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.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
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?!]
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