some friends. We woke up at dawn to go to the beach, where the waves were like stone walls rolling towards the shore. I wanted to go for a swim, but everything that morning was hard: the light was a stone grey like slate, the wind cold, the beach full of rocks. And the barreling waves that despite all that want, that earnestness earned me nothing: I ended up sprawled, wet, defeated on the shore.
I think back to my favorite authors now, characters even, and I realize they are all men, macho men at that. And this is what I want to sound like? I am aghast, but this is true: Stripped of drama, pleading, hurt. Or at least, stripped of the wallowing such that everything becomes fact. This happened because of that. Consequence. A to B in a straight line, and detours may pretty it up a bit, but here. This is where you end up. Start to finish uncomplicated. If I follow this procedure precisely and I can predict the result. Like science.
And look at me now: Whether I took the time to write this, or decided to sleep the rest of the morning before Monday officially starts, or finished the book, the result is the same. I will have to deliver a presentation at 5pm tomorrow. And I will deliver it because I have to, and I know myself well enough that I will. Whether or not I will be proud of my work will obviously vary directly with the amount of time I have spent on it. But that is my story from now until then. A to B, and nowhere else to go.
No, I am not talking about fate, or destiny or karma. And no, this is not making me sad, or angry. This, I realize, is why I've always loved science. That precision and straight-forwardness. The following of rules the order of the day, guiltless. And not having to look for anything else, even escape.
There I was. Now I am here. And my break is over.
I am in the middle of an Excel worksheet, work I usually like, work that can usually consume my focus so completely, I forget where and when I am, like I am alone in the world and I don't mind it. I am in the middle of numbers and figures and I realize I am interpreting data that probably no one else has before, and I think to myself--If I write this up into a report perhaps I can submit it for publication, instead of condensing it into a presentation for the purposes of my work. And I think about it: I've done the research, I have the data, if I can analyze these into bullet points, then surely I can stretch it out, can't I? And I can submit it to a journal and should it get published, surely I can add that to my resume?
But this is not what I want to write.
Every hour or so into this work, I take a little break. Maybe light a cigarette, or drink my coffee-gone-cold, or get a glass of water. But always, I open this book I've decided to re-read for the nth time, read a chapter or so. And every time I say to myself, this is how I want to write. This is what I want to sound like when I write. And this tone now, this one I employ--too earnest, pleading, whiney even--this is not that tone.
I remember once I was on vacation in San Joaquin with some friends. We woke up at dawn to go to the beach, where the waves were like stone walls rolling towards the shore. I wanted to go for a swim, but everything that morning was hard: the light was a stone grey like slate, the wind cold, the beach full of rocks. And the barreling waves that despite all that want, that earnestness earned me nothing: I ended up sprawled, wet, defeated on the shore.
I think back to my favorite authors now, characters even, and I realize they are all men, macho men at that. And this is what I want to sound like? I am aghast, but this is true: Stripped of drama, pleading, hurt. Or at least, stripped of the wallowing such that everything becomes fact. This happened because of that. Consequence. A to B in a straight line, and detours may pretty it up a bit, but here. This is where you end up. Start to finish uncomplicated. If I follow this procedure precisely and I can predict the result. Like science.
And look at me now: Whether I took the time to write this, or decided to sleep the rest of the morning before Monday officially starts, or finished the book, the result is the same. I will have to deliver a presentation at 5pm tomorrow. And I will deliver it because I have to, and I know myself well enough that I will. Whether or not I will be proud of my work will obviously vary directly with the amount of time I have spent on it. But that is my story from now until then. A to B, and nowhere else to go.
No, I am not talking about fate, or destiny or karma. And no, this is not making me sad, or angry. This, I realize, is why I've always loved science. That precision and straight-forwardness. The following of rules the order of the day, guiltless. And not having to look for anything else, even escape.
There I was. Now I am here. And my break is over.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
i heart nonoy.
Ha! I'm not supposed to have time for this, given a presentation due tomorrow which I have yet to start--but, let me just repeat this: I love Nonoy Baclao.
And that block on meierhoffer at the end of the fourth, with ra-ra-rasputin ending up on the floor and Nonoy stepping over to growl over him... Yaaah. Help me, I'm melting.
Anyway. Here's a proposition: Nonoy, can I be your girlfriend for two weeks? I swear two weeks is all I'm asking for. Kahit post-season pa. My sister blocked this proposal with a mocking "He has a girlfirend, no?" but I'm like, so? Given for example, you've been together two years, what's two weeks? 14 out of 365, two out of 52, 1/2 out of 12. Surely this is not too much to ask?
You don't even have to introduce me to anyone, let alone your friends, or parents.
But of course, I'm being silly. And untruthful.
Fact is we plan to have a huge banner at game two: Pakasli ko, Noy!
If ever I've said anything remotely sarcastic in the past about proposals over the big screen during basketball games, I take it all back now.
And that block on meierhoffer at the end of the fourth, with ra-ra-rasputin ending up on the floor and Nonoy stepping over to growl over him... Yaaah. Help me, I'm melting.
Anyway. Here's a proposition: Nonoy, can I be your girlfriend for two weeks? I swear two weeks is all I'm asking for. Kahit post-season pa. My sister blocked this proposal with a mocking "He has a girlfirend, no?" but I'm like, so? Given for example, you've been together two years, what's two weeks? 14 out of 365, two out of 52, 1/2 out of 12. Surely this is not too much to ask?
You don't even have to introduce me to anyone, let alone your friends, or parents.
But of course, I'm being silly. And untruthful.
Fact is we plan to have a huge banner at game two: Pakasli ko, Noy!
If ever I've said anything remotely sarcastic in the past about proposals over the big screen during basketball games, I take it all back now.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Because I was stupid
someone is now the new owner of a lovely N93i. Knock yourself out, bitch.
Point is, I will need to get another phone, not to mention another freaking number. So yes, I am currently out of service area, cannot be reached, unnattended, etc, etc, etfuckingc.
Have a nice day, everyone.
Point is, I will need to get another phone, not to mention another freaking number. So yes, I am currently out of service area, cannot be reached, unnattended, etc, etc, etfuckingc.
Have a nice day, everyone.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The you'll-never-see-in-Cosmo Quiz
What is your geekoid factor?
1. My hair is ______
(A) Short and well-combed.
(B) Longer than acceptable.
(C) Necessary to keep my brain warm.
2. Glasses or Contacts?
(A) Contacts! Definitely more flattering.
(B) Glasses. No fuss, no muss.
(C) Glasses. They don't make contacts in my grade.
3. I don't leave home without __________
(A) My cell phone.
(B) My laptop.
(C) My TI-92.
4. Binary code is ________
(A) Something I will never use.
(B) The law that makes bigamy illegal.
(C) My mother-tongue.
5. Do you enjoy alcohol?
(A) Yes, once in a while.
(B) Yes, everyday.
(C) Yes, I like to disinfect every so often.
6. Boxers or briefs?
(A) Boxers. I like to move it move it.
(B) Briefs. Tightie-whities for the family jewels.
(C) Depends on my mom. She still dresses me.
Star Trek or Star Mall? Just how geeky are you? Check the comments section for analysis!
1. My hair is ______
(A) Short and well-combed.
