--------------------------------
The secret is to every passionate encounter is Build-Up
The secret to every passionate encounter is Build-Up
When he, she, or whomever you would most expect –--
For whom you’re springing the surprise:
Be it a show of black lace, or tight any-colored underwear
Underneath thick clichés, in an air-conditioned room
(I prefer black or gray briefs because it perfectly hides the fact
that while all animals are equal, a few are less equal than most.);
Or of delicately arrayed comfort food:
grilled cheese sandwiches, sinigang nga baboy,
Tsokolate éh and büdbüd, sliced bread with Star Margarine
and white sugar, homemade peanut butter from Basilan on pan de sal;
and a kilo of Saturday Afternoon Lechon;
Or greeting cards, hallmarked by Hallmark --- ‘nuf said.
Or sweet embraces in a narrow stairwell,
With Security Guard in tow, muttering to his, her,
Whomever’s self, “Miss, imung ID,
kinsa’y imung tuyo --- di ra ba ta pwede musaka diha!”
Ah, sweet satisfaction!
To Expect the Unexpected, expecting Surprise, followed by ‘Aaaaw...’
And, “I didn’t expect this --- you’re soooo sweet!”
To Know Something’s About To Happen
Then falter in misstep, in an elongated,
Convoluted, extended, distended second ---
Pregnant pause --- pa-effect ---
Only to have his, her, whomever’s arm
Hold you and sweep you off in embrace...
(We’re going for slacked jaw, eyes wide in Genuine Delight)
You get the idea.
The secret is in the Anticipating,
Though I know of no ants dissipating
From chemical trails leading to a refilled Sugar bowl,
Knowing there is sugar in the sugar bowl without knowing
Half-expecting, half-dreaming sugar-coated dreams,
Half-awaking to an empty sugar bowl,
Half-aware that off to the background,
Blurred by unfocused consternation,
Is a slice of untouched, pure and divine
Blueberry Cheesecake (from Red Ribbon),
A silver fork: an apt stairway to heaven.
Perfect Strangers, I hear, make willing victims perfectly.
Slide your skirt up an inch, or two, or three, or even seven,
Or whatever is the maximum limit for skirt-sliding
is in your community,
Or gaze warmly into his, her, or whomever’s eyes longingly,
And leave him, her, whomever, hanging (figuratively, though dogs
are known, to leave it hanging for no other apparent reason).
And never look back.
Okay, glance around, just to give them cue
it’s their turn at the cue ball.
See you at nine, say, Krua Thai?
I hear, beggars are experts at the trick
Though for profit, and not passionate tumblings and turnings.
(Other people, it seems, trust other ways for getting some)
It’s a secret only no wise man knows.
The secret is out, I’ve told it all
And I hope nobody’s listening.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Monday, October 18, 2004
---------------------------------
I am Twilight
Blue
Violet
Red, mauve and maroon
I am brown swirling
Mingling
With shades of black and blue
And gray
I am Twilight
Laundry hanging out to dry
Being of heaven and earth
Yet not
In space all my own
Not owned by soil
Nor by sky
Nor light
Nor dark
Till I am dry and lie again in slumber
To clothe the creature who treads
Shadows that lie long
To welcome the howling of light long gone
I am wisp, the quiet pondering of Night
My muse. My quiet, indulgent muse
Who turns her back to her husband, Light
Two of light and shade
One of both
I am Twilight
Son
Bearer
Bridge
Clothesline
Clothing
Of colored red, mauve maroon
Blue, black, gray, violet
Brown
I am Twilight
The shade of light
The brightness of eventide.
I am Twilight
Blue
Violet
Red, mauve and maroon
I am brown swirling
Mingling
With shades of black and blue
And gray
I am Twilight
Laundry hanging out to dry
Being of heaven and earth
Yet not
In space all my own
Not owned by soil
Nor by sky
Nor light
Nor dark
Till I am dry and lie again in slumber
To clothe the creature who treads
Shadows that lie long
To welcome the howling of light long gone
I am wisp, the quiet pondering of Night
My muse. My quiet, indulgent muse
Who turns her back to her husband, Light
Two of light and shade
One of both
I am Twilight
Son
Bearer
Bridge
Clothesline
Clothing
Of colored red, mauve maroon
Blue, black, gray, violet
Brown
I am Twilight
The shade of light
The brightness of eventide.
Friday, October 08, 2004
--------------------------------
later in the day, when the initial spurts of enerygy wane
my thoughts drift to you
a tide pushing me closer to a familiar shore
but i long for the sea.
the promise of adventure strong in my mind
the lure of the waves and other tides steeped by years of longing
as if in waiting for that year-end holiday to come
when i did nothing but prepare all year
rum-thickened fruitcake
to pass around
but this tide is a welcome, warmly given, if not received.
i am grounded, finally
no longer lost among the waves
which is a hazard for creatures who run the tide's course
and live for the swirling moment.
the ground, this sand,
it's not as dry as it seems, this flesh-colored roughness
it clings, asking to join me in wandering
irritating though, like a pack of beggars
yet time is counted by it,
and the more i linger, the more stick to my body.
i try to swim away,
but you are alluring, enticing
seductive.
the salty taste in my mouth is no longer.
only a longing to taste you.
your sweetness,
the sound of your laughter.
the dry smoothness of your skin is beguiling
not so slippery as to become memory
not wet or dank as to run through my fingers.
i am wont to linger
yet the tide calls
later in the day, when the initial spurts of enerygy wane
my thoughts drift to you
a tide pushing me closer to a familiar shore
but i long for the sea.
the promise of adventure strong in my mind
the lure of the waves and other tides steeped by years of longing
as if in waiting for that year-end holiday to come
when i did nothing but prepare all year
rum-thickened fruitcake
to pass around
but this tide is a welcome, warmly given, if not received.
i am grounded, finally
no longer lost among the waves
which is a hazard for creatures who run the tide's course
and live for the swirling moment.
the ground, this sand,
it's not as dry as it seems, this flesh-colored roughness
it clings, asking to join me in wandering
irritating though, like a pack of beggars
yet time is counted by it,
and the more i linger, the more stick to my body.
i try to swim away,
but you are alluring, enticing
seductive.
the salty taste in my mouth is no longer.
only a longing to taste you.
your sweetness,
the sound of your laughter.
the dry smoothness of your skin is beguiling
not so slippery as to become memory
not wet or dank as to run through my fingers.
i am wont to linger
yet the tide calls
Monday, October 04, 2004
--------------------------------
Creek.
It has a trickle-down effect really... No. More like a downpour. A crack in the wall, chip by chip till the there is not enough concrete or reason to hold back the downpour of tears. As Martin would say, “take away one, much more three, and we are like ants that scatter without the scent trail to follow...” When I left the creek, the only person I REALLY shared my loneliness and ‘mingaw’ for the creek is my baby, Joyce. Reading Martin’s blog and Freya’s painfully and perceptively clear enunciation of why things have to go on despite what has happened strikes a very sensitive nerve (http://www.nicewalrus.blogspot.com/). It’s like the last night of the show, or your last night with your fellow seminarians.
It’s not the leaving that’s the most painful, I guess. We leave our homes every morning to take a ride that will ferry us from house to office. We leave, we come and go, we journey, we travel, we transcend. We never stay. We are constantly in motion that it we can’t help notice of the silence till everyone’s gone.
It’s accepting that change has happened is the most bitter, most painful to accept. I don’t particularly care if some writer says that “... memories are present circumstances now said in past tense.” I still see Martin’s face when I said goodbye. We were outside having a Thursday afternoon break. By then, the word was out. Yet, Martin pursed his lips and ended his break early, his face clearly stating he wasn’t happy about any of it. No one wants to see the memory of friends sitting on empty chairs. No one wants to pass rooms where there used to be faces grim at work, or smiles ready. No one wants to see anyone leave. No one wants to leave.
I was involved in a play called Bus Terminal not too long ago. The saddest, most painful scene was the anti-climax, when all the characters were leaving the stage. It was at Ayala Cinema One. I’ll never forget how dark it looked, even with the lights on. I’ll never forget how it felt to be a part of that bus ride. Lives ebb in and out of the bus terminal, as one press release said, no one lingers too long.
The play ended and I moved on.
The creek will probably be one of the most enduring parts of my history as a young (okay, not-so-young) hopeful, an employee, an aspiring writer, and a friend who strives to be a friend. I’ve seen, pain, suffering, and yes, hopelessness at the creek. Yet, I saw vigor, I saw joy, I saw dream. I saw passion move like a whisper enticing, soliciting, encouraging. I saw everyone passionate. I saw how the working conditions were and yet, beyond it was the bonds of friendships held fast. I still hold dear these ties that I bind to my heart, hoping they will not break against the downpour and wearing of time and circumstance.
The only painful thing that would surpass this metamorphosis is my leaving the seminary, and leaving old friends I lived with for five years. But then again, boys will always be boys, and creeks... they will always have some river, lake, or sea, to flow into.
Creek.
It has a trickle-down effect really... No. More like a downpour. A crack in the wall, chip by chip till the there is not enough concrete or reason to hold back the downpour of tears. As Martin would say, “take away one, much more three, and we are like ants that scatter without the scent trail to follow...” When I left the creek, the only person I REALLY shared my loneliness and ‘mingaw’ for the creek is my baby, Joyce. Reading Martin’s blog and Freya’s painfully and perceptively clear enunciation of why things have to go on despite what has happened strikes a very sensitive nerve (http://www.nicewalrus.blogspot.com/). It’s like the last night of the show, or your last night with your fellow seminarians.
It’s not the leaving that’s the most painful, I guess. We leave our homes every morning to take a ride that will ferry us from house to office. We leave, we come and go, we journey, we travel, we transcend. We never stay. We are constantly in motion that it we can’t help notice of the silence till everyone’s gone.
It’s accepting that change has happened is the most bitter, most painful to accept. I don’t particularly care if some writer says that “... memories are present circumstances now said in past tense.” I still see Martin’s face when I said goodbye. We were outside having a Thursday afternoon break. By then, the word was out. Yet, Martin pursed his lips and ended his break early, his face clearly stating he wasn’t happy about any of it. No one wants to see the memory of friends sitting on empty chairs. No one wants to pass rooms where there used to be faces grim at work, or smiles ready. No one wants to see anyone leave. No one wants to leave.
I was involved in a play called Bus Terminal not too long ago. The saddest, most painful scene was the anti-climax, when all the characters were leaving the stage. It was at Ayala Cinema One. I’ll never forget how dark it looked, even with the lights on. I’ll never forget how it felt to be a part of that bus ride. Lives ebb in and out of the bus terminal, as one press release said, no one lingers too long.
The play ended and I moved on.
The creek will probably be one of the most enduring parts of my history as a young (okay, not-so-young) hopeful, an employee, an aspiring writer, and a friend who strives to be a friend. I’ve seen, pain, suffering, and yes, hopelessness at the creek. Yet, I saw vigor, I saw joy, I saw dream. I saw passion move like a whisper enticing, soliciting, encouraging. I saw everyone passionate. I saw how the working conditions were and yet, beyond it was the bonds of friendships held fast. I still hold dear these ties that I bind to my heart, hoping they will not break against the downpour and wearing of time and circumstance.
The only painful thing that would surpass this metamorphosis is my leaving the seminary, and leaving old friends I lived with for five years. But then again, boys will always be boys, and creeks... they will always have some river, lake, or sea, to flow into.
Friday, October 01, 2004
-----------------------------
10012004, 2.58PM
Read a story from today’s issue of Freeman about our big boss Mike G. being denied entry into the Philippines. Here’s a most of the story:
“Capitalist Micheal J. G. Gleissner, the major stakeholder
and chairman of Bigfoot Solutions group of companies threatened
to put off the company’s investment plans in the Philippines,
specifically Cebu due to the country’s (worsening) bureaucracy.
In his letter to President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo, Gleissner
cited the Philippines’ sudden refusal to allow his private jet
to enter the Philippine air space.
“Last September 23 (2004), I was planning to visit our
headquarters in Cebu and attend a function, but also introduce
a new venture in the learning space that I primarily intended
to relocate in Cebu. I was traveling in a chartered jet,
and my pilots checked with ATO (Air Transportation Office)
Philippines before take off from Singapore and were assured
that the necessary permits will be waiting once they touch down
in Kota Kinabalu for a refueling stop. At Kota Kinabalu,
the entry into the Philippine air space was declined, citing that
no permit was issued. The jet was grounded on the runway
for 90 minutes, and in spite of constant communication
it was confirmed that the jet will not be allowed to enter
the Philippines air space,” Gleissner related his experienced
in his letter to the President.
“I am personally shocked and saddened about such an incredible,
unfriendly act. I have been doing business all over the world
and never experienced this.”
The company’s total investment in the Philippines in the last
three years exceeds US$20 million. Recently, the Bigfoot group
opened an International Film Academy at Mactan Island to help
develop the film industry and bring world class filmmaking education
to Cebu, as will as in the whole of Southeast Asia.
“Please understand that I have halted all expansion projects
in the Philippines pending proper resolution of the matter.
I thought that you as the President should be aware how bureaucracy
can permanently damage a prospering investor relationship,”
Gleissner said in his letter to the President dated September 28,
2004.
Also recently, Gleissner intervened at United Internet AG,
the world’s leading webhosting provider and a public company based
in Germany with a half a billion US dollars in revenue,
to locate their entire English-speaking customer service center
in Cebu.
He said he used to be a big fan of the Philippines, convincing
other foreign capitalist to invest in the country, but he said
because of the recent ordeal, he is re-considering his investment
preferences.”
Funny how governments can be really stupid.
Even stupider is how they can go on employing stupid people who are stupid.
Stupid!
Tsk, tsk, tsk... ha-hay. Federal na lang ta...
10012004, 2.58PM
Read a story from today’s issue of Freeman about our big boss Mike G. being denied entry into the Philippines. Here’s a most of the story:
“Capitalist Micheal J. G. Gleissner, the major stakeholder
and chairman of Bigfoot Solutions group of companies threatened
to put off the company’s investment plans in the Philippines,
specifically Cebu due to the country’s (worsening) bureaucracy.
In his letter to President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo, Gleissner
cited the Philippines’ sudden refusal to allow his private jet
to enter the Philippine air space.
“Last September 23 (2004), I was planning to visit our
headquarters in Cebu and attend a function, but also introduce
a new venture in the learning space that I primarily intended
to relocate in Cebu. I was traveling in a chartered jet,
and my pilots checked with ATO (Air Transportation Office)
Philippines before take off from Singapore and were assured
that the necessary permits will be waiting once they touch down
in Kota Kinabalu for a refueling stop. At Kota Kinabalu,
the entry into the Philippine air space was declined, citing that
no permit was issued. The jet was grounded on the runway
for 90 minutes, and in spite of constant communication
it was confirmed that the jet will not be allowed to enter
the Philippines air space,” Gleissner related his experienced
in his letter to the President.
“I am personally shocked and saddened about such an incredible,
unfriendly act. I have been doing business all over the world
and never experienced this.”
The company’s total investment in the Philippines in the last
three years exceeds US$20 million. Recently, the Bigfoot group
opened an International Film Academy at Mactan Island to help
develop the film industry and bring world class filmmaking education
to Cebu, as will as in the whole of Southeast Asia.
“Please understand that I have halted all expansion projects
in the Philippines pending proper resolution of the matter.
I thought that you as the President should be aware how bureaucracy
can permanently damage a prospering investor relationship,”
Gleissner said in his letter to the President dated September 28,
2004.
Also recently, Gleissner intervened at United Internet AG,
the world’s leading webhosting provider and a public company based
in Germany with a half a billion US dollars in revenue,
to locate their entire English-speaking customer service center
in Cebu.
He said he used to be a big fan of the Philippines, convincing
other foreign capitalist to invest in the country, but he said
because of the recent ordeal, he is re-considering his investment
preferences.”
Funny how governments can be really stupid.
Even stupider is how they can go on employing stupid people who are stupid.
Stupid!
Tsk, tsk, tsk... ha-hay. Federal na lang ta...
