Did I tell you you're wonder-foil?

1
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 1^st 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.

Valentine’s day—which we don’t celebrate by reliving St. Valentine’s works and deeds (whatever those may be)—brings to mind another sainted character. Walk around a mall nowadays and you will see the real star of the show. That “Oops, I did it again” finger-on-the-lips smile, and who could miss those “Hit me baby, one more time” arrows? And whatever disguise he might have assumed in your own love story—that ‘bridge’ in high school, the shared confidante/messenger in your barkada, the co-worker who fixes you up with a friend—Cupid gets all the credit.

Yes, playing cupid is a blameless job. See, if indeed the just-pierced lovers don’t fall happily ever after, it is never Cupid’s fault. He not attentive, she too needy, they bad for each other; nobody even sings “Stupid Cupid” when their hearts are arrowed in two. Oh, but imagine if it does work out: Eternal gratitude—which may or may not include the couple’s firstborn—, or a sure spot on the wedding entourage, a shot at smugness.

True, Cupid is most effective when he fades into the background—especially when the music starts to swell and words like serendipity (see how effective?) and meant-for-each-other hang in the air like so much bunting—and isn’t that what characterizes the perfect foil? Why else the pain and humiliation in those instances of the ‘bridge’ betraying the lover, falling for the friend, sleeping with the secretary? Let the foil remain a foil, and let the audience love him or her all the more for it.

...

In my Essay class in college, our final exam consisted of first, reading half of an essay then writing its second half. A kind of Choose Your Own Adventure, except there was only one correct ending, which you will arrive at if you recognize the tone of the speaker in the given part of the essay (or are lucky enough to have read it somewhere and remembered), argue the original author’s point correctly, and reach the same conclusion. My answer to that very difficult exam began with a But.

...

But. There is a point to this story, a point I wanted to make when I started to write it. I’m not sure if I want to make it anymore, short of hiding behind Hiligaynon again. But if there has to be an explanation, let it be this story:

When Paul Simon—a Mickey Mantle fan—was asked why he used Joe DiMaggio in the song Mrs. Robinson, he answered “It’s all about syllables. It’s all about how many beats there are.”

Okay, so maybe it doesn’t really explain anything. But there you go. Ho ho ho.

And that, my friends, is all. For now.

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.”

Vertigo

Half-deaf, one ear
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.

Now leveled by fear
Not wanting to risk sense
Both eyes, the good ear
I only
Write it, write it, write it!

4
vertigo = head over heels? sometimes i fear i am insufferable.

I am currently on cerebral oxygenators. For my vertigo, yes. But can you believe it? Suddenly, I cannot stop writing. And cannot sleep. I am not sure if the pills stopped the spinning, or allowed me to catch up.

(Suddenly, too, it’s all mahangin, airhead, insufferable. What a crock of shit.)

So I’m taking L.’s advice: Hoy, get a hold of yourself! And if, lately, you’ve seen me hugging myself, and squinting my eyes in concentration, that’s it. Hahaha.

5
Apologies to Adam Ant, and his wonderful song, Wonderful.