(B) Longer than acceptable.
(C) Necessary to keep my brain warm.
2. Glasses or Contacts?
(A) Contacts! Definitely more flattering.
(B) Glasses. No fuss, no muss.
(C) Glasses. They don't make contacts in my grade.
3. I don't leave home without __________
(A) My cell phone.
(B) My laptop.
(C) My TI-92.
4. Binary code is ________
(A) Something I will never use.
(B) The law that makes bigamy illegal.
(C) My mother-tongue.
5. Do you enjoy alcohol?
(A) Yes, once in a while.
(B) Yes, everyday.
(C) Yes, I like to disinfect every so often.
6. Boxers or briefs?
(A) Boxers. I like to move it move it.
(B) Briefs. Tightie-whities for the family jewels.
(C) Depends on my mom. She still dresses me.
Star Trek or Star Mall? Just how geeky are you? Check the comments section for analysis!
Zero is a perfect circle
Because we fear being by ourselves
Yes became the language of love
And so we walk around wounded
Veterans of the splitting
That occurred in some philosopher’s head
Await the only answer but
Forgo the question and the quest
Yes became the language of love
And so we walk around wounded
Veterans of the splitting
That occurred in some philosopher’s head
Await the only answer but
Forgo the question and the quest
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
connect the dots.
It's nearing 5:30 and I am still in the office. This is not bad, as I arrived past 10. But my brain, like the PICC aircon, automatically shuts down at 5. Below, 5 proofs of purchase.
*****
Random Question
F: 11 + 16?
A: 21.
F: Hindi kaya.
A: Ay. 17!
*****
Random Thought
You know how the phrase "blood drained between ___ legs" means so much different when you change the pronoun? Disgusting, yes. But I do have a point:
1: His brain stopped working as blood drained between his legs.
2: Her brain stopped working as blood drained between her legs.
*****
Random conversation in another time
F: Pero alam mo, if I could travel anywhere in the world, I'd go to Athens. Ikaw?
A: Prague na siguro.
F: Siyeeet...
*****
Random Chismis
P: Huy, nakita ko si J____ sa Gateway nung weekend.
A: Ows? So near my house!
P: May ka-date nga eh.
A: Ako yu--
P: Lalake.
*****
Random Phonecall
A: Hello, may I speak with the secretary of Senator ________?
S: Ay, sorry, wala siya dito ngayon.
A: Okay. Ano po yung pangalan nung secretary? Para siya na lang po ang hahanapin ko next time.
S: Ah, hindi ko alam eh. Basta hindi ako yun.
*****
Yun lang po. Bow.
*****
Random Question
F: 11 + 16?
A: 21.
F: Hindi kaya.
A: Ay. 17!
*****
Random Thought
You know how the phrase "blood drained between ___ legs" means so much different when you change the pronoun? Disgusting, yes. But I do have a point:
1: His brain stopped working as blood drained between his legs.
2: Her brain stopped working as blood drained between her legs.
*****
Random conversation in another time
F: Pero alam mo, if I could travel anywhere in the world, I'd go to Athens. Ikaw?
A: Prague na siguro.
F: Siyeeet...
*****
Random Chismis
P: Huy, nakita ko si J____ sa Gateway nung weekend.
A: Ows? So near my house!
P: May ka-date nga eh.
A: Ako yu--
P: Lalake.
*****
Random Phonecall
A: Hello, may I speak with the secretary of Senator ________?
S: Ay, sorry, wala siya dito ngayon.
A: Okay. Ano po yung pangalan nung secretary? Para siya na lang po ang hahanapin ko next time.
S: Ah, hindi ko alam eh. Basta hindi ako yun.
*****
Yun lang po. Bow.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Empty Chair
This is how you can be stupid sometimes:
Sitting in a café, and the chair next to you is empty.
A stranger approaches you and your empty chair. He smiles, makes small talk, and you shoot the crap around for a while. You laugh; he gestures enthusiastically; you make it as if you’ve known each other for a gazillion years. Now, he laughs at some thing you say and you think, he’s actually pretty cute.
Finally, the moment you’ve been dreading comes. You almost see it in slow motion: He lays his hand on the back of your empty chair, asks if he could sit down and join you for a while. He smiles again—he is one good-looking asshole.
You feel the apology arrange itself on your face. You say that you’re waiting for a... friend, and that he is coming anytime soon.
The stranger removes his hand, a slow and controlled maneuver—not unlike how you made sure to enunciate the “he” that’s supposed to arrive soon. Now, he takes a step or two backwards. He says this has been good, that he really has to go anyway. That it was really nice talking with you, though.
You say the same thing, maybe with a little regret. There's nothing left, so you force a wave and he walks away.
You pay attention to your coffee now, maybe light another cigarette. You stay another hour or so, smoking, watching people go by.
And the chair remains empty right until the moment you get up to leave.
Sitting in a café, and the chair next to you is empty.
A stranger approaches you and your empty chair. He smiles, makes small talk, and you shoot the crap around for a while. You laugh; he gestures enthusiastically; you make it as if you’ve known each other for a gazillion years. Now, he laughs at some thing you say and you think, he’s actually pretty cute.
Finally, the moment you’ve been dreading comes. You almost see it in slow motion: He lays his hand on the back of your empty chair, asks if he could sit down and join you for a while. He smiles again—he is one good-looking asshole.
You feel the apology arrange itself on your face. You say that you’re waiting for a... friend, and that he is coming anytime soon.
The stranger removes his hand, a slow and controlled maneuver—not unlike how you made sure to enunciate the “he” that’s supposed to arrive soon. Now, he takes a step or two backwards. He says this has been good, that he really has to go anyway. That it was really nice talking with you, though.
You say the same thing, maybe with a little regret. There's nothing left, so you force a wave and he walks away.
You pay attention to your coffee now, maybe light another cigarette. You stay another hour or so, smoking, watching people go by.
And the chair remains empty right until the moment you get up to leave.
Death becomes her
Every story has a beginning. This one, too. But how to begin with death? And why?
As a kid I loved the game show. How the answers were asked and the questions were the answers. What is jeopardy?
As a kid I loved the game show. How the answers were asked and the questions were the answers. What is jeopardy?
*****
I am writing this a month after I had turned 27. I am fascinated with November: How, in temperate countries the cold really begins to take hold, the leaves already falling, and everywhere almost a dead grey. Here, the weather remains the same: a series of sunny days or a week of typhoon rains or thick oppressive clouds that refuse to fall. Nobody really notices the weather. It’s the same day after day after day, until it changes. A different sameness.
Here November, too, is a month of death. Not that of the newly dead, or the dead that grow back with spring. Here, the old dead whose names have been said over and over in prayers, whose souls wear thin as nothing remains of them but scars on whitewashed stone—they are the dead we celebrate. The dead who can never come back.
I began this journal two weeks ago, on a morning I found myself with no sleep, awake at dawn, walking to church. It was a Saturday, the mass was for the dead. The priest kept on asking for prayers for our dear departed, our faithful dead, our dear, our departed, our dead. So I prayed for my brother, two grandmothers, a grandfather I had never met. The homily was on Jesus raising a dead man, and it told how all who witnessed feared Jesus; how later they praised him. Hosanna, hosanna on high.