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
--------------------------------
She Kissed Me Before Leaving
She kissed me before leaving
i could still feel the wetness impressed
it tingles a warm feeling that runs
from the soles of my feet
to the lightheadedness in my head.
though she has gone
i could still feel the wetness of her kiss
the soft touch of her lips lingers
just above my cheek
a light and teasing succubus
giggling at how i try to cling on
to hold on
to impress a kiss of my own
she kissed me before leaving
but i
didn't kiss back
the wetness is a memory
a reddish stain of lipstick
she kissed me before leaving
a parting gift
and like an imperious child
that i am
i vow never to wash my cheek
of the wetness now impressed
like a thin layer of thin red paint
because it was for her kiss
that i lived.
now all that remains
is a brand, a scar, a testament
she kissed me before leaving
and took my wallet, my watch
my new leather shoes, my favorite polo,
the keychain my baby sister gave me
and which contains my housekeys,
the keys to my office desk, my car,
(ow, headache and vertigo--- !)
even the spare change in my pocket
now,
if only MCWD's water shortage would end
maybe i could take a shower
and wipe this stain.
I wonder if Bobby Nalzaro is on-board...
She Kissed Me Before Leaving
She kissed me before leaving
i could still feel the wetness impressed
it tingles a warm feeling that runs
from the soles of my feet
to the lightheadedness in my head.
though she has gone
i could still feel the wetness of her kiss
the soft touch of her lips lingers
just above my cheek
a light and teasing succubus
giggling at how i try to cling on
to hold on
to impress a kiss of my own
she kissed me before leaving
but i
didn't kiss back
the wetness is a memory
a reddish stain of lipstick
she kissed me before leaving
a parting gift
and like an imperious child
that i am
i vow never to wash my cheek
of the wetness now impressed
like a thin layer of thin red paint
because it was for her kiss
that i lived.
now all that remains
is a brand, a scar, a testament
she kissed me before leaving
and took my wallet, my watch
my new leather shoes, my favorite polo,
the keychain my baby sister gave me
and which contains my housekeys,
the keys to my office desk, my car,
(ow, headache and vertigo--- !)
even the spare change in my pocket
now,
if only MCWD's water shortage would end
maybe i could take a shower
and wipe this stain.
I wonder if Bobby Nalzaro is on-board...
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
---------------------------------
I am Twilight
Blue
Violet
Red, mauve and maroon
I am brown swirling
Mingling
With shades of black and blue
And gray
I am Twilight
Laundry hanging out to dry
Being of heaven and earth
Yet not
In space all my own
Not owned by soil
Nor by sky
Nor light
Nor dark
Till I am dry and lie again in slumber
To clothe the creature who treads
Shadows that lie long
To welcome the howling of light long gone
I am wisp, the quiet pondering of Night
My muse. My quiet, indulgent muse
Who turns her back to her husband, Light
Two of light and shade
One of both
I am Twilight
Son
Bearer
Bridge
Clothesline
Clothing
Of colored red, mauve maroon
Blue, black, gray, violet
Brown
I am Twilight
The shade of light
The brightness of eventide.
I am Twilight
Blue
Violet
Red, mauve and maroon
I am brown swirling
Mingling
With shades of black and blue
And gray
I am Twilight
Laundry hanging out to dry
Being of heaven and earth
Yet not
In space all my own
Not owned by soil
Nor by sky
Nor light
Nor dark
Till I am dry and lie again in slumber
To clothe the creature who treads
Shadows that lie long
To welcome the howling of light long gone
I am wisp, the quiet pondering of Night
My muse. My quiet, indulgent muse
Who turns her back to her husband, Light
Two of light and shade
One of both
I am Twilight
Son
Bearer
Bridge
Clothesline
Clothing
Of colored red, mauve maroon
Blue, black, gray, violet
Brown
I am Twilight
The shade of light
The brightness of eventide.
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
----------------------------------
08312004, 3.38PM
stirrings.
Drip from my body like water
Cleanse me away as you slide off
And onto the ground
Slithering away into a sewers
Are you not entertained as I
By the night’s lusty proceeds
Kept, stoked to juicy consistency
Till oozing in abundance
We could no longer hold it back.
I feel toxic, yet however clean I now feel
I have seen you in the darkness
Bent to bite your neck and taste your saltiness
Bitten into your flesh and savored your pink meat
I savored your moans before biting into you
Lower. Deeper. The hotness of your body
Oil glistening on my skin.
cold ashes.
Mingled about
The tears of passion and desire
I’ve claimed rapture
Only to fall back spent within
Like so many empty vessels of wine and beer
More I crave
Till I’ve killed the woman in you.
The beast
I’ve raised
I’ve killed with the weapons
My fathers’ loins gave me.
So take me, oh Morpheus, to your gentling dreams
For I cannot thrash in delight
At such wanton,
To see her mouth full of myself
To see her eyes slaked of its hunger
To fill her depths of thirst
Now abated, now spent
Perhaps when I was younger
The passing into immortality
Would not have been as painful
As it is,
As it is.
08312004, 3.38PM
stirrings.
Drip from my body like water
Cleanse me away as you slide off
And onto the ground
Slithering away into a sewers
Are you not entertained as I
By the night’s lusty proceeds
Kept, stoked to juicy consistency
Till oozing in abundance
We could no longer hold it back.
I feel toxic, yet however clean I now feel
I have seen you in the darkness
Bent to bite your neck and taste your saltiness
Bitten into your flesh and savored your pink meat
I savored your moans before biting into you
Lower. Deeper. The hotness of your body
Oil glistening on my skin.
cold ashes.
Mingled about
The tears of passion and desire
I’ve claimed rapture
Only to fall back spent within
Like so many empty vessels of wine and beer
More I crave
Till I’ve killed the woman in you.
The beast
I’ve raised
I’ve killed with the weapons
My fathers’ loins gave me.
So take me, oh Morpheus, to your gentling dreams
For I cannot thrash in delight
At such wanton,
To see her mouth full of myself
To see her eyes slaked of its hunger
To fill her depths of thirst
Now abated, now spent
Perhaps when I was younger
The passing into immortality
Would not have been as painful
As it is,
As it is.
Thursday, August 19, 2004
--------------------------------
In Light of the Da Vinci Code
The thing about “The Da Vinci Code” is that it’s a good read. It may not be a great read yet it still seduces you into turning the next page, and then the next, the next...
I don’t agree with something that Alvin, very good friend of mine, wrote in his review of Dan Brown’s DVC. But then again, we don’t always agree, and it’s such a wonderful friendship that I may just try one more time at disagreeing with him.
I must admit, I didn’t quite expect Brown’s novel to tackle such an anathema to the true faith. Alvin mentioned that the agnostic in him reared its ugly head after he read DVC. I guess I could understand how DVC has aroused such emotions and contemplations in complex person such as Alvin, but I would definitely draw the line between fiction renewing my faith and the Bible. As DVC has shown, Brown knows how to straddle the line between fact and conjecture. What could be more controversial than something that seems to attack the very base of your faith? Truly, DVC will provide fodder for many a lively street debate for evenings to come, with such arguments like, ‘how did DVC enrich your spiritual life?’ or, ‘How is your faith after reading DVC?’
Oh please. Only fools ask those silly questions. Or answer even them.
Personally, I see Brown as a brilliant researcher, but a moderately competent storyteller. If he had chosen a different idea, DVC would have fallen grimly to the bottom of the suspense fiction genre. As it is, people have hailed it as a grand achievement. It sits right up there with the rest of the realist fiction writers such Caleb Carr, among others, who were wont to fuse real events and people and other facts into a fictional plot. Brilliant. But then again... Brown messes up.
Sadly, I read DVC before picking Brown’s Angels and Demons. Now there’s a book that would really make you sit up and laugh. No, this is not a comparison between two works of one author, but clearly, A&D, left a bad taste in my mouth. Or more poignantly, DVC did.
As brilliant as Brown is as a researcher, I can’t say much for his writing style. I mean there is more than one way to write fiction as there writers in the world. Why can’t he develop his own style? What Brown does is cram all these facts and figures down your throat, that if you’re not too quick to notice, you’d never see the fact that both his novels were written exactly the same. His plots developed in a similar manner. His characters deviated very little as to appear copies from A&D to DVC. His twists and plot developments and conflict resolutions are so, so, so, so, so, brilliantly similar, you’d cry out in frustration. At least when Caleb Carr wrote the “Angel of Darkness,” you could immediately sense that the writing techniques used to draw you into the story was different from Carr’s first thriller, “The Alienist.” I won’t even deign to compare Brown to Tony Perez and his Cuba-Kalaw-Cubao series. It doesn’t seem fair to Brown; Perez is too good a writer to be in the same section as Brown. As Perez, or Carr, are arresting in their style, Brown is the very opposite. Even his PR campaign points more to the facts and the puzzles rather than the story. In his regard though, I accede that Brown is very good in data collection.
Believe me when I say that even if Brown points out that he has researched and sifted through god-knows how many sources just to get his data right, the fact of the matter is, he’s not a great storyteller that most people figure him out to be. Sure, he’s got the most interesting and esoteric info around, but that does not make the storyteller.
The heart of novel writing is in the storytelling. It’s not in the facts, which, I may point out, can be lumped into a literary element called background. I guess that’s what he does best, paint the background. Just as Michael Mann is know for his dark brooding cinematography, or George Lucas for his fantastic imagery and digital magic, or Ridley Scott, whose sweeping landscapes and magnificent backdrops can make one’s jaw drop in awe, not one of them is as consummate a storyteller as Tim Burton.
[THERE ARE SOME TYPOS... I'LL DEAL WITH THEM LATER...]
In Light of the Da Vinci Code
The thing about “The Da Vinci Code” is that it’s a good read. It may not be a great read yet it still seduces you into turning the next page, and then the next, the next...
I don’t agree with something that Alvin, very good friend of mine, wrote in his review of Dan Brown’s DVC. But then again, we don’t always agree, and it’s such a wonderful friendship that I may just try one more time at disagreeing with him.
I must admit, I didn’t quite expect Brown’s novel to tackle such an anathema to the true faith. Alvin mentioned that the agnostic in him reared its ugly head after he read DVC. I guess I could understand how DVC has aroused such emotions and contemplations in complex person such as Alvin, but I would definitely draw the line between fiction renewing my faith and the Bible. As DVC has shown, Brown knows how to straddle the line between fact and conjecture. What could be more controversial than something that seems to attack the very base of your faith? Truly, DVC will provide fodder for many a lively street debate for evenings to come, with such arguments like, ‘how did DVC enrich your spiritual life?’ or, ‘How is your faith after reading DVC?’
Oh please. Only fools ask those silly questions. Or answer even them.
Personally, I see Brown as a brilliant researcher, but a moderately competent storyteller. If he had chosen a different idea, DVC would have fallen grimly to the bottom of the suspense fiction genre. As it is, people have hailed it as a grand achievement. It sits right up there with the rest of the realist fiction writers such Caleb Carr, among others, who were wont to fuse real events and people and other facts into a fictional plot. Brilliant. But then again... Brown messes up.
Sadly, I read DVC before picking Brown’s Angels and Demons. Now there’s a book that would really make you sit up and laugh. No, this is not a comparison between two works of one author, but clearly, A&D, left a bad taste in my mouth. Or more poignantly, DVC did.
As brilliant as Brown is as a researcher, I can’t say much for his writing style. I mean there is more than one way to write fiction as there writers in the world. Why can’t he develop his own style? What Brown does is cram all these facts and figures down your throat, that if you’re not too quick to notice, you’d never see the fact that both his novels were written exactly the same. His plots developed in a similar manner. His characters deviated very little as to appear copies from A&D to DVC. His twists and plot developments and conflict resolutions are so, so, so, so, so, brilliantly similar, you’d cry out in frustration. At least when Caleb Carr wrote the “Angel of Darkness,” you could immediately sense that the writing techniques used to draw you into the story was different from Carr’s first thriller, “The Alienist.” I won’t even deign to compare Brown to Tony Perez and his Cuba-Kalaw-Cubao series. It doesn’t seem fair to Brown; Perez is too good a writer to be in the same section as Brown. As Perez, or Carr, are arresting in their style, Brown is the very opposite. Even his PR campaign points more to the facts and the puzzles rather than the story. In his regard though, I accede that Brown is very good in data collection.
Believe me when I say that even if Brown points out that he has researched and sifted through god-knows how many sources just to get his data right, the fact of the matter is, he’s not a great storyteller that most people figure him out to be. Sure, he’s got the most interesting and esoteric info around, but that does not make the storyteller.
The heart of novel writing is in the storytelling. It’s not in the facts, which, I may point out, can be lumped into a literary element called background. I guess that’s what he does best, paint the background. Just as Michael Mann is know for his dark brooding cinematography, or George Lucas for his fantastic imagery and digital magic, or Ridley Scott, whose sweeping landscapes and magnificent backdrops can make one’s jaw drop in awe, not one of them is as consummate a storyteller as Tim Burton.
[THERE ARE SOME TYPOS... I'LL DEAL WITH THEM LATER...]
Friday, July 02, 2004
------------------
JAS-F and JMG RENEW OLD RIVALRIES, CLASHES ENSUE
(FIRST of FOUR PARTS.)
by Bubs Sy, with reports by J.R. Aganas & Lowee Climaxkaduha
Hundreds of young people clad in outlandishly colorful clothers were critically injured, and still others more were hurt as street rumbles flared simultaneously across the country, last Saturday, February 14, 2004, raging from four in the afternoon to seven in the evening, leaving people all over shocked and horrified by this violent event.
Violence marred the day of hearts as thousands of rival gangmembers from the JAS-F and the JMG took to the streets in the cities of Makati, Cebu and Davao, and 14 provincial towns like Basilan, San Pablo, and Medellin.
In a pattern of organized violence reminiscent of the 70's street gangwars, rival gangs, the JAS-F (Jodie Ang Santos-Forever) and the JMG (Julena Magdasal Group), rekindled their ten-year old feud in simultaneous bursts of street violence spanning three major cities and 14 provincial towns across the country. This is the first ever “mass rumble” involving two of the most influential and perhaps, most notorious gangs in the country, eclipsing the antics and reigns of terror of criminals like the terrorist group Abu Sayyaf Group and malevolent the That is Enter-tainment (the latter being known for its mass recruitment and training in the dreaded arts of political and career suicide). Sources within the police and representatives from other fraternities and sororities stated that with their memberships running to the thousands nationwide and casual skirmishes at malls and schools and during school intramural games mounting, it was simply a matter of time before things between the JAS-F and the JMG boiled over.
In Cebu City alone, the rumbles have resurrected an old spectre that dominated local headlines between late 2002 and early 2004. "It was like the Akrho-Tau Gamma wars before, only more colorful, and more showbiz stars were present..." winced Polpol, a street vendor and part-time snatcher who was injured by a rumble that erupted at the intersections of Manalili and Magallanes streets in Colon. He had apparently tried to grab a shoulder bag of one JMG member when the rumble started. It was a good thing though, remarked Polpol in Cebuano, that he was clad only a grey shirt and denim pants, or else, he would have been beaten to death. Such is the fury of these dangerous gangs.
JMG: The True Power of Color
The JMG was founded in 1992 and was first introduced to the public by the founder herself, Jolena Magdasal, through a popular afternoon teen-oriented show, although criminal investigators and UP Anthropology scholars surmise that the group was in existence for over two years before. At an early age, the enterprising Ms. Magdasal immediately realized the potential of media in furthering the reach and influence of the then-fledgling JMG. Throughout JMG's twelve-year history, into its fifth year, the JMG founded chapterhouses in the greater Manila Area, Tondo, and Pampanga. When they celebrated their sixth anniversary, JMG was set to expand southwards to the Visayas and Mindanao. In six months, JMG expanded to Cebu, Cagayan de Oro and Tawi-tawi. The group even infiltrated the University of Bohol (UB), of the Republic of Bohol, disguising itself as a glee club.
It was around this time that Ms. Magdasal discovered that color had an emotional effect on people. Through rigid research and thorough voluntary testing (both on animals and people), Ms. Magdasal adopted three colors that would serve as her banner colors: Red, lavender and yellow.
Battle Lines Drawn
The reason for the discord lay ultimately in Phillie Jacksons’ interpretation of the popular Flower of the Rings series. As it turned out, the power and influence of these rival groups reached even into Middle-of-the-Earth. Shaider, as it turned out, was a founding member of the JAS-F Middle-of-the-Earth Chapter (with offices in Rohan, Mordor and Fangorn), while Gandolfo was a founding member of the JMG Chapter. In the First Age, there was no distinction between good and evil, up until the Third Age when Sharon-man revealed his true self. In the guise of a JAS-F member, he wormed his way into Shaider's confidence, luring more than ten thousand Orkos to JMG. Fans and readers of the FOTR immediately saw through the thin veneer of deception and called for a serious dialogue with Mr. Jacksons so that the hapless director may redo the movie again and as not to confuse audiences with his lampoon (The Lord of the Rings Trilogy). Among the more prominent characters are that were members of either of the two groups were: Araclown, JAS-F; Ligotoys, JMG; Elroy, JMG; Bibo, JAS-F; Starwen, a JMG wannabe.
When the movies marketing merchandise hit the stores, Ms. Magdasal called for blood. And her loyal followers got armed for war.
(To be continued in, “The Wrath of Jodie Ang”)
[Characters, plot, events and all that what-not are purely fictional and do not represent anyone alive, historical, maniacal or political in nature, birth, or origin, and is the outpouring of the writer of his feelings and opinions to the movement of tides of human existence. The writer would like to thank his mother for fueling his creative energies at a very early age, thereby cursing him forever to a life of colorful fantasies, sporadic psychedelic episodes and spouting "metaphoric baloney" (To quote Mr. Ariel Gurrea, a very good friend of mine -- jootzman).
To all who feel slighted by this pure and unadulterated piece of excellent example of Absurdian fiction, please... laugh with me. --- jootzman.]
JAS-F and JMG RENEW OLD RIVALRIES, CLASHES ENSUE
(FIRST of FOUR PARTS.)
by Bubs Sy, with reports by J.R. Aganas & Lowee Climaxkaduha
Hundreds of young people clad in outlandishly colorful clothers were critically injured, and still others more were hurt as street rumbles flared simultaneously across the country, last Saturday, February 14, 2004, raging from four in the afternoon to seven in the evening, leaving people all over shocked and horrified by this violent event.
Violence marred the day of hearts as thousands of rival gangmembers from the JAS-F and the JMG took to the streets in the cities of Makati, Cebu and Davao, and 14 provincial towns like Basilan, San Pablo, and Medellin.
In a pattern of organized violence reminiscent of the 70's street gangwars, rival gangs, the JAS-F (Jodie Ang Santos-Forever) and the JMG (Julena Magdasal Group), rekindled their ten-year old feud in simultaneous bursts of street violence spanning three major cities and 14 provincial towns across the country. This is the first ever “mass rumble” involving two of the most influential and perhaps, most notorious gangs in the country, eclipsing the antics and reigns of terror of criminals like the terrorist group Abu Sayyaf Group and malevolent the That is Enter-tainment (the latter being known for its mass recruitment and training in the dreaded arts of political and career suicide). Sources within the police and representatives from other fraternities and sororities stated that with their memberships running to the thousands nationwide and casual skirmishes at malls and schools and during school intramural games mounting, it was simply a matter of time before things between the JAS-F and the JMG boiled over.
In Cebu City alone, the rumbles have resurrected an old spectre that dominated local headlines between late 2002 and early 2004. "It was like the Akrho-Tau Gamma wars before, only more colorful, and more showbiz stars were present..." winced Polpol, a street vendor and part-time snatcher who was injured by a rumble that erupted at the intersections of Manalili and Magallanes streets in Colon. He had apparently tried to grab a shoulder bag of one JMG member when the rumble started. It was a good thing though, remarked Polpol in Cebuano, that he was clad only a grey shirt and denim pants, or else, he would have been beaten to death. Such is the fury of these dangerous gangs.
JMG: The True Power of Color
The JMG was founded in 1992 and was first introduced to the public by the founder herself, Jolena Magdasal, through a popular afternoon teen-oriented show, although criminal investigators and UP Anthropology scholars surmise that the group was in existence for over two years before. At an early age, the enterprising Ms. Magdasal immediately realized the potential of media in furthering the reach and influence of the then-fledgling JMG. Throughout JMG's twelve-year history, into its fifth year, the JMG founded chapterhouses in the greater Manila Area, Tondo, and Pampanga. When they celebrated their sixth anniversary, JMG was set to expand southwards to the Visayas and Mindanao. In six months, JMG expanded to Cebu, Cagayan de Oro and Tawi-tawi. The group even infiltrated the University of Bohol (UB), of the Republic of Bohol, disguising itself as a glee club.
It was around this time that Ms. Magdasal discovered that color had an emotional effect on people. Through rigid research and thorough voluntary testing (both on animals and people), Ms. Magdasal adopted three colors that would serve as her banner colors: Red, lavender and yellow.
Battle Lines Drawn
The reason for the discord lay ultimately in Phillie Jacksons’ interpretation of the popular Flower of the Rings series. As it turned out, the power and influence of these rival groups reached even into Middle-of-the-Earth. Shaider, as it turned out, was a founding member of the JAS-F Middle-of-the-Earth Chapter (with offices in Rohan, Mordor and Fangorn), while Gandolfo was a founding member of the JMG Chapter. In the First Age, there was no distinction between good and evil, up until the Third Age when Sharon-man revealed his true self. In the guise of a JAS-F member, he wormed his way into Shaider's confidence, luring more than ten thousand Orkos to JMG. Fans and readers of the FOTR immediately saw through the thin veneer of deception and called for a serious dialogue with Mr. Jacksons so that the hapless director may redo the movie again and as not to confuse audiences with his lampoon (The Lord of the Rings Trilogy). Among the more prominent characters are that were members of either of the two groups were: Araclown, JAS-F; Ligotoys, JMG; Elroy, JMG; Bibo, JAS-F; Starwen, a JMG wannabe.
When the movies marketing merchandise hit the stores, Ms. Magdasal called for blood. And her loyal followers got armed for war.
(To be continued in, “The Wrath of Jodie Ang”)
[Characters, plot, events and all that what-not are purely fictional and do not represent anyone alive, historical, maniacal or political in nature, birth, or origin, and is the outpouring of the writer of his feelings and opinions to the movement of tides of human existence. The writer would like to thank his mother for fueling his creative energies at a very early age, thereby cursing him forever to a life of colorful fantasies, sporadic psychedelic episodes and spouting "metaphoric baloney" (To quote Mr. Ariel Gurrea, a very good friend of mine -- jootzman).
To all who feel slighted by this pure and unadulterated piece of excellent example of Absurdian fiction, please... laugh with me. --- jootzman.]
Thursday, July 01, 2004
-------------------
Dear Kuya Spartacus,
Hi and 'low! How are you? We receive your letters everyday, and sometimes not so everyday of the week, but we still receive it somehow. How is your work as a engineer in Cebu City? We are all excited and proud to know that you are a engineer now in the City of Cebu.
Every one of us all including Nanay, Tatay, Tiyo Densio, Lola Conchita, Lolo Bembol, Manang Mely, Manang Cely, Manang Fely, Manang Lily, Manoy Hector, Manoy Benhur, Manoy Moses, Dodong Achilles, Dodong Apollo and our youngest sisters Lita, Tita, Bonita, Emelita, Conchita, Purita, Angelita, Pilita, Sampaguita, Sophia, Dulcita, and little Maria are all in happiness for you!!! Yes! in Happenis. And of course, your youngest brother, that’s me, and I am so happy for you.
You know, the neighbors are so much happy too. Because they are now have a neighbor who is a engineer. Manoy Orlando who have two sons who are captain in a boat of their own said that a engineer is important as a captain of a boat. And Nanay is always saying to the neighbors and to our relatives and to our other neighbors in the other sitios and barangays, "Imagine, my son is a engineer! Yes, yes! He is a sanitary engineer!"
Thank you very much of appreciation of my English skillls. My teachers are all verry proud of myself too because I am the top student in our class in English. Madam Florida will keep on saying that I can be a writer as good as Tiyo Densio, who was his student. Tiyo Densio is a good writer and he is earning very much money at the barangay hall as a clerk and typewriter and you and I all know. Madam Florida say that I can be better than Tiyo Densio and I can work in the Capitol. I am so excitement! When I’m graduate in high school, I will go there in Cebu City an apply to the Capitol.
First things first. Nanay is asking if you see Esteban before you leave for the city. It has been six months since you left and Nanay is worried that Esteban is been stolen already. Tatay is angry because he is thinking that Asiong the butcher in the market steal Esteban, to ihaw and sell him in the market.
How are you, Manong? Do you know that Isabel is looking for you to write a letter? She is not know your address so I give your address and signature and then she will write a letter. She said I will be giving you the letter included in this letter envelope. She is missing you, daw. So much. When do you want to come home. She keeps asking the question everyday of the week and the month. She is always remembering the two of you when you were small that you play a lot in their house, in the sapa, and in the basakan. She say the you are her best friend together with Jennebel and Danika.
Uy, Manong Spartacus, did you know now that Isabel is have a daughter? Yes, he have a daughter! But no husband. Señor Abito, her father is angry and Juliana, the mother of Isabel is crying and not happy at all. Señor Abito is calling all his men from the Hacienda Isabela and all the barangay Tanod to look for the man who is pregnant with Isabel. Señor Abito is ask to tell you and ask if you know the guy because he know that you and Isabel and close and childhood friends and that you can guess who is making Isabel a pregnant.
I have to go now. Nanay wants to pray the Rosary na. Alwasy pray, Kuya, ha.
Yours truly,
Dodong.
Dear Kuya Spartacus,
Hi and 'low! How are you? We receive your letters everyday, and sometimes not so everyday of the week, but we still receive it somehow. How is your work as a engineer in Cebu City? We are all excited and proud to know that you are a engineer now in the City of Cebu.
Every one of us all including Nanay, Tatay, Tiyo Densio, Lola Conchita, Lolo Bembol, Manang Mely, Manang Cely, Manang Fely, Manang Lily, Manoy Hector, Manoy Benhur, Manoy Moses, Dodong Achilles, Dodong Apollo and our youngest sisters Lita, Tita, Bonita, Emelita, Conchita, Purita, Angelita, Pilita, Sampaguita, Sophia, Dulcita, and little Maria are all in happiness for you!!! Yes! in Happenis. And of course, your youngest brother, that’s me, and I am so happy for you.
You know, the neighbors are so much happy too. Because they are now have a neighbor who is a engineer. Manoy Orlando who have two sons who are captain in a boat of their own said that a engineer is important as a captain of a boat. And Nanay is always saying to the neighbors and to our relatives and to our other neighbors in the other sitios and barangays, "Imagine, my son is a engineer! Yes, yes! He is a sanitary engineer!"
Thank you very much of appreciation of my English skillls. My teachers are all verry proud of myself too because I am the top student in our class in English. Madam Florida will keep on saying that I can be a writer as good as Tiyo Densio, who was his student. Tiyo Densio is a good writer and he is earning very much money at the barangay hall as a clerk and typewriter and you and I all know. Madam Florida say that I can be better than Tiyo Densio and I can work in the Capitol. I am so excitement! When I’m graduate in high school, I will go there in Cebu City an apply to the Capitol.
First things first. Nanay is asking if you see Esteban before you leave for the city. It has been six months since you left and Nanay is worried that Esteban is been stolen already. Tatay is angry because he is thinking that Asiong the butcher in the market steal Esteban, to ihaw and sell him in the market.
How are you, Manong? Do you know that Isabel is looking for you to write a letter? She is not know your address so I give your address and signature and then she will write a letter. She said I will be giving you the letter included in this letter envelope. She is missing you, daw. So much. When do you want to come home. She keeps asking the question everyday of the week and the month. She is always remembering the two of you when you were small that you play a lot in their house, in the sapa, and in the basakan. She say the you are her best friend together with Jennebel and Danika.
Uy, Manong Spartacus, did you know now that Isabel is have a daughter? Yes, he have a daughter! But no husband. Señor Abito, her father is angry and Juliana, the mother of Isabel is crying and not happy at all. Señor Abito is calling all his men from the Hacienda Isabela and all the barangay Tanod to look for the man who is pregnant with Isabel. Señor Abito is ask to tell you and ask if you know the guy because he know that you and Isabel and close and childhood friends and that you can guess who is making Isabel a pregnant.
I have to go now. Nanay wants to pray the Rosary na. Alwasy pray, Kuya, ha.
Yours truly,
Dodong.
--------------------
[some stupid meandering idea that didn't let go till it came out so corny... fekt!]
Dear Pattie,
Greetings, cousin. I am writing to your in dire circumstances. As of this writing, the school has been attacked three separate times, all, ending unsuccessfully (thank the spirits!). However, we have lost three professors now and the dean is in the infirmary, resting from a brutal red dragon (yes, cousin, dragons!). How he came away with his life, is a miracle. Needless to say, one dragon escaped, his two companions are captured and kept at the forest --- Cousin, you must call on your friend, Mr. Potter to return to Hogwarts or I fear, danger will overcome us all!
Talk is circulating that this terror overcoming us, wants to rid the world of magic. But I cannot understand why he is using magic to this end. The first attack came by land. Four wizards astride mock-beasts with a horde of dire-wolves attacked the school in the middle of the night, about two weeks ago. Last week, the lake broiled and spat beasts even I thought only belonged to legend. The dragons attacked this morning.
Please, cousin Ron. If you can, come hither at the soonest and be carea;lseiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
----------------
[some stupid meandering idea that didn't let go till it came out so corny... fekt!]
Dear Pattie,
Greetings, cousin. I am writing to your in dire circumstances. As of this writing, the school has been attacked three separate times, all, ending unsuccessfully (thank the spirits!). However, we have lost three professors now and the dean is in the infirmary, resting from a brutal red dragon (yes, cousin, dragons!). How he came away with his life, is a miracle. Needless to say, one dragon escaped, his two companions are captured and kept at the forest --- Cousin, you must call on your friend, Mr. Potter to return to Hogwarts or I fear, danger will overcome us all!
Talk is circulating that this terror overcoming us, wants to rid the world of magic. But I cannot understand why he is using magic to this end. The first attack came by land. Four wizards astride mock-beasts with a horde of dire-wolves attacked the school in the middle of the night, about two weeks ago. Last week, the lake broiled and spat beasts even I thought only belonged to legend. The dragons attacked this morning.
Please, cousin Ron. If you can, come hither at the soonest and be carea;lseiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
----------------
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
-------------------
blessings in dis guy
Today, my faith in God has been rewarded. I applied for a copywriting position at one of Bigfoot’s new projects, itzamatch.com, and I think I’ve got a foot in the door. Another blessing I’ve received is for my free-lance writing. After writing for the reggae fest that’s happening at the end of this week (at the 27th --- see you all there!), Mam Erms has given me another assignment. It’s article about Cebu’s music scene and where three of its prime movers are taking it. I’m excited, I’m invigorated, and I’ve had a nasty hyperacidity attack since last night (Sunday) --- it comes and goes --- I’ve already downed eight Kremil-S’s and this bugger of an ailment still won’t go. But, I’m happy. I’m in excruciating pain, but happy nonetheless.
I’ve handed my resignation letter in and I’ll be leaving CannonCreek two weeks after Holy Week. I’ll be writing for the website and if my time allows, do a little freelance writing on the side. This will mean hell for my schedule and less time for myself and the love of my life, the symbol of utter virginity, the lost cause of the Knights of the Round Table, the lady of the... er, bakery (?), Joyce.