Everybody prayed for their own dead. And nobody noticed the dead woman in the corner, kneeling, then standing; listening, then singing the hymns. And nobody feared what they did not know they witnessed.
Myself, I hadn’t noticed when I died. I was alive for a long time. I could have been dead for a long time. It was the same day after day after day. Until it changed into a different sameness.
==========================================================
I am writing this a month after I had turned 27. I am fascinated with November: How, in temperate countries the cold really begins to take hold, the leaves already falling, and everywhere almost a dead grey. Here, the weather remains the same: a series of sunny days or a week of typhoon rains or thick oppressive clouds that refuse to fall. Nobody really notices the weather. It’s the same day after day after day, until it changes. A different sameness.
Here November, too, is a month of death. Not that of the newly dead, or the dead that grow back with spring. Here, the old dead whose names have been said over and over in prayers, whose souls wear thin as nothing remains of them but scars on whitewashed stone—they are the dead we celebrate. The dead who can never come back.
I began this journal two weeks ago, on a morning I found myself with no sleep, awake at dawn, walking to church. It was a Saturday, the mass was for the dead. The priest kept on asking for prayers for our dear departed, our faithful dead, our dear, our departed, our dead. So I prayed for my brother, two grandmothers, a grandfather I had never met. The homily was on Jesus raising a dead man, and it told how all who witnessed feared Jesus; how later they praised him. Hosanna, hosanna on high.
Everybody prayed for their own dead. And nobody noticed the dead woman in the corner, kneeling, then standing; listening, then singing the hymns. And nobody feared what they did not know they witnessed.
Myself, I hadn’t noticed when I died. I was alive for a long time. I could have been dead for a long time. It was the same day after day after day. Until it changed into a different sameness.
==========================================================
A little something I had started working on late last year. And after the (uncalled-for!) remarks by L. and D. that I might actually be a closet fictionist, the monster is half-way out of hibernation. Let = sleeping = dogs = lie?
Thursday, July 17, 2008
The trouble with torture
is that it comes in entirely too many forms. And definitions change from one person to another.
Today, at the office, it came in the form of the "all-new" Journey with Pinoy Pineda on vocals (not that you can tell, he apparently is very good at karaoke), especially "Open Arms," played on loop. Three times now, since the past hour.
Good luck to my sanity, may it enjoy its travels elsewhere. I sincerely hope to see it back by the end of the day, when the last strains of "Don't Stop Believing" fade into the oblivion of the has-beens, that "highway run into the midnight sun" while "wheels go round and round..." Whatever.
Apparently, you can say L-S-S many, many times over, and without your toungue tripping.
*****
If I were more of an opportunist, I'd be charging a rental fee for my headphones, and by the fucking minute. I'd be rich, with my co-workers offering to pay twice the going rate for a 10-minute relief. But self-preservation comes first.
*****
It comes first, but obviously not fast enough.
Today, at the office, it came in the form of the "all-new" Journey with Pinoy Pineda on vocals (not that you can tell, he apparently is very good at karaoke), especially "Open Arms," played on loop. Three times now, since the past hour.
Good luck to my sanity, may it enjoy its travels elsewhere. I sincerely hope to see it back by the end of the day, when the last strains of "Don't Stop Believing" fade into the oblivion of the has-beens, that "highway run into the midnight sun" while "wheels go round and round..." Whatever.
Apparently, you can say L-S-S many, many times over, and without your toungue tripping.
*****
If I were more of an opportunist, I'd be charging a rental fee for my headphones, and by the fucking minute. I'd be rich, with my co-workers offering to pay twice the going rate for a 10-minute relief. But self-preservation comes first.
*****
It comes first, but obviously not fast enough.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
The trouble with doors
is they need knobs. These need not be locked, but can be locked. Which will then need keys.
The trouble with keys is they need to be carried about. Which means they can be left behind, or locked inside, or lost.
The trouble with keys left behind is you have to make sure someone's already home before you are.
The trouble with keys locked inside is you need to know how to pick locks, or break knobs, or break down doors. Or have someone do these things for you.
aaaaa The trouble with picking locks is that it's suspect. More so if aaaaa you have someone do it for you.
aaaaa The trouble with breaking knobs is you will need new ones. aaaaa With new keys.
aaaaa The trouble with breaking down doors is you end up with no aaaaa door. But then you will not need knobs. Nor keys.
The trouble with keys locked inside the rooms is you end up feeling stupid.
The trouble with keys lost is that doors have knobs. Which can be locked. Which will then need keys.
The trouble with keys is they need to be carried about. Which means they can be left behind, or locked inside, or lost.
The trouble with keys left behind is you have to make sure someone's already home before you are.
The trouble with keys locked inside is you need to know how to pick locks, or break knobs, or break down doors. Or have someone do these things for you.
aaaaa The trouble with picking locks is that it's suspect. More so if aaaaa you have someone do it for you.
aaaaa The trouble with breaking knobs is you will need new ones. aaaaa With new keys.
aaaaa The trouble with breaking down doors is you end up with no aaaaa door. But then you will not need knobs. Nor keys.
The trouble with keys locked inside the rooms is you end up feeling stupid.
The trouble with keys lost is that doors have knobs. Which can be locked. Which will then need keys.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Free speech? Thank you very much!
[Test? Mic test. Go na tayo? Okay. Eherm.]
[I am honored to be delivering this speech in front of you (or at least, my speech writer says so) blah blah blah blah...]
Working where I work now, the concept of "free speech" has changed dramatically. No, I am not talking about not being able to speak freely, nor about its consequences or possible abuses...
Where I work, "free speech" means exactly that: getting a speech for free. Or in my particular case, writing a speech for someone else, for free.
I am not a speech writer, ladies and gentlemen. I cannot pretend to write a speech especially when I will not be the one to deliver it, and at the very least, when I am not knowledgeable of the tone my speaker has, or wants to have. If I am not aware of her tone, how will I know what words to use? If I do not know the extent of her vocabulary, how will I know she will be able to pronounce, much less recognize, say, "minutiae" (which I myself learned to pronounce properly only recently) or whatever-the-fuck? (By the way, can I use fuck with this audience?)
Most of all, I hate other people putting words in my mouth, and I expect other people do, too.
But, there comes a time when one has risen to unimaginable heights of power that one can no longer be concerned with speaking for oneself. Power, they say, begets responsibility. However, I have learned that to whom great power is given, whom is free to give others all the responsibility.
Since I am not one of those in the heights of power--And let me tell you now, I suffer from vertigo, and earlier today had to change my shoes from 4-inch stilettos to 2-inch boots--I get all the responsibility. Well, maybe not all, as there are a lot of rungs in the ladder between where I stand at 5'5" (and then only in 2-inch boots, mind you), and the "unimaginable" level. Nevertheless, 'di ba? (Sorry, Romans, "'di ba" simply means "isn't it so".)
So. As my foresight in changing shoes shows, I, at least, have saved myself the disgrace of falling flat on my face. That doesn't mean, though, that should the higher-ups discover this blog, I won't be condemned to the depths of hell. Or, at the very least, fired. (Hmmm, I wonder if "fired" didn't originate from thoughts of jobless hell...)