I’m feeling a little okay na. A little melodramatic, perhaps. Who wouldn’t be? I’ve gained a lot of experience in terms of writing and copyediting, and I’ve learned a lot about the “business world,” so to speak. I’ve learned a lot about what it means by being in a team where each individual counts on each other for support and help when it comes to finishing the job --- a different kind of team spirit. The kind that you don’t learn about even if you’ve been in a varsity team.
I’ll miss them. I’ll miss Martin, Joe, Louie, and Alvin (my smoking buddy). I’ll miss Berna’s high-pitched screams in the dead of the afternoon --- the way it pierces your sleep-deprived mind --- it’s even better than caffeine! I’ll miss Eyean and Werby, with the long monosyllabic conversations we all had, interspersed with an occasional two or three-syllable word (laughing doesn’t count, nor do onomatopoeic words). I’ll miss Monday lunches because... well, Mondays are usually dull, and the most difficult days to wake up to. Whoever thought of Monday lunch should be made a saint. A saint for all Monday lunches.
I’ll miss Gagamboy, T-Back (who’s pregnant, again), Forrest, Simba, Shaggy and that other new brown ascal that sauntered into the NO-Parking-On-The-Driveway Cafe one workday afternoon.
I’ll miss getting email about the most curious discussions. Nobody knew when or how it started, but the Morning Ritual discussions were milieus where the lot of us at the office was able to bond, and forget that we worked in a virtual environment and on virtual newsletters (Louie, I think, was the one who first started calling it as such). It was something real for many of us, and even a way for us to communicate our ideas and ideals to each other, even though we were shy and introverted in the real world.
I’ll miss working on CannonCreep script and all the other stories our Round Table Lunch Group concocted for the most important reason of all: No Apparent Reason (at all!)
I’ll miss them. I’ll miss you all.
[5:15PM, 22 March 2004]
[AS OF THE BLOGGING OF THIS PIECE, THE FREELANCE WRITING FELL THROUGH. DAMN.]
blessings in dis guy
Today, my faith in God has been rewarded. I applied for a copywriting position at one of Bigfoot’s new projects, itzamatch.com, and I think I’ve got a foot in the door. Another blessing I’ve received is for my free-lance writing. After writing for the reggae fest that’s happening at the end of this week (at the 27th --- see you all there!), Mam Erms has given me another assignment. It’s article about Cebu’s music scene and where three of its prime movers are taking it. I’m excited, I’m invigorated, and I’ve had a nasty hyperacidity attack since last night (Sunday) --- it comes and goes --- I’ve already downed eight Kremil-S’s and this bugger of an ailment still won’t go. But, I’m happy. I’m in excruciating pain, but happy nonetheless.
I’ve handed my resignation letter in and I’ll be leaving CannonCreek two weeks after Holy Week. I’ll be writing for the website and if my time allows, do a little freelance writing on the side. This will mean hell for my schedule and less time for myself and the love of my life, the symbol of utter virginity, the lost cause of the Knights of the Round Table, the lady of the... er, bakery (?), Joyce.
I’m feeling a little okay na. A little melodramatic, perhaps. Who wouldn’t be? I’ve gained a lot of experience in terms of writing and copyediting, and I’ve learned a lot about the “business world,” so to speak. I’ve learned a lot about what it means by being in a team where each individual counts on each other for support and help when it comes to finishing the job --- a different kind of team spirit. The kind that you don’t learn about even if you’ve been in a varsity team.
I’ll miss them. I’ll miss Martin, Joe, Louie, and Alvin (my smoking buddy). I’ll miss Berna’s high-pitched screams in the dead of the afternoon --- the way it pierces your sleep-deprived mind --- it’s even better than caffeine! I’ll miss Eyean and Werby, with the long monosyllabic conversations we all had, interspersed with an occasional two or three-syllable word (laughing doesn’t count, nor do onomatopoeic words). I’ll miss Monday lunches because... well, Mondays are usually dull, and the most difficult days to wake up to. Whoever thought of Monday lunch should be made a saint. A saint for all Monday lunches.
I’ll miss Gagamboy, T-Back (who’s pregnant, again), Forrest, Simba, Shaggy and that other new brown ascal that sauntered into the NO-Parking-On-The-Driveway Cafe one workday afternoon.
I’ll miss getting email about the most curious discussions. Nobody knew when or how it started, but the Morning Ritual discussions were milieus where the lot of us at the office was able to bond, and forget that we worked in a virtual environment and on virtual newsletters (Louie, I think, was the one who first started calling it as such). It was something real for many of us, and even a way for us to communicate our ideas and ideals to each other, even though we were shy and introverted in the real world.
I’ll miss working on CannonCreep script and all the other stories our Round Table Lunch Group concocted for the most important reason of all: No Apparent Reason (at all!)
I’ll miss them. I’ll miss you all.
[5:15PM, 22 March 2004]
[AS OF THE BLOGGING OF THIS PIECE, THE FREELANCE WRITING FELL THROUGH. DAMN.]
Friday, June 11, 2004
-------------------
Cancer
Ruler: Moon / Element: Water / Mode: Cardinal
Pole: Negative / Third: Primordial / Half: Subjective
Nurturing, support, belonging, emotional bonds; your roots, source, ground of your being; the unconscious, feelings, emotion; the Great Mother, Universal Womb; spirit's first emotional attachments to the world.
Mothering, emotional and physical nurturance; experiences and imprinting during infancy and childhood; family, ancestors, heritage, relationships to the past; belonging, feeling "at home"; maternal love, caring; feeling supported by the world, that your needs are provided for; insecurities and fears if your needs haven't been fulfilled; possessiveness, "twisted love", inability to nurture others are negative expressions.
Cancer (June 21 -- July 22): Attuned to emotions and feelings of self and others; often alternate between introversion and extroversion; strong appreciation for the earth and its natural resources; protective of personal security and also any persons who are included in the "inner circle"; loyal and devoted lovers and parents; good cooks; prone to weight difficulty; will work to make the living environment cozy; must learn to stabilize emotions.
Water Signs (Cancer, Scorpio and Pisces) are fluidly feeling and the range of their dispositions moves readily from ice storm to placid river to hot steam. Waters love the comforts of home and family and generally are strongly nurturing of anything that lives. They have compassionate instincts and are drawn to care for whomever or whatever seems weakened, defective or on the losing side. Waters are adept in the world of feeling and rarely are unduly frightened by any emotion they encounter. Airs (Gemini, Libra and Aquarius) and Waters are often mutually attracted. Airs need support when encountering deep feelings and past memories--they are prone to minimize the value of their emotional experiences. Waters, on the other hand, need help in the realm of logic and reason, so they draw heavily from the more verbal Airs.
Cancer
Ruler: Moon / Element: Water / Mode: Cardinal
Pole: Negative / Third: Primordial / Half: Subjective
Nurturing, support, belonging, emotional bonds; your roots, source, ground of your being; the unconscious, feelings, emotion; the Great Mother, Universal Womb; spirit's first emotional attachments to the world.
Mothering, emotional and physical nurturance; experiences and imprinting during infancy and childhood; family, ancestors, heritage, relationships to the past; belonging, feeling "at home"; maternal love, caring; feeling supported by the world, that your needs are provided for; insecurities and fears if your needs haven't been fulfilled; possessiveness, "twisted love", inability to nurture others are negative expressions.
Cancer (June 21 -- July 22): Attuned to emotions and feelings of self and others; often alternate between introversion and extroversion; strong appreciation for the earth and its natural resources; protective of personal security and also any persons who are included in the "inner circle"; loyal and devoted lovers and parents; good cooks; prone to weight difficulty; will work to make the living environment cozy; must learn to stabilize emotions.
Water Signs (Cancer, Scorpio and Pisces) are fluidly feeling and the range of their dispositions moves readily from ice storm to placid river to hot steam. Waters love the comforts of home and family and generally are strongly nurturing of anything that lives. They have compassionate instincts and are drawn to care for whomever or whatever seems weakened, defective or on the losing side. Waters are adept in the world of feeling and rarely are unduly frightened by any emotion they encounter. Airs (Gemini, Libra and Aquarius) and Waters are often mutually attracted. Airs need support when encountering deep feelings and past memories--they are prone to minimize the value of their emotional experiences. Waters, on the other hand, need help in the realm of logic and reason, so they draw heavily from the more verbal Airs.
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
--------------------
Disregard the plea
death has no father to look up to
nor is its mother given
to random acts of kindness.
i am death
a coagulation of blood
black blood
a centuries-old vampire
a lion pride
stalking the old and infirmed
that the strong may live
(occasionally a wildebeest may stumble
breaking its neck on rocky ground
but don't concern yourself with pointless relativities)
the old code is
was
and will be:
i am death
there is no other.
i am death
the giver of life
the giver of hope
the deliverer from pain
the resurrector of life
the train to hogwarts
i am charon's boat
no matter who you are
two coins are all i ask
and i don't care
what achilles/brad pitt does
to your well-toned body
you will scream for my release.
i am death
the final orgasm
the final passion of breath
passing into unbreathing
the dull throb in the base of your neck
the sigh caught in your throat
i give you pleasure beyong rapture
i am the death of you
orgasmic
explosive
the last moan
the final reminder
that ghosts don't have sex
that's why they haunt hotels,
bedrooms
and bathrooms
and any other conceivable place coital in nature
i am death
coitus
non interruptus
i am your passion without end
so unlike
this poem.
----------------------
Disregard the plea
death has no father to look up to
nor is its mother given
to random acts of kindness.
i am death
a coagulation of blood
black blood
a centuries-old vampire
a lion pride
stalking the old and infirmed
that the strong may live
(occasionally a wildebeest may stumble
breaking its neck on rocky ground
but don't concern yourself with pointless relativities)
the old code is
was
and will be:
i am death
there is no other.
i am death
the giver of life
the giver of hope
the deliverer from pain
the resurrector of life
the train to hogwarts
i am charon's boat
no matter who you are
two coins are all i ask
and i don't care
what achilles/brad pitt does
to your well-toned body
you will scream for my release.
i am death
the final orgasm
the final passion of breath
passing into unbreathing
the dull throb in the base of your neck
the sigh caught in your throat
i give you pleasure beyong rapture
i am the death of you
orgasmic
explosive
the last moan
the final reminder
that ghosts don't have sex
that's why they haunt hotels,
bedrooms
and bathrooms
and any other conceivable place coital in nature
i am death
coitus
non interruptus
i am your passion without end
so unlike
this poem.
----------------------
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
-------------------
Anatomy of an email spanning two days and one slight glitch in the communication lines
what the---?! hmm... i think naa friendster...
anyways.... musta na? musta na imung feeling? take care of your health bai, ha. mao ra raba na'y lawas nimu... wa na'y lain. lisud ngita parts karun...
unsay ayo diha? bagsak kaayo ko ron sa trabaho... hehehehehehehe, busy lagi kaayo ;) ... hahahahahahahahahaaa!
how's my replacement? is she as beautiful and wonderful as me? Does she dance the hula or suddenly break into a deliriously mind-numbing song and dance number, in an equally horrendous off-key off-tangent and off-centered note? does louie frighten her? i hope so. he frightens me. even now....
speaking of notes, musta na?
wa ko kasturya diri.... and the thing that would've perked up my day (martin's email about joining some ms. gay contest --- i dunno why) is un-openable --- in short, ga shorts ko.
anyway....
someday,
when we're old and gray
when the tears have gone dry
and there's no reason to cry
musakit ug ma-irritated ang atung mga mata
because of the heat, the dust, the laway of people
when they talk too excitedly and hapzardly,
kay dili na man ma-lubricate atung mga eyeballs
yesh... kay wa na man tears.
ayos noh?
my love and regards to mama janice, kuya eyean, papa louie, ate martin, all the little bonitas and bertos of the CS, TCP, TCR and DENR, and to my little sister misty for all your love and care and support of my hopes and dreams and hapless attempts to cross through the traffic like you do. Good news: Finally, maka-utang na ko sa tindahan sa amung silingan! Ye-bah!
Yours truly from the bottom of my bottle and my heart and soul, and cross my heart and hope against and again and again, over and over....
Intoy
(i think i'm going to put this in my blog...)
--------------------------
scooby-dooby doo, where are you?
scooby-dooby doo, unsay ayo?
scooby-dooby doo, asa na mo?
scooby una lang, maligo pa ko...
-----Original Message-----
From: joe [mailto:joe@cannoncreek.com]
Sent: Thursday, April 29, 2004 12:05 AM
To: Butch Reyes
Subject: booobs reyes
hoy! ala lagi ka reply! :(
====================
God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as He did, this sinful world
as it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
That I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with Him
Forever in the next.
Amen.
Anatomy of an email spanning two days and one slight glitch in the communication lines
what the---?! hmm... i think naa friendster...
anyways.... musta na? musta na imung feeling? take care of your health bai, ha. mao ra raba na'y lawas nimu... wa na'y lain. lisud ngita parts karun...
unsay ayo diha? bagsak kaayo ko ron sa trabaho... hehehehehehehe, busy lagi kaayo ;) ... hahahahahahahahahaaa!
how's my replacement? is she as beautiful and wonderful as me? Does she dance the hula or suddenly break into a deliriously mind-numbing song and dance number, in an equally horrendous off-key off-tangent and off-centered note? does louie frighten her? i hope so. he frightens me. even now....
speaking of notes, musta na?
wa ko kasturya diri.... and the thing that would've perked up my day (martin's email about joining some ms. gay contest --- i dunno why) is un-openable --- in short, ga shorts ko.
anyway....
someday,
when we're old and gray
when the tears have gone dry
and there's no reason to cry
musakit ug ma-irritated ang atung mga mata
because of the heat, the dust, the laway of people
when they talk too excitedly and hapzardly,
kay dili na man ma-lubricate atung mga eyeballs
yesh... kay wa na man tears.
ayos noh?
my love and regards to mama janice, kuya eyean, papa louie, ate martin, all the little bonitas and bertos of the CS, TCP, TCR and DENR, and to my little sister misty for all your love and care and support of my hopes and dreams and hapless attempts to cross through the traffic like you do. Good news: Finally, maka-utang na ko sa tindahan sa amung silingan! Ye-bah!
Yours truly from the bottom of my bottle and my heart and soul, and cross my heart and hope against and again and again, over and over....
Intoy
(i think i'm going to put this in my blog...)
--------------------------
scooby-dooby doo, where are you?
scooby-dooby doo, unsay ayo?
scooby-dooby doo, asa na mo?
scooby una lang, maligo pa ko...
-----Original Message-----
From: joe [mailto:joe@cannoncreek.com]
Sent: Thursday, April 29, 2004 12:05 AM
To: Butch Reyes
Subject: booobs reyes
hoy! ala lagi ka reply! :(
====================
God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as He did, this sinful world
as it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
That I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with Him
Forever in the next.
Amen.
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
-------------------
All my brothers are married. The youngest, Robbie, got married in August of last year. He was 21 when he got married. I am 26, and I live alone in a 3rd floor bachelor’s pad in the center of Cebu City. I’ve got a laundrywoman who complains about the pains of being a single mother, and a building manager that who rants about the noise coming from my room, in the middle of the night. I’m an editor for two online newsletters with subscribers from across the globe. I’ve got a pet cactus that I call Berto (although I don’t even know what kind of cactus it is --- it's small, knobby, and has no spines at all!). I’ve got a mountain bike (5-speed, I think, I don’t know.) that I use to go to work. It’s a ten-minute bike ride to work, through rows of boardinghouses and commercial buildings.
At the end of the day, I hang out at the Lizard Lounge, with a couple of old college buddies and friends I made from companies I used to work at. We talk about work, about the girls we’re going out with at the moment, what positions make for the best intimate experience, old college jokes, random farts, and about going to Toledo for some wall climbing on some far-off weekend.
Then I go home. If I’m not drunk, I turn on some Bob Marley or RATM, depending on my mood, and log in some writing. I also write for a local mag, just for practice and for the fun of it. Around 3AM, I turn in for the day.