Thank you very much, for your attention; for allowing me to express my opinion (and it really is mine. All mine. Muahahaha.) on this matter, and in this small gathering. Again, have a good day y'all!
*****
Distinguished guests: all of you who need to be mentioned by name and title and affiliation, and of course, in proper order of importance; ladies and gentlemen, friends, Romans, etc... Good day.[I am honored to be delivering this speech in front of you (or at least, my speech writer says so) blah blah blah blah...]
Working where I work now, the concept of "free speech" has changed dramatically. No, I am not talking about not being able to speak freely, nor about its consequences or possible abuses...
Where I work, "free speech" means exactly that: getting a speech for free. Or in my particular case, writing a speech for someone else, for free.
I am not a speech writer, ladies and gentlemen. I cannot pretend to write a speech especially when I will not be the one to deliver it, and at the very least, when I am not knowledgeable of the tone my speaker has, or wants to have. If I am not aware of her tone, how will I know what words to use? If I do not know the extent of her vocabulary, how will I know she will be able to pronounce, much less recognize, say, "minutiae" (which I myself learned to pronounce properly only recently) or whatever-the-fuck? (By the way, can I use fuck with this audience?)
Most of all, I hate other people putting words in my mouth, and I expect other people do, too.
But, there comes a time when one has risen to unimaginable heights of power that one can no longer be concerned with speaking for oneself. Power, they say, begets responsibility. However, I have learned that to whom great power is given, whom is free to give others all the responsibility.
Since I am not one of those in the heights of power--And let me tell you now, I suffer from vertigo, and earlier today had to change my shoes from 4-inch stilettos to 2-inch boots--I get all the responsibility. Well, maybe not all, as there are a lot of rungs in the ladder between where I stand at 5'5" (and then only in 2-inch boots, mind you), and the "unimaginable" level. Nevertheless, 'di ba? (Sorry, Romans, "'di ba" simply means "isn't it so".)
So. As my foresight in changing shoes shows, I, at least, have saved myself the disgrace of falling flat on my face. That doesn't mean, though, that should the higher-ups discover this blog, I won't be condemned to the depths of hell. Or, at the very least, fired. (Hmmm, I wonder if "fired" didn't originate from thoughts of jobless hell...)
Thank you very much, for your attention; for allowing me to express my opinion (and it really is mine. All mine. Muahahaha.) on this matter, and in this small gathering. Again, have a good day y'all!
*****
[Heard offstage: "PAKSHET! What do you mean Romans don't speak English?!]
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Word association = Yay!
Word association = Oops.
I wanted to do a [Yay! / Oops.] thing here, but as usual, working with html [thumb].
*****
We had great fun last night at GP's goodbye gig at Maginhawa. We hope to open the new site at Kamuning with the Wednesdays poetry reading, too. Vince Serrano by Mabi David in July!
Kudos to Gelo, and Ricci for the great great conversations. Who'd have thought bad-ass Gelo used to be a ________ in high school?!? Ha! If you were there last night, you'd be privy to this best-kept secret too. Bleh. Word association clue? Rhyme and reason.
Anyway. Thank you, thank you, Gelo and Ricci. Last night was definitely in my [High Fidelity]. Or, will stay in my top five once we've had more than four of these featured readings. But seriously, it was fantastic.
Kudos too, to Donna and Peewee, for the great space at Maginhawa. We look forward to Kamuning!!!
*****
Okay this is it for now. [Einstein] not working.
I wanted to do a [Yay! / Oops.] thing here, but as usual, working with html [thumb].
*****
We had great fun last night at GP's goodbye gig at Maginhawa. We hope to open the new site at Kamuning with the Wednesdays poetry reading, too. Vince Serrano by Mabi David in July!
Kudos to Gelo, and Ricci for the great great conversations. Who'd have thought bad-ass Gelo used to be a ________ in high school?!? Ha! If you were there last night, you'd be privy to this best-kept secret too. Bleh. Word association clue? Rhyme and reason.
Anyway. Thank you, thank you, Gelo and Ricci. Last night was definitely in my [High Fidelity]. Or, will stay in my top five once we've had more than four of these featured readings. But seriously, it was fantastic.
Kudos too, to Donna and Peewee, for the great space at Maginhawa. We look forward to Kamuning!!!
*****
Okay this is it for now. [Einstein] not working.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Wednesdays-I'm-N-lalalalaLOVE
MONTHLY PERIOD POETRY READINGS AND OPEN MIC FEATURING JOEL TOLEDO IN CONVERSATION WITH MIKAEL CO WITH CHOLO GOITA, CALOY PIOCOS, DINO MANRIQUE, MIA TIJAM, HUSSEIN MACARAMBON, HOSTED BY ANDREA TERÁN
URBAN INTERVENTIONS AND STREET ACTIONS ARTIST PRESENTATION MARK SALVATUS / PILIPINAS STREET PLAN
MARCH 28 /WEDNESDAY, BAR OPENS 7 PM
GREEN PAPAYA ART PROJECTS, for updates please check http://papayapost.blogspot.com/
Descends the hourly downpour, reclaiming the tropical landscape maybe. Putting aside soaring oil prices, impending rice shortage, plight of migrant workers in the Middle East alongside GMA's P11 million growth this year, brighter prospects are yet in our horizon. Cheers to our beloved colleagues – knock outs at the recent auction at Borubodur, Singapore! Perhaps signaling the much needed facelift to Philippine contemporary art practice. A stronger shot in the arm is the much anticipated National Art Gallery's New Contemporary Art Projects exhibit Room 307: Inkling Gutfeel and Hunch on May 30 at National Museum. Yes, work hard and party harder.
After an intimate yet raucous closing party of Gina Osterloh's Shooting Blanks last Wednesday, Green Papaya was temporarily transported beyond the cinematic frames of Khavn de la Cruz's short films with Tonight I Will Love You Forever video installation curated by Norberto Roldan last Saturday. It's Wednesday once again and to cap off our monthly wait is our Monthly Period Readings with featured reader Joel Toledo in conversation with Mikael Co on the various shades and meaning of 'bayaw' and 'wasak.' Back to back with Mark Salvatus presentation on urban interventions and street actions of Pilipinas Street Plan. Meanwhile, a last shout out for W.O.P Residency which closes on May 30. Send out your proposals and as usual the moment is now.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Moving a house.
Sit on the floor and pack all your things into a big box, and you start thinking about how you never seem to have enough money for the right things. But more than enough for the wrong ones.
Don't even get me started on time.
Don't even get me started on time.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Lin-tech.
I don't have to be at the office most fridays. We have a rotation system, and mostly, I only have to go every three fridays or so. Which is good, yes?
Not if you actually have a lot of work to do. So what's stopping me from voluntarily going on Fridays, right? Right. Like you would. Besides, think about the distance between Pasay and Quezon City. And the fact that I have to commute. (Insert recent pickpocket incident here, too. But I've been playing that card too much already, I think.) And the fact that it's hot and humid. Right. We understand each other now.
So I get a call at 9 AM, someone's asking me to send a fax. No problem. I have the letter ready, I have a fax software thingy in my laptop, and my mobile can act as a modem, right? Wrong. Like, totally Vrong. Or at least I don't know how to do it.