I bet that you’re thinking, I’ve got a pretty lame, if not pathetic, lifestyle. I’d tell you to your face that it wouldn’t surprise me if you were a little bit jealous of my place in the sun. I’ve been living alone since I was 19, and I’m pretty sure that I’ve had enough practice. Acquaintances and friends have come up to me and said, “Man, it’s soooo cool that you live alone. And single? ! Think of all the parties and girls --- Man, that’s cooool!” But I think that expression a wee bit childish.
The reality is, a lot of people, especially among my peers, are wondering why I’m not married yet --- You know what I mean. My older brother, Kenny, says that being single is simply a phase everyone goes through before they start thinking about marriage and that what I’m doing right now is actually just playing the field before I do settle down to spread my seed. I really don’t agree with that. Sure, every now and then, I would want to have someone to go with to some fancy place for dinner, perhaps a movie, or even share a romantic evening at home watching DVDs. But I don’t think anything long-term would suit me.
Being single is a lifestyle, not a phase. It’s not like puberty where your voice starts squeaking then goes baritone on you. There is commitment involved, though not of a romantic kind. And since it’s a lifestyle, there is always a “downside” to it. My being single seems to irk a lot of my married friends. That being single is such an empty life, and that being single is equivalent to being too immature to keep a relationship. I hate it when that kind of thinking happens.
Sandy, a friend of mine, likes to say that people who are frightened at the prospect of being alone should get a life. I don’t particularly agree with his view because the whole point of getting married, or even being single, is to be happy. I’m happy. I enjoy being single and I don’t need a romantic relationship to define my happiness. I have a lot of friends who have had romantic relationships before but are now single, and are enjoying life. They’re happy.
On the other hand, I also have married friends who relish being married. The trick is not thinking that being single is better than being married (or else, we’d have more priests and nuns!). It’s finding happiness and pleasure at being single (Or married, whichever the case may be). That, perhaps, is the question that needs to be answered, or else, being single is going to suck.
For me, it’s giving my impulsive side free rein. I get to do my own thing, without having to worry anyone about it. I can go to the beach on my mountain bike. I can get home from work and just take in a movie, or go to the Lounge and hang out. On weekends, I can just wake up and hang out in front of the TV. In the evening, I can take in a movie or I could go to a poetry reading. Or attend a multilevel marketing seminar for the heck of it.
But it’s freedom with a healthy measure of responsibility. You’re a not kid left with a fridge full of goodies. You’re a 26-year old guy with a list of groceries for the whole month, bills to pay, a room to clean, underwear to wash, getting sick without someone to look out for you, and, in my case, an oblivious plant to water. These things keep you grounded --- they keep me grounded. These are the things that commercials don’t show.
Another good thing about being single is that people sort of depend on you. On occasion, I’ve been: the official “shoulder to cry on”; an amateur marriage counselor; at one time, a private detective; an escort to the prom; a pretend boyfriend (for girl friends who can’t say no to a guy they don’t like); a favorite companion to grocery shopping; and the occasional nursemaid to friends with broken bones or hearts. But it’s okay, because I enjoy the company, the camaraderie. Even being needed has a warm effect on us, single people.
My parents do get fussy over my lifestyle. They would cajole me saying, “When are you going to get a girl, Jake?” or “When are we going to meet your better half?” And I retort, “I’m having the time of my life! I am happy!” At least, that’s what I keep telling them. I’ve also been best man four times, and I’m not complaining. I’ve got a great pad, a great job, a social and emotional support group of friends, an active sex life, a regular gym to go to, and six brothers (all married) who think that I should stick to being single because married life doesn’t suit me. I don’t mind. I even I agree with them. Except during Christmas when all their kids expect gifts from their favorite uncle.
[Something I did for something that I now enjoy doing... I did some rewriting so that it would be presentable here... hehehehehe :) ]
All my brothers are married. The youngest, Robbie, got married in August of last year. He was 21 when he got married. I am 26, and I live alone in a 3rd floor bachelor’s pad in the center of Cebu City. I’ve got a laundrywoman who complains about the pains of being a single mother, and a building manager that who rants about the noise coming from my room, in the middle of the night. I’m an editor for two online newsletters with subscribers from across the globe. I’ve got a pet cactus that I call Berto (although I don’t even know what kind of cactus it is --- it's small, knobby, and has no spines at all!). I’ve got a mountain bike (5-speed, I think, I don’t know.) that I use to go to work. It’s a ten-minute bike ride to work, through rows of boardinghouses and commercial buildings.
At the end of the day, I hang out at the Lizard Lounge, with a couple of old college buddies and friends I made from companies I used to work at. We talk about work, about the girls we’re going out with at the moment, what positions make for the best intimate experience, old college jokes, random farts, and about going to Toledo for some wall climbing on some far-off weekend.
Then I go home. If I’m not drunk, I turn on some Bob Marley or RATM, depending on my mood, and log in some writing. I also write for a local mag, just for practice and for the fun of it. Around 3AM, I turn in for the day.
I bet that you’re thinking, I’ve got a pretty lame, if not pathetic, lifestyle. I’d tell you to your face that it wouldn’t surprise me if you were a little bit jealous of my place in the sun. I’ve been living alone since I was 19, and I’m pretty sure that I’ve had enough practice. Acquaintances and friends have come up to me and said, “Man, it’s soooo cool that you live alone. And single? ! Think of all the parties and girls --- Man, that’s cooool!” But I think that expression a wee bit childish.
The reality is, a lot of people, especially among my peers, are wondering why I’m not married yet --- You know what I mean. My older brother, Kenny, says that being single is simply a phase everyone goes through before they start thinking about marriage and that what I’m doing right now is actually just playing the field before I do settle down to spread my seed. I really don’t agree with that. Sure, every now and then, I would want to have someone to go with to some fancy place for dinner, perhaps a movie, or even share a romantic evening at home watching DVDs. But I don’t think anything long-term would suit me.
Being single is a lifestyle, not a phase. It’s not like puberty where your voice starts squeaking then goes baritone on you. There is commitment involved, though not of a romantic kind. And since it’s a lifestyle, there is always a “downside” to it. My being single seems to irk a lot of my married friends. That being single is such an empty life, and that being single is equivalent to being too immature to keep a relationship. I hate it when that kind of thinking happens.
Sandy, a friend of mine, likes to say that people who are frightened at the prospect of being alone should get a life. I don’t particularly agree with his view because the whole point of getting married, or even being single, is to be happy. I’m happy. I enjoy being single and I don’t need a romantic relationship to define my happiness. I have a lot of friends who have had romantic relationships before but are now single, and are enjoying life. They’re happy.
On the other hand, I also have married friends who relish being married. The trick is not thinking that being single is better than being married (or else, we’d have more priests and nuns!). It’s finding happiness and pleasure at being single (Or married, whichever the case may be). That, perhaps, is the question that needs to be answered, or else, being single is going to suck.
For me, it’s giving my impulsive side free rein. I get to do my own thing, without having to worry anyone about it. I can go to the beach on my mountain bike. I can get home from work and just take in a movie, or go to the Lounge and hang out. On weekends, I can just wake up and hang out in front of the TV. In the evening, I can take in a movie or I could go to a poetry reading. Or attend a multilevel marketing seminar for the heck of it.
But it’s freedom with a healthy measure of responsibility. You’re a not kid left with a fridge full of goodies. You’re a 26-year old guy with a list of groceries for the whole month, bills to pay, a room to clean, underwear to wash, getting sick without someone to look out for you, and, in my case, an oblivious plant to water. These things keep you grounded --- they keep me grounded. These are the things that commercials don’t show.
Another good thing about being single is that people sort of depend on you. On occasion, I’ve been: the official “shoulder to cry on”; an amateur marriage counselor; at one time, a private detective; an escort to the prom; a pretend boyfriend (for girl friends who can’t say no to a guy they don’t like); a favorite companion to grocery shopping; and the occasional nursemaid to friends with broken bones or hearts. But it’s okay, because I enjoy the company, the camaraderie. Even being needed has a warm effect on us, single people.
My parents do get fussy over my lifestyle. They would cajole me saying, “When are you going to get a girl, Jake?” or “When are we going to meet your better half?” And I retort, “I’m having the time of my life! I am happy!” At least, that’s what I keep telling them. I’ve also been best man four times, and I’m not complaining. I’ve got a great pad, a great job, a social and emotional support group of friends, an active sex life, a regular gym to go to, and six brothers (all married) who think that I should stick to being single because married life doesn’t suit me. I don’t mind. I even I agree with them. Except during Christmas when all their kids expect gifts from their favorite uncle.
[Something I did for something that I now enjoy doing... I did some rewriting so that it would be presentable here... hehehehehe :) ]
Monday, April 12, 2004
-------------------
For a moment there, I thought she had committed suicide, or worse. There was a blind gap of five days that she didn't call, or visit. I was afraid that she was overcome by her sadness, stretched to a point where the only solace was in death itself.
For almost a year now, I've known her --- but it seemed like she's always been there na. Gina is a friend, an officemate at one time, a pal in times of despair and alcohol-induced laughter, and a shoulder to lean on for Joy and me, when our in-laws got too much for us. She was there when I got married, and was even a ninang to our eldest. She was a picture of happiness as she held the bawling 3-month old Jose Miguel Reyes.
When I met that accident last December, she came and comforted Joy and the kids. She had become more than a friend to Joy and myself. She had become family.
She was Gina to us, but she was Auntie Gina to Mico. Even Joy's grownup nieces and nephews called her Auntie or Tita. And even though she never married (which Joy and I found rather childish at one point), her pride and joy were kids. She had becom a permanent fixture in Sunday Family lunches and outings. Occasionally, Alvin, Louie, or Martin would join us.
Eventually, she did end up opening a small school for kids. She loved kids, and teaching came natural to her (too natural in fact that she had a short albeit steamy tryst with a student when she tried her hand at college teaching --- she never taught college after that). To her students, she wasn't just Ms. Gina, she was the grownup who understood them. She was a playmate and a confidant to some, and a hundred feet tall to others.
(.... and then, I lost steam. man... i have to develop my skill in sentimental story-telling....)
--------------------------------
For a moment there, I thought she had committed suicide, or worse. There was a blind gap of five days that she didn't call, or visit. I was afraid that she was overcome by her sadness, stretched to a point where the only solace was in death itself.
For almost a year now, I've known her --- but it seemed like she's always been there na. Gina is a friend, an officemate at one time, a pal in times of despair and alcohol-induced laughter, and a shoulder to lean on for Joy and me, when our in-laws got too much for us. She was there when I got married, and was even a ninang to our eldest. She was a picture of happiness as she held the bawling 3-month old Jose Miguel Reyes.
When I met that accident last December, she came and comforted Joy and the kids. She had become more than a friend to Joy and myself. She had become family.
She was Gina to us, but she was Auntie Gina to Mico. Even Joy's grownup nieces and nephews called her Auntie or Tita. And even though she never married (which Joy and I found rather childish at one point), her pride and joy were kids. She had becom a permanent fixture in Sunday Family lunches and outings. Occasionally, Alvin, Louie, or Martin would join us.
Eventually, she did end up opening a small school for kids. She loved kids, and teaching came natural to her (too natural in fact that she had a short albeit steamy tryst with a student when she tried her hand at college teaching --- she never taught college after that). To her students, she wasn't just Ms. Gina, she was the grownup who understood them. She was a playmate and a confidant to some, and a hundred feet tall to others.
(.... and then, I lost steam. man... i have to develop my skill in sentimental story-telling....)
--------------------------------
Tuesday, April 06, 2004
-----------------------------------
time: 8.38PM (Bigfoot Time)
place: itzamatch office
I miss my girlfriend. She's there waiting for me so we could go to her place together. Then, around 11 or 12, i leave for home.
It paints a nice picture, actually: A young woman, ready a romance pocketbook. A glass of iced tea sweating on the table, as if anticipating the next sip. Her right leg would be dangling over the other and occasionally, she would look up to check if he's arrived. The guy on the other hand, is working furiously (on other days, tonight, he's killing time doing this blog, after finishing half his quota early, and being stumped by the other half --- aaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrgh!) to finish his work so he could be there early.
A little after nine, he arrives and gives her a big smile. She gives him a sweet understanding one, and raises her head and he leans down to kiss her on the forehead. The young couple then takes a cab and hurries to her house (where her maldita na mama is waiting). They spend the next hour or so catching and then, it's time for him to leave. It's ten minutes past 12 (no! he's not going to turn into an eggplant, you oaf! but that would've been interesting to see...)
So, he takes the next habal-habal out of the subdivision in Canduman, Mandaue City. An hour and half, one habal-habal, two jeepney rides and a traysikad later, he's home in Barangay Punta Prinsesa, Cebu City.
damn. i hate the distance.
time: 8.38PM (Bigfoot Time)
place: itzamatch office
I miss my girlfriend. She's there waiting for me so we could go to her place together. Then, around 11 or 12, i leave for home.
It paints a nice picture, actually: A young woman, ready a romance pocketbook. A glass of iced tea sweating on the table, as if anticipating the next sip. Her right leg would be dangling over the other and occasionally, she would look up to check if he's arrived. The guy on the other hand, is working furiously (on other days, tonight, he's killing time doing this blog, after finishing half his quota early, and being stumped by the other half --- aaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrgh!) to finish his work so he could be there early.
A little after nine, he arrives and gives her a big smile. She gives him a sweet understanding one, and raises her head and he leans down to kiss her on the forehead. The young couple then takes a cab and hurries to her house (where her maldita na mama is waiting). They spend the next hour or so catching and then, it's time for him to leave. It's ten minutes past 12 (no! he's not going to turn into an eggplant, you oaf! but that would've been interesting to see...)
So, he takes the next habal-habal out of the subdivision in Canduman, Mandaue City. An hour and half, one habal-habal, two jeepney rides and a traysikad later, he's home in Barangay Punta Prinsesa, Cebu City.
damn. i hate the distance.
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
-------------------------------------
[Martin, a really good friend of mine, sent me this email after he read my script, "CannonCreep." He's in the medical field, so that's probably why he was able to get into the what ifs and the nastiness of it all. or, he just felt like the CannonCreep, which really scares me just right about now.... mama....... help]
for your blog, buddy [but its not too long]:
Look Behind. What Do You See?
by Martin Perry B. Juan
In retrospect, i have realized that butch reyes' unreleased CannonCreep has more to it than meets the eye. To the public, it shows its face as a "whodunnit" made for the screen, but to a handful of cult-like followers since its inception, CannonCreep holds deeper root. The story subtly screams inward to the abyss of what we very familiarly know as -- ME. Yourself.
Why? listen.
The story is mostly set in the restroom area of an office. At first glance, the setting seems fairly large but it closes-in as the plot develops. It becomes claustrophobic insiduously. Now while the brutal act of the killings are not graphically told, it is unmistakably felt. Discreetly, amidst what happens around it, a mirror hangs on the far wall. It is not incidental that it is suspended there. It has a purpose. Its existence in that place is frightening -- the mirror lets you in on a secret.
Though I did not see it at first, the story slowly revealed the dark information that it had been waiting to tell. Cannoncreep personified, stares back at you from the looking glass. A gnarly finger pointed at you!
As I try to catch my breath, the revelation becomes a rude awakening. Each one of us matches the profile of the perpetrator at a point or another. We unwittingly fall into the trap of becoming the cannoncreep in a blink of an eye. No, nothing of mystical nature here, just plain and simple skewed neuron-deaths that brings us to the brink of our sanity. I hesitantly let air fill my lungs for a moment while irrationally thinking that the unexplained behavior could be infectious. But of course it does not work that way, it will happen to anyone anytime. There is no escape, not unless your knuckles become white from desperately maintaining lucidity. The hum of the airconditioning system provides a temporary interval of logical reason but I fear the too-real chance of taking a single step into the beyond and seeing my own face in the mirror . . .
a horrific countenance of painful madness.
[3:29PM, March 18, 2004]
[Martin, a really good friend of mine, sent me this email after he read my script, "CannonCreep." He's in the medical field, so that's probably why he was able to get into the what ifs and the nastiness of it all. or, he just felt like the CannonCreep, which really scares me just right about now.... mama....... help]
for your blog, buddy [but its not too long]:
Look Behind. What Do You See?
by Martin Perry B. Juan
In retrospect, i have realized that butch reyes' unreleased CannonCreep has more to it than meets the eye. To the public, it shows its face as a "whodunnit" made for the screen, but to a handful of cult-like followers since its inception, CannonCreep holds deeper root. The story subtly screams inward to the abyss of what we very familiarly know as -- ME. Yourself.
Why? listen.
The story is mostly set in the restroom area of an office. At first glance, the setting seems fairly large but it closes-in as the plot develops. It becomes claustrophobic insiduously. Now while the brutal act of the killings are not graphically told, it is unmistakably felt. Discreetly, amidst what happens around it, a mirror hangs on the far wall. It is not incidental that it is suspended there. It has a purpose. Its existence in that place is frightening -- the mirror lets you in on a secret.
Though I did not see it at first, the story slowly revealed the dark information that it had been waiting to tell. Cannoncreep personified, stares back at you from the looking glass. A gnarly finger pointed at you!
As I try to catch my breath, the revelation becomes a rude awakening. Each one of us matches the profile of the perpetrator at a point or another. We unwittingly fall into the trap of becoming the cannoncreep in a blink of an eye. No, nothing of mystical nature here, just plain and simple skewed neuron-deaths that brings us to the brink of our sanity. I hesitantly let air fill my lungs for a moment while irrationally thinking that the unexplained behavior could be infectious. But of course it does not work that way, it will happen to anyone anytime. There is no escape, not unless your knuckles become white from desperately maintaining lucidity. The hum of the airconditioning system provides a temporary interval of logical reason but I fear the too-real chance of taking a single step into the beyond and seeing my own face in the mirror . . .
a horrific countenance of painful madness.
[3:29PM, March 18, 2004]
Thursday, February 26, 2004
------------------------
blogging is not for everyone's pleasure; it is for myself and my own opinions. people may read and not understand; they may read and find my stories and ideas different, and even offensive. ultimately, blogging asks: do you have what it takes to say what you want to say, to do what you want to do, and to try anything that will stretch your comfort zone a few inches on every side, and perhaps, broaden your mind and experience? yes.
oh well..... so much for hoping for peace on earth.
blogging is not for everyone's pleasure; it is for myself and my own opinions. people may read and not understand; they may read and find my stories and ideas different, and even offensive. ultimately, blogging asks: do you have what it takes to say what you want to say, to do what you want to do, and to try anything that will stretch your comfort zone a few inches on every side, and perhaps, broaden your mind and experience? yes.
oh well..... so much for hoping for peace on earth.
Monday, February 23, 2004
--------------------------
Nontuition
“The only way to say I love you is not to
The only way that my heart beats is by beating
The only way for you to see is to seek
My love is not for the birds
Words carried into the air, light as feathers
My love will slap you on the cheek
It is hot and ardent, beating as fists beat
On naked skins
Leaving no mark, except in the heart
I love you
I beat you
My love beats for you
Beating you
Beating hard and hot
On naked skins
So that you may know
So that your heart feels what the birds cannot.”
We, men, are united by a common cause, a common grievance: maldita wives and bossy girlfriends who rule our lives with an iron fist. Is there anything we can do about it? Is there a way for us to fight back? Of course! But if my nontuition (the male equivalent of a woman’s intuition) is correct, all our plans have been doomed from the start.
To endure sacrifice in the name of love is one thing. To endure a cold shoulder and the possibility of a lonely weekend all because one somehow made a mistake of not texting her when you got home because, a) you used up all your load on a previous spat, and b) your mom won’t let you borrow her phone because you’re 26 years old and you have a job (read: “Asa man diay na padung imung sweldo, ‘dong?”). Or worse: she calls you the office, overhears your opportunistic officemates teasing you over the nonexistent resident hottie (it’s true! I swear!! There is "no" resident office hottie!), and calmly warns that you don’t visit the house for the next thirty days, or else.
It’s a war of the sexes out here and the men are losing! What do you do if your better half (see!? But I’ll let that go, this one time...) asks you what you think of, say, her friends. Which do you choose? The truth, or the truth according the handbook on "Trying to Guess What’s Really Going On In That Manipulative Yet Adorable Little Mind of Hers?" Would you agree that women always have something up their sleeves? That a question is never a question, but a series of interlinked, step-by-step interrogative statements designed for the evisceration of your ego and humanity, leaving you with nothing but the clothes on your back and the gnawing feeling that somebody did a Hannibal on you and served it up with a side order of mashed potatoes (KFC rules!!!!). No one wins against a woman. A knife fight out in the alley is simpler and less complicated.
I believe it’s because of that danged sixth sense (and even 7th and 8th senses --- ack!) of theirs! I believe that, at times, their intuition becomes so highly attuned that it literally finds fault where there is none! We men are far more fortuitous because we have nontuition: If it doesn’t concern us, we don’t care. Even if it does concern us, it still has to be reviewed before action is taken. Review in this case would be sitting in front of the PS2, battling the evil entities and other nasty things in Rygar.
I think most women would like nothing more than to nip anything that can be nipped, at the bud, so to speak (L. Bobbit may or may not fall under this category, depending on which side of the coin you prefer). They will make you promise to come home immediately after work. If you say the travel time is forty minutes, to her it means you’ll be there exactly forty minutes after 5PM.
And if you are going to think about arguing that JRR Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings was simply based on the Bible and not the antithesis of the Bible, don’t. Spawn of Satan would be the weakest curse they’ll hurl at you. And what’s the deal with them being able to go just about anywhere without having to tell us, but we, men, can’t?! I&^%#@$(*T$(*Q#T*(^%#@!
Emi, our office resident psychotherapist and defender of women’s rights and lefts, once told me that the reason women are acerbic is because they want “pamarayeg,” --- roughly put, they like to be doted on.
Ooookay... and I’m long-lost fifth member of the Teletubbies who just returned from a spiritual voyage to the Amazon.
It is a hotly contested topic among macho superfreaks, rock ‘n’ roll gods, woman-whipped men, Mr. Swabes, and men who fawn and swoon over women like they are God’s gift to Mankind, and not a pain in the side (we will call them, the Masochists.). Buy a girl a box of sweets and she’ll ask why you’re two minutes late. Try surprising her with take-out and she’ll blame you for making her break her diet. Whisper sweet nothings in her ear, and she’ll ask what gives, what are you suddenly sweet to her. I admit, we may have our own little faults, but making an issue out of being late for two minutes is not my definition of a spat --- it’s absurd! Then again, it could only be me. I mean, not all Macho Superfreaks, Rock ‘n’ Roll Gods, Woman-whipped Men, Mr. Swabes, and men who fawn and swoon over women like they are God’s gift to Mankind, and not a pain in the side (yep, we still call them, the Masochists), would agree with my view but --- who cares?!!
The fact of the matter is there is no other love than that of a woman. Not just some succulent sylvan-shaped, sweet and innocent silly little girl in a Japanese schoolgirl outfit! We go gaga over full and mature svelte-bodied, intelligent and witty, patient and understanding, and LOVING, women. And we go gaga over women who know what they want and are not afraid to ask for it --- and this specifically refers to wanting us for the rest of their lives.
I hate to admit it, but I’m whipped.
(Sigh...) I’m sucker for happy endings.
Nontuition
“The only way to say I love you is not to
The only way that my heart beats is by beating
The only way for you to see is to seek
My love is not for the birds
Words carried into the air, light as feathers
My love will slap you on the cheek
It is hot and ardent, beating as fists beat
On naked skins
Leaving no mark, except in the heart
I love you
I beat you
My love beats for you
Beating you
Beating hard and hot
On naked skins
So that you may know
So that your heart feels what the birds cannot.”
We, men, are united by a common cause, a common grievance: maldita wives and bossy girlfriends who rule our lives with an iron fist. Is there anything we can do about it? Is there a way for us to fight back? Of course! But if my nontuition (the male equivalent of a woman’s intuition) is correct, all our plans have been doomed from the start.
To endure sacrifice in the name of love is one thing. To endure a cold shoulder and the possibility of a lonely weekend all because one somehow made a mistake of not texting her when you got home because, a) you used up all your load on a previous spat, and b) your mom won’t let you borrow her phone because you’re 26 years old and you have a job (read: “Asa man diay na padung imung sweldo, ‘dong?”). Or worse: she calls you the office, overhears your opportunistic officemates teasing you over the nonexistent resident hottie (it’s true! I swear!! There is "no" resident office hottie!), and calmly warns that you don’t visit the house for the next thirty days, or else.
It’s a war of the sexes out here and the men are losing! What do you do if your better half (see!? But I’ll let that go, this one time...) asks you what you think of, say, her friends. Which do you choose? The truth, or the truth according the handbook on "Trying to Guess What’s Really Going On In That Manipulative Yet Adorable Little Mind of Hers?" Would you agree that women always have something up their sleeves? That a question is never a question, but a series of interlinked, step-by-step interrogative statements designed for the evisceration of your ego and humanity, leaving you with nothing but the clothes on your back and the gnawing feeling that somebody did a Hannibal on you and served it up with a side order of mashed potatoes (KFC rules!!!!). No one wins against a woman. A knife fight out in the alley is simpler and less complicated.
I believe it’s because of that danged sixth sense (and even 7th and 8th senses --- ack!) of theirs! I believe that, at times, their intuition becomes so highly attuned that it literally finds fault where there is none! We men are far more fortuitous because we have nontuition: If it doesn’t concern us, we don’t care. Even if it does concern us, it still has to be reviewed before action is taken. Review in this case would be sitting in front of the PS2, battling the evil entities and other nasty things in Rygar.
I think most women would like nothing more than to nip anything that can be nipped, at the bud, so to speak (L. Bobbit may or may not fall under this category, depending on which side of the coin you prefer). They will make you promise to come home immediately after work. If you say the travel time is forty minutes, to her it means you’ll be there exactly forty minutes after 5PM.
And if you are going to think about arguing that JRR Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings was simply based on the Bible and not the antithesis of the Bible, don’t. Spawn of Satan would be the weakest curse they’ll hurl at you. And what’s the deal with them being able to go just about anywhere without having to tell us, but we, men, can’t?! I&^%#@$(*T$(*Q#T*(^%#@!
Emi, our office resident psychotherapist and defender of women’s rights and lefts, once told me that the reason women are acerbic is because they want “pamarayeg,” --- roughly put, they like to be doted on.
Ooookay... and I’m long-lost fifth member of the Teletubbies who just returned from a spiritual voyage to the Amazon.
It is a hotly contested topic among macho superfreaks, rock ‘n’ roll gods, woman-whipped men, Mr. Swabes, and men who fawn and swoon over women like they are God’s gift to Mankind, and not a pain in the side (we will call them, the Masochists.). Buy a girl a box of sweets and she’ll ask why you’re two minutes late. Try surprising her with take-out and she’ll blame you for making her break her diet. Whisper sweet nothings in her ear, and she’ll ask what gives, what are you suddenly sweet to her. I admit, we may have our own little faults, but making an issue out of being late for two minutes is not my definition of a spat --- it’s absurd! Then again, it could only be me. I mean, not all Macho Superfreaks, Rock ‘n’ Roll Gods, Woman-whipped Men, Mr. Swabes, and men who fawn and swoon over women like they are God’s gift to Mankind, and not a pain in the side (yep, we still call them, the Masochists), would agree with my view but --- who cares?!!
The fact of the matter is there is no other love than that of a woman. Not just some succulent sylvan-shaped, sweet and innocent silly little girl in a Japanese schoolgirl outfit! We go gaga over full and mature svelte-bodied, intelligent and witty, patient and understanding, and LOVING, women. And we go gaga over women who know what they want and are not afraid to ask for it --- and this specifically refers to wanting us for the rest of their lives.
I hate to admit it, but I’m whipped.
(Sigh...) I’m sucker for happy endings.
---------------------------
Lost in trance-lation
Psst...
Ssssssst!
...
(uh-hurm!)
...
Psst...
ssst... I love you.
oist! Enough of this: Ani na lang...
sendbacktheflowersigaveyouwheniwascourtingyou
imdiggingagraveandputtingintoiteverythingthatremindsme
thatiamanordinaryman.
Weshouldstopthischaradethisdramaofthecenturytitlecontender.
I am tired of running after you and running out of breath.
(1:07PM/10 February 2004)
====================================
Lost in trance-lation
Psst...
Ssssssst!
...
(uh-hurm!)
...
Psst...
ssst... I love you.
oist! Enough of this: Ani na lang...
sendbacktheflowersigaveyouwheniwascourtingyou
imdiggingagraveandputtingintoiteverythingthatremindsme
thatiamanordinaryman.
Weshouldstopthischaradethisdramaofthecenturytitlecontender.
I am tired of running after you and running out of breath.
(1:07PM/10 February 2004)
====================================
--------------------
Dear Intoy,
When you grow up and start having friends of your own, and start dealing with other people in different situations and environments, always remember one thing: Be true to yourself. Never --- NEVER, compromise what you believe in.
NEVER compromise what you are. Be proud of who you are and never let anybody talk you down. You are who you are and you should be proud of it. It doesn't matter what other people think --- what do they know? What matters is that you know who you are, you are happy with what you are and the experiences that have helped shape you in what you've become, and that you have what it takes to express what you feel, not backing down, not compromising your principles.
Be true to yourself and always stick up for what you believe in. Never allow anyone to talk you down, nor let anyone to dictate your actions, your words, your principles. Your road is the road that you decide to take. Choose your own path and be responsible for your actions.
Above all, Never lie to nor doubt yourself. Do not let yourself be lulled into false philosophies and ways of thinking --- such ideas can only come from people who are intent in enriching themselves through your efforts. They are parasites that mean to suck your life out and they are done with you, leave your carcass on the gutter for the dogs to fight over. Be strong and never sway to any music except your heartsong.
Be aware of your actions and always be conscientious in action. As you must be strong, so must you be kind. Express your will, your creativity, your desire and emotions in the most colorful and most dynamic ways possible. But never impose your will on anyone. Each person is unique as you are unique, and they have every right to be as unique and creative as you.
When you grow up, always remember that the experiences that you encounter are the very things that help shape you into whatever person you become. Therefore you must relish each experience and put to heart the lessons sown from these experiences, for they will become part of who you are and be the cornerstones of your character and principles. You must be strong for only in yourself, can you find the strength to live. No one can live your life for you.
When you grow up, you must never stop caring. When you grow up, you must always smile. When you grow up, you will have the knowledge and the song of the spheres to guide you. Use them to teach others of the lessons of your life, and the great and magnificent people who have come before you.
But first....
.... please wipe off all that make-up on your face and take off Ate's miniskirt and Mama's shoes. It's too early for you to be experimenting, boy. When you're a little bigger, then we'll talk, and perhaps, if you are still resolute in mind, I will teach you the ways of becoming truly free, truly yourself.
Love,
Kuya Spartacus.
Dear Intoy,
When you grow up and start having friends of your own, and start dealing with other people in different situations and environments, always remember one thing: Be true to yourself. Never --- NEVER, compromise what you believe in.
NEVER compromise what you are. Be proud of who you are and never let anybody talk you down. You are who you are and you should be proud of it. It doesn't matter what other people think --- what do they know? What matters is that you know who you are, you are happy with what you are and the experiences that have helped shape you in what you've become, and that you have what it takes to express what you feel, not backing down, not compromising your principles.
Be true to yourself and always stick up for what you believe in. Never allow anyone to talk you down, nor let anyone to dictate your actions, your words, your principles. Your road is the road that you decide to take. Choose your own path and be responsible for your actions.
Above all, Never lie to nor doubt yourself. Do not let yourself be lulled into false philosophies and ways of thinking --- such ideas can only come from people who are intent in enriching themselves through your efforts. They are parasites that mean to suck your life out and they are done with you, leave your carcass on the gutter for the dogs to fight over. Be strong and never sway to any music except your heartsong.