If technology is supposed to make my life easier, someone hired a really good ad agency. Goddamit. I have been at this for hours. Only to find that I can send a fax through an analog connection, but not digital. Digital! Is there something wrong with this, or is it just me?
I mean, opposable thumbs were a turning point in evolution. Look at humans, monkeys, pandas. One group is struggling sending faxes through mobile phones, another can be found using tools in the jungle (and in zoos), the last is endangered. See how far we've come?
Poooo-tech.
Not if you actually have a lot of work to do. So what's stopping me from voluntarily going on Fridays, right? Right. Like you would. Besides, think about the distance between Pasay and Quezon City. And the fact that I have to commute. (Insert recent pickpocket incident here, too. But I've been playing that card too much already, I think.) And the fact that it's hot and humid. Right. We understand each other now.
So I get a call at 9 AM, someone's asking me to send a fax. No problem. I have the letter ready, I have a fax software thingy in my laptop, and my mobile can act as a modem, right? Wrong. Like, totally Vrong. Or at least I don't know how to do it.
If technology is supposed to make my life easier, someone hired a really good ad agency. Goddamit. I have been at this for hours. Only to find that I can send a fax through an analog connection, but not digital. Digital! Is there something wrong with this, or is it just me?
I mean, opposable thumbs were a turning point in evolution. Look at humans, monkeys, pandas. One group is struggling sending faxes through mobile phones, another can be found using tools in the jungle (and in zoos), the last is endangered. See how far we've come?
Poooo-tech.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
I take it back. God is everywhere.
Even at a Juan dela Cruz Band benefit concert. Right smack in the middle as a matter of fact--when the audience was asked to praise the lord. All with "all-together-now!" and "once-more-with-feeling!" enthusiasm. Lord, I miss the days of backmasking rumors and mullet-haired, mustachioed rockstars.
*****
And, yes, Karma too. This time in the hustle-bustle of the LRT 1-MRT connection. I may not be in a wheel chair now (knock-on-wood), but lost my wallet to a pickpocket. I was broke to begin with. Now I'm freakin' vroke. Yes, with a V. For Very.
*****
But it's not all bad news. Chingbee and Mark had an excellent show at Green Papaya. I can't help but say show. There was talk of poetry, yes. But we tackled infidelity too. And needs. And dealing with dismissive comments. Even footnotes. Chingbee got interviewed twice. And I heard there were Manila Times/Standard people taking down notes. Or maybe they were just there for the free beer. Yep, two cases. Free. Vree.
*****
(test. test-mic. one-two.) "Eheheerm. I would like to thank my parents, my sisters, my friends, but most of all "the one who created everything" (cf. Mike Hanopol) for the love and support. They was the most important person in my life. Last but not least, I would like to thank Green Papaya for giving me a spot on the Wednesdays-I'm-N-Love WOP, for the free beer during the readings (also when I'm broke and have to commute), the excellent venue, and for the residency. I thank you. Bowwoohoo!" Transcript of my thank-you speech in my head. I did the victory dance last Wednesday. I love GP, Donna and Peewee, and Joaquin. Kahit "friends lang" kami. Vlove. Salamat!!!
What was that? Oops, too late. Nagpa-inom na ako nung Mierkules. Vleh.
*****
And, yes, Karma too. This time in the hustle-bustle of the LRT 1-MRT connection. I may not be in a wheel chair now (knock-on-wood), but lost my wallet to a pickpocket. I was broke to begin with. Now I'm freakin' vroke. Yes, with a V. For Very.
*****
But it's not all bad news. Chingbee and Mark had an excellent show at Green Papaya. I can't help but say show. There was talk of poetry, yes. But we tackled infidelity too. And needs. And dealing with dismissive comments. Even footnotes. Chingbee got interviewed twice. And I heard there were Manila Times/Standard people taking down notes. Or maybe they were just there for the free beer. Yep, two cases. Free. Vree.
*****
(test. test-mic. one-two.) "Eheheerm. I would like to thank my parents, my sisters, my friends, but most of all "the one who created everything" (cf. Mike Hanopol) for the love and support. They was the most important person in my life. Last but not least, I would like to thank Green Papaya for giving me a spot on the Wednesdays-I'm-N-Love WOP, for the free beer during the readings (also when I'm broke and have to commute), the excellent venue, and for the residency. I thank you. Bowwoohoo!" Transcript of my thank-you speech in my head. I did the victory dance last Wednesday. I love GP, Donna and Peewee, and Joaquin. Kahit "friends lang" kami. Vlove. Salamat!!!
What was that? Oops, too late. Nagpa-inom na ako nung Mierkules. Vleh.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Karma is everywhere.
A friend who had just moved into a new apartment had told me he suspects that his new neighbors used to live in Molave, that dorm in UP where he too, used to stay. "Why is that a problem?" I asked. He clarified that they were the same group who had held prayer meetings in college and that they would pester everyone to join them then, complete with the guilt trip. So now, being pretty sure they were the same guys, he hides in his room like a paranoid conspiracy theorist whenever they're out and about the hallway. I told him, "But God is everywhere. He can see you hiding. [Put Twilight Zone music here.]"
Now I take it back. It's not God, for all her/his omniscience. It's Karma that's everywhere.
I am currently being punished for all the bad things I have said about anyone at any given point (hence my theory that Karma is everywhere). But mostly it might be because of things I have said of a certain writer who might or might not have an extra chromosome which can lead to certain facial features wrongly described as those common to a race of people living in the Asiatic regions, specifically based on a country north of China, bordering Russia. Gets?
(Am I safe?)
Anyway, so yeah, I'm being punished. Because now, my prayers have been answered and now I don't have to deal directly with that person. Instead, I am now saddled with an egotistical, no-manners, fifty-something writer who is an old maid.
Ah shit. There goes my karma again.
Since that's shot, can I just say: I am mad at people who feel like they have to keep certain agenda secret, and thus use people to achieve their goals without full disclosure. Note to you-of-that-kind: I have a fucking brain. And (gasp!) it works without a hitch more often than not. As a matter of fact, it's been studied that the brain improves when it is constantly engaged. So, let me use it once in a while, huh? Let me worry about what it can and cannot handle.
Ay potah. If you see me in a wheelchair next week, say it with me: Karma is everywhere.
Bow.
P.S. A friend once told me she met this old woman at a cafe who had told her that it is good karma to plant trees. I will be starting a garden soon. Seed donations gratefully accepted.
Now I take it back. It's not God, for all her/his omniscience. It's Karma that's everywhere.
I am currently being punished for all the bad things I have said about anyone at any given point (hence my theory that Karma is everywhere). But mostly it might be because of things I have said of a certain writer who might or might not have an extra chromosome which can lead to certain facial features wrongly described as those common to a race of people living in the Asiatic regions, specifically based on a country north of China, bordering Russia. Gets?
(Am I safe?)
Anyway, so yeah, I'm being punished. Because now, my prayers have been answered and now I don't have to deal directly with that person. Instead, I am now saddled with an egotistical, no-manners, fifty-something writer who is an old maid.
Ah shit. There goes my karma again.
Since that's shot, can I just say: I am mad at people who feel like they have to keep certain agenda secret, and thus use people to achieve their goals without full disclosure. Note to you-of-that-kind: I have a fucking brain. And (gasp!) it works without a hitch more often than not. As a matter of fact, it's been studied that the brain improves when it is constantly engaged. So, let me use it once in a while, huh? Let me worry about what it can and cannot handle.
Ay potah. If you see me in a wheelchair next week, say it with me: Karma is everywhere.
Bow.
P.S. A friend once told me she met this old woman at a cafe who had told her that it is good karma to plant trees. I will be starting a garden soon. Seed donations gratefully accepted.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Wednesday-I'm-N-Love
So we started the featured readings at Green Papaya last March. Too bad I was too friggin' busy to post the details. We featured the poetry of Mookie Katigbak, interviewed by Daryll Delgado. And it was grrreatt! Thanks Larry for the original idea!
Now it's April, and we're having another run. April 30 will focus on Chingbee Cruz, to be interviewed by Mark Cayanan. And since I'm not that ngarag this month, I've invited other people too. Rearders are: Hussein Macarambon, Mikael Co, Ramil Gulle, Peachy Paderna, Mia Tijam, Jay Bordon, Anina Abola, and Angelo Suarez.
If you want read, let me know. We're looking at a jam-packed night, but the more the manier. So let's eat, drink, read poetry. For the morrow is Labor Day. Woohoo.
*****
By the way, GP is at 124A Maginhawa Street, Teacher's Village East. Right beside St. Vincent School. A little after the big BayanTel building on Maginhawa corner Malingap, if you're coming from Sikatuna. After 4 months, I've finally learned exactly how to get there. Heehee.
There was a map sent to me once. See if I can get a hold of it again and post it here.
*****
PS. GP accepting applications to the Wednesdays open platform (WOP) residency program! Asteeeg.
Now it's April, and we're having another run. April 30 will focus on Chingbee Cruz, to be interviewed by Mark Cayanan. And since I'm not that ngarag this month, I've invited other people too. Rearders are: Hussein Macarambon, Mikael Co, Ramil Gulle, Peachy Paderna, Mia Tijam, Jay Bordon, Anina Abola, and Angelo Suarez.
If you want read, let me know. We're looking at a jam-packed night, but the more the manier. So let's eat, drink, read poetry. For the morrow is Labor Day. Woohoo.
*****
By the way, GP is at 124A Maginhawa Street, Teacher's Village East. Right beside St. Vincent School. A little after the big BayanTel building on Maginhawa corner Malingap, if you're coming from Sikatuna. After 4 months, I've finally learned exactly how to get there. Heehee.
There was a map sent to me once. See if I can get a hold of it again and post it here.
*****
PS. GP accepting applications to the Wednesdays open platform (WOP) residency program! Asteeeg.
Deets at http://papayapost.blogspot.com/.
*****
Spurs versus Suns, 81-72 at the end of 3. Too-doo-doo-doo...
Sunday, April 13, 2008
summer schmummer bummer
My first non-academe work has taught me the importance of summer vacation. And how going to the beach when temperatures reach the high 30s should be a basic human right.
I currently work in Pasay, near Manila Bay. Every time I see the (dirty) ocean, I think, "So close, yet so far away..."
*****
The 'rents were here Wednesday til late evening today. I love my mom and dad, but thank god they're now back in Iloilo. Whew.
But! I have kuwento. It's funny.
Before I went to college, my dad had sat me down to talk to me about sex. Or the not having of sex. He started with "No boyfriends for now, okay?" then proceeded to "Well, I understand you might meet someone. If you decide to enter into a relationship, no sex!" which metamorphosed into "But sex is good. And sometimes making out can lead to the point-of-no-return. So make sure you're protected!" which in turn confused the hell out of me. I told him, "Dad, you just moved from "no boyfriend" to "practice safe sex" in 5 minutes. Give me a bottom line!"
To which he replied threateningly, "Don't come home pregnant!" So I thought, "Hmmm, so I can actually get knocked up. Just don't go home."
Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore.
*****
But here's the real kuwento. During my parent's stay here, my dad asked me, "So when can we expect a grandkid?" I pointed to my sister, the one who has a boyfriend (and regular sex, more to the point), "Why not ask her?"
My dad, in his incredible logic tells me, "But you're the first-born. You should be first."
Which I had to clarify. "You just want grandchildren, right? Not necessarily a son-in-law, right?"
And my dad goes, "Yeah, just grandkids. You don't have to get married to get pregnant, do you?"
*****
I take it back. My parents are the coolest parents in the whole wide world! They're mad I drink, they're mad I smoke, but obviously I can have all the sex I want. Woohoo.
I currently work in Pasay, near Manila Bay. Every time I see the (dirty) ocean, I think, "So close, yet so far away..."
*****
The 'rents were here Wednesday til late evening today. I love my mom and dad, but thank god they're now back in Iloilo. Whew.
But! I have kuwento. It's funny.
Before I went to college, my dad had sat me down to talk to me about sex. Or the not having of sex. He started with "No boyfriends for now, okay?" then proceeded to "Well, I understand you might meet someone. If you decide to enter into a relationship, no sex!" which metamorphosed into "But sex is good. And sometimes making out can lead to the point-of-no-return.
To which he replied threateningly, "Don't come home pregnant!" So I thought, "Hmmm, so I can actually get knocked up. Just don't go home."
Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore.
*****
But here's the real kuwento. During my parent's stay here, my dad asked me, "So when can we expect a grandkid?" I pointed to my sister, the one who has a boyfriend (and regular sex, more to the point), "Why not ask her?"
My dad, in his incredible logic tells me, "But you're the first-born. You should be first."
Which I had to clarify. "You just want grandchildren, right? Not necessarily a son-in-law, right?"
And my dad goes, "Yeah, just grandkids. You don't have to get married to get pregnant, do you?"
*****
I take it back. My parents are the coolest parents in the whole wide world! They're mad I drink, they're mad I smoke, but obviously I can have all the sex I want. Woohoo.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
The end of something...
March is finally over! and I've never looked forward to anything more.
One more day at my old job, and finally I can focus on the new one. Yup, you heard it right, today is the 31st, my supposed last day on the job. But no, I have to go to work tomorrow morning. Did you know that pro bono is Latin for "big idiot"?
*****
Lots of news, not all of them good. Give me time to sort it out in my head.
*****
This new job that I have requires a writer. Which is not me. I am on the technical part, which means I do the research. Which is not bad. The writer on my panel is an asshole. He is condescending, arrogant, and bull-headed. He thinks he is the smartest person in the whole world. I think he looks like he has down syndrome.
I don't know about you, but I would actually rather have trisomy 21 than look like I have it when I don't.
And yes, this is the meanest thing I have said in public. (You should listen to the voice inside my head. Which is me. Which is worse than public me. Which is bad.)
And although it would be nicer of me to temper this mean comment by saying nice things about people with trisomy 21, I'd rather not. There are good people, and there are bad people. Smart people, stupid people, arrogant people, humble people, ad infinitum. And all these people can either have 46 or 47 chromosomes. Which is not their virtue, and not their fault either. We have no control over our genes, but we have control over our attitudes.
So I guess I'm saying, if you have to be a chauvinistic, condescending, arrogant asshole (which is completely your choice, by the way), you better be... I don't know. Is there a saving grace to this?