Be aware of your actions and always be conscientious in action. As you must be strong, so must you be kind. Express your will, your creativity, your desire and emotions in the most colorful and most dynamic ways possible. But never impose your will on anyone. Each person is unique as you are unique, and they have every right to be as unique and creative as you.
When you grow up, always remember that the experiences that you encounter are the very things that help shape you into whatever person you become. Therefore you must relish each experience and put to heart the lessons sown from these experiences, for they will become part of who you are and be the cornerstones of your character and principles. You must be strong for only in yourself, can you find the strength to live. No one can live your life for you.
When you grow up, you must never stop caring. When you grow up, you must always smile. When you grow up, you will have the knowledge and the song of the spheres to guide you. Use them to teach others of the lessons of your life, and the great and magnificent people who have come before you.
But first....
.... please wipe off all that make-up on your face and take off Ate's miniskirt and Mama's shoes. It's too early for you to be experimenting, boy. When you're a little bigger, then we'll talk, and perhaps, if you are still resolute in mind, I will teach you the ways of becoming truly free, truly yourself.
Love,
Kuya Spartacus.
Saturday, February 21, 2004
---------------------------
Bounce
Bounce off the wall
Bounce
As you rotate in the air
Be ready
A shock of white
Off-white
Paint peeling
Dust lightly tethered
By dust-hooks
Bounce away
Away from the wall
Shatter whatever hold
The dust has on the wall
Peel them off
As you hurtle to the wall
Come away without the anger
Bounce it off the wall
Or make lemonade
Tickled pink
And laugh
All your troubles away
Or
Bounce it off the wall
(3.21pm/26 December 2003)
====================================
Bounce
Bounce off the wall
Bounce
As you rotate in the air
Be ready
A shock of white
Off-white
Paint peeling
Dust lightly tethered
By dust-hooks
Bounce away
Away from the wall
Shatter whatever hold
The dust has on the wall
Peel them off
As you hurtle to the wall
Come away without the anger
Bounce it off the wall
Or make lemonade
Tickled pink
And laugh
All your troubles away
Or
Bounce it off the wall
(3.21pm/26 December 2003)
====================================
Thursday, February 12, 2004
---------------------------
I SPEAK
I speak
In dreams I seek
I keep
The poem I
I whisper
I touch
I explore
In dreams I adore
The poem I
In rapture sleep
In vagueness seek
In angst adore
In dreams I bind
The poem I
Dream-bound
Vague dreams
Angst-bound
The poem I
(3.26pm/17 December 2003)
====================================
I SPEAK
I speak
In dreams I seek
I keep
The poem I
I whisper
I touch
I explore
In dreams I adore
The poem I
In rapture sleep
In vagueness seek
In angst adore
In dreams I bind
The poem I
Dream-bound
Vague dreams
Angst-bound
The poem I
(3.26pm/17 December 2003)
====================================
---------------------------
Alvin, Geda and I went for a short cigarette break outside and talk turned to what we might name our kids. The almanac came up (I didn't know that name-giving had its own almanac...), then biblical names. Imagine calling your kid Gene (full name: Genesis Exodus Deuteronomy Numbers Proverbs L. Bugtai), or calling your sixth and seventh kid names from the NT (New Testament) like Armageddon, Revelation, or even Galatians. Galatians wouldn't work for a boy, unless he's effeminate or something.
I was named after three people: my nickname starts with a "B" because my dad was nicknamed Boy --- an affectation in our town in Leyte, especially if one happens to be the Junior. My first name was taken from my paternal lolo. Almost every generation in our family (Papa's side) has a "Jose," lurking at the wings, wearing round silver-rimmed glasses, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, and the ever-present Marlboro Red pinched by two digits now stained amber-brown by the nicotine. I don't know whom I was named for when I was given a second name. The saint on my birthdate was female, my older and less neurotic bro was already named after my dad, and I think one of my aunts objected to me being named after an apostle. I don't know why. I thought I looked angelic when I was a baby --- What gives? Talk did come up about it and it was floated around that my second name may have been taken from an ex of my mom's... but how could she have an ex? She grew up in an exclusive school for girls' dorm and had a rabid acid-mouthed mother who swore in Waray and Spanish with the ease of a ballerina and the sophistication of a Philosophy professor. And Mama says that Papa was the first and only man in her life. Okay. And we're moving, we're moving...
If I have a girl, I was planning to call it, este, her, Pia Alexi. But my better half vehemently disagrees. I had to relent, I did see her point. Naming your kids after your crushes is definitely out of the question. I mean, would you name your child Judy Ann (leave the Santos out. It's damned too obvious.) My current flavor is Juliana Palermo. Legs to die for. I could name one kid Juliana and the other Palermo and the third Sicily, and the fourth, Vito.... and we're moving... moving....
I have a friend, in fact a fellow seminarian, who was named after the Roman senator, Diogenes. Last I heard from him, he had confessed to have entertained ideas about taking up Fine Arts in Tarlac State U, playing for the football varsity and going off the deep end. That was seven, eight years ago. I haven't heard from him. God, I hope he hasn't gone off the deep end and had become a cross-dresser...
[For comments and reactions, feel free: jootzman@yahoo.com]
Alvin, Geda and I went for a short cigarette break outside and talk turned to what we might name our kids. The almanac came up (I didn't know that name-giving had its own almanac...), then biblical names. Imagine calling your kid Gene (full name: Genesis Exodus Deuteronomy Numbers Proverbs L. Bugtai), or calling your sixth and seventh kid names from the NT (New Testament) like Armageddon, Revelation, or even Galatians. Galatians wouldn't work for a boy, unless he's effeminate or something.
I was named after three people: my nickname starts with a "B" because my dad was nicknamed Boy --- an affectation in our town in Leyte, especially if one happens to be the Junior. My first name was taken from my paternal lolo. Almost every generation in our family (Papa's side) has a "Jose," lurking at the wings, wearing round silver-rimmed glasses, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, and the ever-present Marlboro Red pinched by two digits now stained amber-brown by the nicotine. I don't know whom I was named for when I was given a second name. The saint on my birthdate was female, my older and less neurotic bro was already named after my dad, and I think one of my aunts objected to me being named after an apostle. I don't know why. I thought I looked angelic when I was a baby --- What gives? Talk did come up about it and it was floated around that my second name may have been taken from an ex of my mom's... but how could she have an ex? She grew up in an exclusive school for girls' dorm and had a rabid acid-mouthed mother who swore in Waray and Spanish with the ease of a ballerina and the sophistication of a Philosophy professor. And Mama says that Papa was the first and only man in her life. Okay. And we're moving, we're moving...
If I have a girl, I was planning to call it, este, her, Pia Alexi. But my better half vehemently disagrees. I had to relent, I did see her point. Naming your kids after your crushes is definitely out of the question. I mean, would you name your child Judy Ann (leave the Santos out. It's damned too obvious.) My current flavor is Juliana Palermo. Legs to die for. I could name one kid Juliana and the other Palermo and the third Sicily, and the fourth, Vito.... and we're moving... moving....
I have a friend, in fact a fellow seminarian, who was named after the Roman senator, Diogenes. Last I heard from him, he had confessed to have entertained ideas about taking up Fine Arts in Tarlac State U, playing for the football varsity and going off the deep end. That was seven, eight years ago. I haven't heard from him. God, I hope he hasn't gone off the deep end and had become a cross-dresser...
[For comments and reactions, feel free: jootzman@yahoo.com]
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
---------------------------
If there were a moment that I would be hesitant, that I would shrink away from, hiding in a corner, facing that intersection of two blank walls, now would be that moment.
You have beguiled me. You have trapped me in crystal. I am slave to your smile, to your voice. In the realms of touch, sight and taste, in thought, in dream, in timelessness, in the realm of shadow and light, in the realm of reason and emotion, you beset my peace. You have trapped me, taking away my breath, holding it in your white slender hands. And in that cusp of half-living, half-dying, in anticipation and in dread, I can see your eyes eternal and beautiful.
I am scattered to the four winds, torn apart by the dogs of war and despair, rent to pieces by the vultures of the plains. Yet in pain, the light that you shine envelops me. In torment, your touch is warm and comforting. In emptiness, the winds whisper your name. The night is fragrant with the sound of your song.
I have kissed you. I have touched you. I have held you in my arms in the crook of midnight. I alone stand in the heat of your embrace. I alone will not burn black in the fire of your passion. I will walk the flames and offer my ashes in votive adoration of love.
If there were a moment that I would be hesitant, that I would shrink away from, hiding in a corner, facing that intersection of two blank walls, now would be that moment.
You have beguiled me. You have trapped me in crystal. I am slave to your smile, to your voice. In the realms of touch, sight and taste, in thought, in dream, in timelessness, in the realm of shadow and light, in the realm of reason and emotion, you beset my peace. You have trapped me, taking away my breath, holding it in your white slender hands. And in that cusp of half-living, half-dying, in anticipation and in dread, I can see your eyes eternal and beautiful.
I am scattered to the four winds, torn apart by the dogs of war and despair, rent to pieces by the vultures of the plains. Yet in pain, the light that you shine envelops me. In torment, your touch is warm and comforting. In emptiness, the winds whisper your name. The night is fragrant with the sound of your song.
I have kissed you. I have touched you. I have held you in my arms in the crook of midnight. I alone stand in the heat of your embrace. I alone will not burn black in the fire of your passion. I will walk the flames and offer my ashes in votive adoration of love.
Monday, January 26, 2004
Geda's grocery list for this month (January):
---------------------------------------------
1) Lysol spray, the white one (I swear, kumapal ang kuko ko...)
2) Powder detergent (Tide Ultra Nature Fresh with Mintirinse)
3) Dishwashing liquid refill (Joy, the one with the Green Apple flavor and Vit. A, for strong eyes.)
4) Hooks (for keys)
5) Can-opener (for cans)
6) Soap – 3 (Johnson's Baby Soap)
7) Shampoo – 3 (Rejoice Rich / Clairol Herbal Essences, the pink one)
8) Conditioner – 3 (Creamsilk, blue)
9) Yakisoba – 10 (staple food for tigers -- that's me and my bf, si Tiger. MEEEEOWwwwrrrrr...)
10) Corned beef - 2 (Libby. not the one sold at the tindahan downstairs, ha.)
11) Sausage – 3 (Libby's Vienna Sausage... mathalap kathi.)
12) Mentos (the fresh fighter)
13) Creamer – 2 (for my creamy coffee)
14) Sugar ½ kilo - 3 (for my ass...thma --- "Wha---?!" - jootzman)
15) Eggs ½ dozen - 3 (eggs in my coffee...)
16) Skyflakes
17) Salted eggs – 2 (ehem...)
18) Rice – 4 kilos (Ganador)
19) Rice keeper / container (what do they call this? oh, I don't know)
20) Black socks (must be sexy, silky to the touch, and most of all, black)
21) Victoria’s Secret cologne (pamper, pamper, pamper...)
22) Scotch tape (for all my small gasgas and bruises. it's cheaper that band-aid)
23) Plastic cover (for the Sicilian)
24) Double-sided tape (not for the Sicilian)
25) White-out (for the cracks on the walls)
26) Towel for Sunday foot reflexology sessions (hmm... Inday, how do you call a towel for my foot reflexology session every Sunday? i dunno what to call it coz handtowels are simply too small and bath towels are simply too big. it's somewhere in between... Duh.)
---------------------------------------------
1) Lysol spray, the white one (I swear, kumapal ang kuko ko...)
2) Powder detergent (Tide Ultra Nature Fresh with Mintirinse)
3) Dishwashing liquid refill (Joy, the one with the Green Apple flavor and Vit. A, for strong eyes.)
4) Hooks (for keys)
5) Can-opener (for cans)
6) Soap – 3 (Johnson's Baby Soap)
7) Shampoo – 3 (Rejoice Rich / Clairol Herbal Essences, the pink one)
8) Conditioner – 3 (Creamsilk, blue)
9) Yakisoba – 10 (staple food for tigers -- that's me and my bf, si Tiger. MEEEEOWwwwrrrrr...)
10) Corned beef - 2 (Libby. not the one sold at the tindahan downstairs, ha.)
11) Sausage – 3 (Libby's Vienna Sausage... mathalap kathi.)
12) Mentos (the fresh fighter)
13) Creamer – 2 (for my creamy coffee)
14) Sugar ½ kilo - 3 (for my ass...thma --- "Wha---?!" - jootzman)
15) Eggs ½ dozen - 3 (eggs in my coffee...)
16) Skyflakes
17) Salted eggs – 2 (ehem...)
18) Rice – 4 kilos (Ganador)
19) Rice keeper / container (what do they call this? oh, I don't know)
20) Black socks (must be sexy, silky to the touch, and most of all, black)
21) Victoria’s Secret cologne (pamper, pamper, pamper...)
22) Scotch tape (for all my small gasgas and bruises. it's cheaper that band-aid)
23) Plastic cover (for the Sicilian)
24) Double-sided tape (not for the Sicilian)
25) White-out (for the cracks on the walls)
26) Towel for Sunday foot reflexology sessions (hmm... Inday, how do you call a towel for my foot reflexology session every Sunday? i dunno what to call it coz handtowels are simply too small and bath towels are simply too big. it's somewhere in between... Duh.)
[untitled]
For the first few times, it was still okay. I mean, it was pretty obvious Larry and Tessa were into each other. They were like Siamese fighting fish: no barrier could simply stop them from engaging in physical contact, in any form or shape. They were in love. They cooed and gurgled sweet mushy tidings to each other in the office, in the comfort room (it was a common CR, Ally Macbeal’s), during lunch meetings, after work. They even had their own song: “September,” by Earth, Wind & Fire.
And besides, it was cute. I mean, they seemed so happy together, that it was cute. For the first few times. And we didn’t really mind because, we thought, hey, who cares? As long as they are happy, diba?
Larry and Tessa were the youngest in our group of friends at the office. Larry joined us last year. He had finished his Masscomm degree out of San Jose the earlier year and spent the next nine months as a volunteer for an NGO. He was also an alumnus of the school pub (ed-in-chief, no less!), the Forward Publication. When he got accepted, he was assigned to my team, which pleased Louie (short for Louisa May, and a Forward Alumna) and me very much.
Louie and I had been editors at the school pub during the mid-90s string of student protests. Back then, we joined fellow students protesting against the male uniform, tuition fee hikes, the ID scheme and school canteen cleanliness and prices. We collaborated with a few non-students and put up a special series on the ceaseless yet invisible control the admin had over the student government. The admin denied it, of course, and waved it off as fiction. Because that’s how we published the series. We published it like a cloak and dagger comic book series and it became a hit with the students. We fervently hoped that the students would be able to read between the lines. We also knew, back then, that the school pub was their most coveted prey. Tantalus’ fruit, kung baga. Larry confirmed that the admin as at its tricks when he joined the staff.
Until recently, we had held off their thinly disguised bribes and threats. Larry had told us, how disgusted he and his Ed Board when the second Ed board that followed them had given in to the administration’s advances. A mass resignation ensued, the alumni withdrew their support, the student government entered the picture and accused the current staff of libel and misinformation. A few weeks after Larry’s batch graduated, their advisor, Ms. Annie, resigned and accepted a teaching position in a Manila university. It was poetic justice, quipped Larry. Louie and I couldn’t agree more.
Tessa arrived at the office October of this year. She was a sweet little thing, about 4’10”, bright eyes, long lush black hair, pretty little pout, and long slender limbs that made her look taller than she really was.
[To be continued.]
[FICTION]
[for ideas, comments and suggestions: jootzman@yahoo.com]
For the first few times, it was still okay. I mean, it was pretty obvious Larry and Tessa were into each other. They were like Siamese fighting fish: no barrier could simply stop them from engaging in physical contact, in any form or shape. They were in love. They cooed and gurgled sweet mushy tidings to each other in the office, in the comfort room (it was a common CR, Ally Macbeal’s), during lunch meetings, after work. They even had their own song: “September,” by Earth, Wind & Fire.
And besides, it was cute. I mean, they seemed so happy together, that it was cute. For the first few times. And we didn’t really mind because, we thought, hey, who cares? As long as they are happy, diba?