Ang labo. Basta. Die, creature! Die!
*****
God, who needs a drink?
One more day at my old job, and finally I can focus on the new one. Yup, you heard it right, today is the 31st, my supposed last day on the job. But no, I have to go to work tomorrow morning. Did you know that pro bono is Latin for "big idiot"?
*****
Lots of news, not all of them good. Give me time to sort it out in my head.
*****
This new job that I have requires a writer. Which is not me. I am on the technical part, which means I do the research. Which is not bad. The writer on my panel is an asshole. He is condescending, arrogant, and bull-headed. He thinks he is the smartest person in the whole world. I think he looks like he has down syndrome.
I don't know about you, but I would actually rather have trisomy 21 than look like I have it when I don't.
And yes, this is the meanest thing I have said in public. (You should listen to the voice inside my head. Which is me. Which is worse than public me. Which is bad.)
And although it would be nicer of me to temper this mean comment by saying nice things about people with trisomy 21, I'd rather not. There are good people, and there are bad people. Smart people, stupid people, arrogant people, humble people, ad infinitum. And all these
So I guess I'm saying, if you have to be a chauvinistic, condescending, arrogant asshole (which is completely your choice, by the way), you better be... I don't know. Is there a saving grace to this?
Ang labo. Basta. Die, creature! Die!
*****
God, who needs a drink?
Friday, March 21, 2008
The beginning of something...
Birth
I.
First night in -----
and the tail-end of winter.
My breath has become
a continuous stream of white
smoke and vapor combined.
II.
Is this how everything is begun?
An expulsion of breath
solidified into a word?
In the beginning was the Word
And gases swirled into this ground I walk on.
III.
And how to begin now
to tell a story long past--
When memory is silent
and only imagination
swirling inside my head.
IV.
Sometimes I run, my feet pounding
on the ground like a heart
throwing my feet on the air
only to pull it down again
as if I could run forever.
And if I did, won't I be back
where I started?
V.
And maybe my life began
with a kiss, then an expulsion
then a breath, a cry.
Theirs, too, who came before me.
Meanwhile, the earth moves
around and around the sun.
Who am I to talk of beginnings?
I.
First night in -----
and the tail-end of winter.
My breath has become
a continuous stream of white
smoke and vapor combined.
II.
Is this how everything is begun?
An expulsion of breath
solidified into a word?
In the beginning was the Word
And gases swirled into this ground I walk on.
III.
And how to begin now
to tell a story long past--
When memory is silent
and only imagination
swirling inside my head.
IV.
Sometimes I run, my feet pounding
on the ground like a heart
throwing my feet on the air
only to pull it down again
as if I could run forever.
And if I did, won't I be back
where I started?
V.
And maybe my life began
with a kiss, then an expulsion
then a breath, a cry.
Theirs, too, who came before me.
Meanwhile, the earth moves
around and around the sun.
Who am I to talk of beginnings?
Friday, March 14, 2008
Oil hits $110 a barrel...
and I'm too busy to react.
Working two jobs is like... uhm, well, working two jobs. And I just have to survive March.
In other news, I found a biography on Matthew Arnold's "poetic life" at Booksale a couple of days ago. He quit poetry for duty is the gist, and I guess I bought it because I was scared how easy I could imagine myself in his shoes... Drama, no?
Anyway, I also realized that because of this blog, I no longer maintain a journal. And that's fucked up because what I write here is never 100% true. And if I don't write just for myself, where is that truth--my truth, anyway, going to end up?
Weird, weird, weird. Drama, drama, drama.
So if you don't hear so much from me from here, let's hope I'm writing somewhere else, something truer.
Bow.
Working two jobs is like... uhm, well, working two jobs. And I just have to survive March.
In other news, I found a biography on Matthew Arnold's "poetic life" at Booksale a couple of days ago. He quit poetry for duty is the gist, and I guess I bought it because I was scared how easy I could imagine myself in his shoes... Drama, no?
Anyway, I also realized that because of this blog, I no longer maintain a journal. And that's fucked up because what I write here is never 100% true. And if I don't write just for myself, where is that truth--my truth, anyway, going to end up?
Weird, weird, weird. Drama, drama, drama.
So if you don't hear so much from me from here, let's hope I'm writing somewhere else, something truer.
Bow.
Monday, February 25, 2008
This is not a poetry reading
this is not a koreanobela: a film trilogy
ACCENTUATION video screening by Jane Jin Kaisen
readings and open mic hosted by Andrea Terán with Mookie Katigbak, Mark Cayanan, Anina Abola, Mikael Co, Mia Tijam, Kash Avena, Adam David, Larry Ypil and more
FEBRUARY 27
/WEDNESDAY, BAR OPENS 8 PM, SCREENING BEGINS 9 PM
GREEN PAPAYA ART PROJECTS for updates please go to http://papayapost.blogspot.com/
124A Maginhawa Street, Teachers Village East, Diliman, Quezon City
This Is Not a Koreanobela: A Film Trilogy
The second edition continues this Wednesday featuring the video work of Jane Jin Kaisen.
Accentuation is a multi-layered experimental short film built up around thirteen chapters of the novel Journey from Holmen’s Canal to the Eastern Part of Amager by the Danish poet and fairytale writer Hans Christian Andersen. The structure of the novel is interweaved with the story of an international adoptee’s journey and reunion with her birth family in South Korea. Accentuation complicates notions of history, memory, and belonging as a non-chronological and fractured process of negotiation. Accentuation extends beyond the personal by implying how international adoption as a phenomenon is also part of South Korea’s patriarchy and painful decolonization and modernization process, while on the other hand, it was fostered by Western Orientalism and cultural hegemony.
Jane Jin Kaisen works with film, video, performance, text, and photography. Born in South Korea (1980), adopted to Denmark and educated at the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts, she is currently a Fulbright scholar at the Whitney Museum Independent Study Program in New York. She is also a co-founder of Grassroots Cinema Center for Women of Asia, co-founder of the collective Chamber of Public Secrets, broadcasting independent news on tv.-tv, a non-profit TV station in Denmark and an organizer of Made In Video International Festival of Video Journalism in Copenhagen.
Readings and open mic
Andrea Terán returns this month (and every last Wednesday of the month hereon) with her platoon of bloody, razor-edged, biting, but honeyed night readers in their shining bullet-proof armors. Poetry readings and open mics will never be the same again, at least along the Maginhawa strip of Teachers Village East, with this sweet beer guzzling bunch of award-winning poets and writers: Mookie Katigbak, Mark Cayanan, Anina Abola, Mikael Co, Mia Tijam, Kash Avena, Adam David, and Larry Ypil.
And while Wednesdays I’m-n-love/Open Platform principal conspirator and resident fascist Donna Miranda is on a world-tour-of-sort with her of course not this is a bathtub
at Brunnentrasse in Berlin, QC still rocks, GMA is rocked, and politicians suck! Here’s a bottoms-up to your performance, Donna!
Friday, February 22, 2008
What the...?
This is what's wrong:
You like teams, and you like maybe some players from other teams. You hate some teams, and most probably only for a single player in that team. And then a weird trade happens, and it's all blown to bits.
And guys, maybe this half-assed analysis will seem silly and (gasp!) just-like-a-girl to you, but guess what? I am a girl (gasp!). Deal with it.
I love Pau Gasol. I hate the Lakers. Bad trade for me, good trade for Gasol.
I don't care about Shaq. I love the Suns. But I love Steve Kerr more. Go Steve Kerr.
I never liked Jason Kidd. I hate the Mavericks. Go for it, Kidd.
But the worst, the worst of the worst is Kurt Thomas to San Antonio. I hate Thomas. I love, love, love the Spurs! I mean sure, Francisco Elson was a wash. Brent Barry is injured, but he shoots threes! Can Thomas do that?
You know who I suddenly miss? Nazr Mohammad. And is he still with the Knicks? Well, good luck to him.
Okay, I'll shut up now. The last time I ran my mouth about basketball, I lost 500 bucks on a bet.
You like teams, and you like maybe some players from other teams. You hate some teams, and most probably only for a single player in that team. And then a weird trade happens, and it's all blown to bits.
And guys, maybe this half-assed analysis will seem silly and (gasp!) just-like-a-girl to you, but guess what? I am a girl (gasp!). Deal with it.
I love Pau Gasol. I hate the Lakers. Bad trade for me, good trade for Gasol.
I don't care about Shaq. I love the Suns. But I love Steve Kerr more. Go Steve Kerr.
I never liked Jason Kidd. I hate the Mavericks. Go for it, Kidd.
But the worst, the worst of the worst is Kurt Thomas to San Antonio. I hate Thomas. I love, love, love the Spurs! I mean sure, Francisco Elson was a wash. Brent Barry is injured, but he shoots threes! Can Thomas do that?
You know who I suddenly miss? Nazr Mohammad. And is he still with the Knicks? Well, good luck to him.
Okay, I'll shut up now. The last time I ran my mouth about basketball, I lost 500 bucks on a bet.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Did I tell you you're wonder-foil?
It started with L. and a poem addressed to a woman on a photograph, which was really a love poem to the man who took the photograph. It was the 1st of February; we were on the train to Malate, on a mission to reclaim it after a fling-turned-something-else turned nothing-else. But February is not the month of love, nor is it for lovers. What it really is, is the month of the foil.
2
I find myself fascinated with the possibilities of words. Right now, a play on kuwenta and kuwento—from the Spanish contar, to count (and maybe account?) and to tell (or recount), respectively. And in Filipino, flavored still with the connotation of value on one hand, and small talk on the other. Because I am worried about value, and an accounting for possible effects later on, for example, I am worried that sometimes a story is not just a story. Kuwentong walang kuwenta. Don’t you believe it.
3
A new poem. And, allow me to sing it for you: “You may be right. I may be crazy.”
Im-paired
I make no claims on music.
Was it Beethoven’s joy
That he couldn’t hear it
But in his head
Where it began to play?
But waking up today
World spinning spinning spinning
I think of Van Gogh’s
Swirling swirling swirling stars—
Product of vertigo
I’m sure
He cut off his ear for
He wouldn’t hear of it.
Not wanting to risk sense
Both eyes, the good ear
I only
Write it, write it, write it!
vertigo = head over heels? sometimes i fear i am insufferable.
Apologies to Adam Ant, and his wonderful song, Wonderful.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Night at Sea
They had been surrounded
by water and a strange language
all day, they thought they understood
only each other. Looking out the darkness
sky and sea indistinct but for the stars
dropping hints on the water--he pointed out Mars
impossibly close to Venus, and she said
Maybe they're not who we think they are.
Once inside, they found themselves
making love, not knowing who started it
only that there were needs
and rarely any answers.
Tomorrow the men will talk
around them, despairing of last night's
catch, as if because they took to sea
they deserved its secrets.
Meanwhile, they will catch each other
looking away, away from the sea,
its constant rocking.
by water and a strange language
all day, they thought they understood
only each other. Looking out the darkness
sky and sea indistinct but for the stars
dropping hints on the water--he pointed out Mars
impossibly close to Venus, and she said
Maybe they're not who we think they are.
Once inside, they found themselves
making love, not knowing who started it
only that there were needs
and rarely any answers.
Tomorrow the men will talk
around them, despairing of last night's
catch, as if because they took to sea
they deserved its secrets.
Meanwhile, they will catch each other
looking away, away from the sea,
its constant rocking.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
A Post-Mortem, sort of
I meant to text this message to everyone, but I'm a cheapskate. A lazy cheapskate. But, here it is:
The reading at Green Papaya last night was great. I'm no shutterbug and my phone is cheap-without-camera-a-snatcher-will-not-steal--so I cannot provide any evidence, your honor. But I had a fucking great time. And I think everybody had a fucking great time. So thank you, thank you to all who came, who saw, who read, who clapped, who laughed, and who cried. Hahaha.
Ngyar. Just spreading the love.
The reading at Green Papaya last night was great. I'm no shutterbug and my phone is cheap-without-camera-a-snatcher-will-not-steal--so I cannot provide any evidence, your honor. But I had a fucking great time. And I think everybody had a fucking great time. So thank you, thank you to all who came, who saw, who read, who clapped, who laughed, and who cried. Hahaha.
Ngyar. Just spreading the love.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Three by Me
1
Hola! Inviting everyone to the poetry reading at Green Papaya on Wednesday, 30 January at 8PM. This reading is part of Green Papaya's Wednesdays-I'm-n-Love Open Platform. Readers are:
Hola! Inviting everyone to the poetry reading at Green Papaya on Wednesday, 30 January at 8PM. This reading is part of Green Papaya's Wednesdays-I'm-n-Love Open Platform. Readers are:
1. Mikael Co
2. Adam David
3. Mia Tijam
4. Conchitina Cruz
5. Joel Toledo
6. Angelo Suarez
7. Hussein Macarambon
7. Hussein Macarambon
8. Kash Avena
9. Corin Arenas
... and others, I hope. Haha. We're trying out a themed reading this time, and because it's (still) January, it'll be on new year's resolutions. Haha. Anyway, please come. Open mic readers most welcome, themed or otherwise.
2
Couple of weeks ago, my mom was here in Manila and we had dinner with my dad's half sister, and his half-brother and his wife. It was fun getting to know them, and more importantly, hearing stories about the grandfather I never met. It was amazing to get a picture of this man, whose surname I still carry, from people I hardly know--when my dad himself has so little of his own stories to tell. My grandfather, it turns out, was an hacienda administrator, a job which allowed him to travel--and have different families--all over the country. He had--as far as we know, anyway--a total of 11 children, the youngest only 6 or 8 years older than I am. And with my dad being the youngest of his first three children, my grandfather actually has grandchildren older than the youngest of his children. Haha. Amazing, I tell you.
3
That surname I carry, by the way, has been recently changed to Peram, as I've told in a different post. Thing is, my youngest sister--the one who looks completely different from me--had food delivered from McDo last night. The food came with the receipt addressed to an S. Peram. Whew! And here I was, starting to think I was living with a complete stranger.
*****
Bonus
A quiz:
The stories in this blog are:
(a) true
(b) false
(c) somewhere in between
(d) can be used against the author
"Finally the tables are starting to turn. Talkin' about a revolution." Bow
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