Larry and Tessa were the youngest in our group of friends at the office. Larry joined us last year. He had finished his Masscomm degree out of San Jose the earlier year and spent the next nine months as a volunteer for an NGO. He was also an alumnus of the school pub (ed-in-chief, no less!), the Forward Publication. When he got accepted, he was assigned to my team, which pleased Louie (short for Louisa May, and a Forward Alumna) and me very much.
Louie and I had been editors at the school pub during the mid-90s string of student protests. Back then, we joined fellow students protesting against the male uniform, tuition fee hikes, the ID scheme and school canteen cleanliness and prices. We collaborated with a few non-students and put up a special series on the ceaseless yet invisible control the admin had over the student government. The admin denied it, of course, and waved it off as fiction. Because that’s how we published the series. We published it like a cloak and dagger comic book series and it became a hit with the students. We fervently hoped that the students would be able to read between the lines. We also knew, back then, that the school pub was their most coveted prey. Tantalus’ fruit, kung baga. Larry confirmed that the admin as at its tricks when he joined the staff.
Until recently, we had held off their thinly disguised bribes and threats. Larry had told us, how disgusted he and his Ed Board when the second Ed board that followed them had given in to the administration’s advances. A mass resignation ensued, the alumni withdrew their support, the student government entered the picture and accused the current staff of libel and misinformation. A few weeks after Larry’s batch graduated, their advisor, Ms. Annie, resigned and accepted a teaching position in a Manila university. It was poetic justice, quipped Larry. Louie and I couldn’t agree more.
Tessa arrived at the office October of this year. She was a sweet little thing, about 4’10”, bright eyes, long lush black hair, pretty little pout, and long slender limbs that made her look taller than she really was.
[To be continued.]
[FICTION]
[for ideas, comments and suggestions: jootzman@yahoo.com]
Saturday, January 24, 2004
CANNONCREEP
PROLOGUE
[Scene 1: INT. IMAGES/SNAPSHOTS OF A FEMALE PERSON (Fem 1), MEDIUM BUILD, HAIR WITH LENGTH JUST BELOW THE SHOULDER, BRIGHT EYES, FINE NOSELINE, AND A BITTER SMILE.]
[FEMALE VO: Fem 1]
I’ll never forget that day for the rest of my life.
Every night for the past two weeks,
The scene has been repeating in my head
In my dreams
I hate Berto so much --- why did he do it?!
I hate him for my dreams, for my nightmares.
For what happened to (Male 2) ---
For what happened to us.
He ruined my life by putting me in this chair.
I hope that he’s in hell right now,
Paying for what he did to me.
[Scene 1 Sequence 1: INT. BLURRED IMAGES/SNAPSHOTS OF FEM 1'S EXPERIENCE.]
For once in my life, I can say
Without the remorse nor the guilt,
Without looking back
Without having to remind myself of the past
For once in my life, I condemned a man ---
but he was no man!! He was evil and what he did was wrong!
Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!
What did we do to deserve this?
Why did it have to happen to us?
Did you know that I fell in love?
We were about to celebrate our first year together ---
[CRIES SOFTLY]
Unya, ingun ana lang kadali!
[BREAKS DOWN]
I’m sorry... I can’t answer anymore --- I’m sorry...
[Scene 2: INT. IMAGES/SNAPSHOTS OF TWO FEMALE PERSONS BEING INTERVIEWED. ONE HAS A BIRTHMARK ON HER CHIN, HAS LONG HAIR, AND HAS A VERY SLIM BUILD AND IS FAIR-SKINNED (Fem 2/VO #2). THE OTHER IS DARKER, HAS A BOB HAIRCUT, AND IS HOLDING A RED HANDKERCHIEF WITH YELLOW FLOWER PRINTS (Fem 3/VO #1).]
[VOICE-OVER OF #2.]
Buotan man siya. Dili siya tabian,
And he was very courteous.
And now...
This happens and... I don’t understand why
Di man sad siya hilabtanon.
[VOICE-OVER OF #1]
It was like I was seeing who he was for the first time.
We didn’t expect na ---
We didn’t expect na psycho diay ‘tong tawhana
[MUFFLED VO OF INTERVIEWER. OFF-CAMERA.]
Yes, depraved kayo na act.
Mura man sad siya’g buang na nikalit lang ug flip!
[VO #2]
Don’t say that sad, (Fem 2), uy.
[TO THE CAMERA/INTERVIEWER]
He was quiet. He never mingled.
We thought it was only that he was simply shy.
He always finished his quota.
He never complained,
Never came in late,
He was polite;
He smiled whenever he passed by our cubicles,
When we asked questions, he would answer,
Although they were very short answers,
But he answered nevertheless.
He was shy but not timid.
Para nako, he was harmless
until all this happened.
I still can’t believe it happened
I don’t want to go to the bathroom...
[VO #1]
Harmless mu’lang!
[VO #1 FACES THE CAMERA]
Berto was a harmless as a ticking time bomb!
Honestly, I had a feeling --- from the very start, gyud ---
[TO THE CAMERA]
That there was something wrong about him;
The way he walked, the way he talked,
The way he carried himself --- Ah, basta!
I can’t explain that easily.
[MORE FORCEFULLY]
All I know is that it was he who did it. He killed them all... And he didn’t even have remorse! He smiled for crying out loud. Berto was smiling when Chito shot him...
[VO #1’S VOICE BEGINS TO GIVE WAYS TO TEARS. SHE TRIES TO HOLD BACK THE TEARS THAT ARE WELLING UP INSIDE.]
The bathroom was clean in the morning...
It was clean, do you understand?
There was no blood. As if it didn’t happen.
It’s like they all vanished!
# # #
ACT ONE
“Chito & Richard”
[Scene 3: EXT. DRIVWAY, PELAEZ BUILDING. CHITO.]
[VO. CEBUANO / ENGLISH TRANSLATION. SFX: BG NOISE. DIALOGUE IS IN ENGLISH (or, DIALOGUE IS IN CEBUANO WITH ENGLISH SUBTITLES.]
[VO:CHITO]
When I first met him, Berto was a bit shy.
He would only say something in greeting like,
“Good morning,” or “Excuse me,” or,
If he was on his way out, he would say,
“Una na ko.” That was it.
I hold the door open for him
and he would slip in quickly,
as if the door would fall on him.
[LAUGHS SOFTLY]
As far as I know, and as far as I could see,
He was not a problem at all.
When he first started working
Nobody minded him.
Everyone thought that bag-o nga taga-admin
He worked in the front, you see.
He was actually part of Bal’s team.
But I doubt if anybody, except for Bal, knew.
I would ask Marissa or Richard about him
And they would say, “Ambot,
Basta ni-graduate na siya ug Masscomm.
Paspas daw mu trabaho.
Mahuman daw niya dayon ang iyang quota.”
Beyond that, there was nothing else we knew.
[VO: RICHARD]
We knew that he was shy.
Mars and Larri had once invited him
To play basketball with them,
But he politely refused.
When it was lunchtime, he would eat alone.
On Mondays, when the office had lunch together at Joven’s Grill,
He would decline, politely.
I mean, for the first month,
He would join his team.
But if Bal wasn’t calling for a lunch meeting,
He would decline and eat alone.
Bernadette, Oona, and the rest of the girls
Would try to be friendly with him.
He was polite, but he would not join them.
Even when they invite him for a break.
Sometimes, when one of the group editors
Would celebrate a birthday and would have food prepared
He would say a word in greeting, take some food
And go back to his cubicle.
To the most of the staff, he just... Berto;
The older ones, they couldn’t remember when he joined the staff;
They kept thinking he was a new guy.
The younger ones,
they kept thinking that he was one of the older ones;
On of those who survived the one-year period of “madness.”
[CHITO LAUGHS SOFTLY. RICHARD CONTINUES.]
It’s running joke around the office that,
When you reach your first year,
You’ll find yourself facing a crossroad, asking yourself:
do you stay on and try for a higher position,
Or
Leave, when the stress and strain on the job has worn you.
[VO: CHITO INTERRUPTS]
Pero, Berto’s has been with us for more than a year.
[VO: RICHARD]
Around... 1 year and 6 months, no?
[VO: CHITO]
Yes... Around that time.
Murag mas dugay pa gani...
[SLIGHT PAUSE. CHITO]
Although, there was this one time...
I went out, just outside the door,
Right by the driveway,
To have a smoke.
I saw Berto, standing there, smoking.
I didn’t even know he smoked ---
I didn’t even see him leave to have a smoke!!
Anyway, I said something in acknowledgement
And he smiled. He took a drag of his cigarette
And he walked over.
He stood beside me, although not that near,
And continued smoking.
I asked him how his job was
And that I don’t see him taking a cigarette break that often.
He smiled and said nothing.
So, we just stood there and smoked.
When I threw my cigarette away,
I turned to him to say that I’ll go ahead.
I saw him light another cigarette ---
I think it was his third.
He took a long drag and said to me,
“Wa ka kapuyi sa imung trabaho?”
I told him, no. That I enjoyed it.
He asked me if I had a family.
I said no,
that I shared my house with my younger brother
And his family.
He asked me if I was happy.
[PAUSE. THEN, TO THE CAMERA]
Kasuway na ka anang mukalit lang ug panim-bawot
Ang imung buhok?
Kanang mamugnaw imung kamot ug imung singot?
That’s what I felt when he asked me that question:
“Chito, malipayon ba ka sa imung kinabuhi?”
Up until that time, we never talked,
Except to say ‘good morning,’
or ‘goodbye,’ when work is over.
That was the longest conversation I had with him.
I told him that I was happy.
I was happy seeing my nieces and nephews grow up.
I was happy to see my cousins
To see my brothers and sisters, everyday.
I was happy at home
Because I had my family to come home to.
I told him that I was happy at work as well.
Sure, I was the security guard, but I have been here
Since the very beginning.
I told him how I had formed lasting friendships
With the office staff, with the older editors,
And with the owners of the company,
And how, through our conversations,
I had learned a lot from them.
[PAUSE]
Through it all, he just stood there,
Looking intently at me, behind the cigarette smoke,
And those eyes.
Those eyes gave me the chills.
I never thought they could turn so cold, so distant,
So... angry.
Then, he said, “Always be happy, Chito.
Because you don’t want to see the far side of loneliness.”
Later on, when I thought more about it,
It was like he was angry.
He was angry that I was talking about my happiness.
I think he was angry that I was happy...
And that he was not.
[SUDDENLY]
Oh, shit... On that day, around 10 AM,
He was standing outside again.
He asked me the exact same question.
He was... just standing there.
He wasn’t nervous, he was shaking or anything.
He just stood there, smoking his cigarette,
And asking me the same things that he asked me before.
# # #
ACT TWO
“Murder Scene Walk-through”
[Scene 4: VOICE OF LEAD POLICE OFFICER, ACTION: A “WALK-THROUGH” OF THE CRIME SCENE / OFFICE COMFORT ROOM. THE CRIME SCENE IS CLEAN AND THE BODIES HAVE BEEN REMOVED. CAMERA: TRACKING SHOTS.]
[VO POLICE]
This is office comfort room,
And the crime scene.
Approximately 9 office employees were lead here,
And murdered one after another,
And their bodies stacked in the last cubicle
At the end of the comfort room.
The last victim had apparently survived.
Berto strangled all of them to death,
Using a No. 6 guitar string.
We found about 10 unused guitar strings
Of the same type at his desk,
Apparently, in case the one he was currently using snapped.
By the last victim, Berto had used three guitar strings.
A few of his victims were found with bruises at their temples,
Some had bruising at different parts of their bodies.
Apparently, he had beaten a few of his victims
with a metal pipe ---
The ones he could not subdue or surprise with the wire ---
and stunning them,
or knocking them unconscious,
before he strangled them.
We also found a stun gun on his persons,
Several stun gun markings on the victims' bodies,
Indicating that he apparently immobilized them before killing them.
[VO POLICE REACTS IN DISBELIEF]
Amazing. Just amazing that he did it
Without alarming anybody to the crimes.
There aren’t even traces of blood from the victims!
Amazing!
[VO POLICE COMPOSES HIMSELF AND RETURNS TO NARRATING,
AND DOING THE WALK-THROUGH]
It has been estimated that the entire act
Lasted from 9:42 to 11:23 AM,
December 27, 2003, Saturday.
It was only a half-day for the office,
And some of the employees had taken advantage
Of their leaves.
It was approximated that, counting Berto,
There were only 20 people in the office.
The first victim was murdered
as soon as she entered the comfort room.
The first two murders were estimated
To have occurred almost simultaneously,
Approximately only minutes apart.
The first victim was a certain Ms. Fem 4,
The second was the helper, Manang Fem 5.
Manang came into the comfort room
after her morning cleaning routine.
Shortly after that, Berto took her keys,
And locked the last cubicle and placed a sign,
“Out of Order,” on the door.
The murderer then returned to his desk
and went back to work as if nothing happened.
The next three murders happened in succession:
From 10:03 to 10:46 AM, Ms. Fem 6,
Ms. Fem 7 and Ms. Fem 8, entered the comfort room
And consequently murdered.
The murderer followed the same routine
for his next three victims:
When he saw his victims enter singly, or
Alone, he would follow and stun them,
Or beat them, or both
and then strangled them.
His next three victims were Ms. Fem 9,
Ms. Fem 10 and a certain Mr. Male 1,
And the couple Mr. Male 2 and Ms. Fem 1.
Ms. Fem 1 survived Berto’s attack.
Apparently, he thought
that when he hit her with the metal pipe
he had killed her.
When we found her, her neck was broken
And she had become paralyzed from the waist down.
By 11:23 AM, the other people inside the office
Were preparing to leave for lunch
At a carinderia nearby.
At this juncture,
We deduce that the murderer,
Seeing no one left in the office,
Made a bold move --- one that deviated from his routine,
And attacked the security guard, Chito.
He first tried to disarm Chito, the security guard,
By using his stun gun.
Somehow, Chito managed to evade the first attack
And pushed Berto away, to create a distance,
And pulled out his gun.
Berto fell on the ground,
And according to Chito, was up again, lunging to attack him.
Berto had a metal pipe in his right hand,
While his left arm was extended forward,
As if to brace himself.
Chito stated that as Berto was rushing toward him
He walked backwards and shouted for Berto to stop.
When it as clear that Berto would not back down.
Chito fired twice.
Both bullets hit Berto on the chest.
The first bullet hit his right lung
And the second, his heart.
He died instantly.
When we came to the scene,
We came upon Berto’s body.
We saw that his eyes were still open
And that he had a smile on his face.
Weird no? And they said, he rarely smiled.
# # #
ACT THREE
“Denouement”
[Scene 5: OUTSIDE THE OFFICE, AT THE DRIVEWAY. BGN: STREET NOISE]
[VO FEMALE / REPORTER]
In a what appears to be a shocking display of murderous rage,
Roberto m. Casili, 24 years old, of Labangon, Cebu City,
Embarked on a cold and calculated massacre
that saw ten innocent office employees die
within the space of less than three hours,
this morning, December 27, 2003, Saturday.
Police reports state that Berto,
As he is called by his colleagues here at Cannon Creek Asia Inc., apparently just snapped and turned on his co-employees.
Witnesses and colleagues were shocked
And dismayed by the sudden outburst of rage
From someone who they thought was a shy and docile young man.
They say that Berto was, apparently, a nice young man,
Who never bothered anyone.
It is not known whether he has close friends
Among his colleagues here in Cannon Creek.
It was as if the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
Has come alive here in A.S. Fortuna Street, Mandaue City.
What turned Berto into a dangerous psychopath,
we may never know.
As of the moment, Karen Toledo is trying to get hold of Berto’s family so that we may get a better picture,
And understand what could have made Berto do it.
In the meantime, we will try to keep you posted
On the latest regarding what the people around here
Are beginning to call, “The Cannon Creep Murders.”
I’m Christine Revallo, reporting for IBC-CDN News Network-Cebu,
Good afternoon.
[THIS DRAFT IS SUBJECT TO CHANGES FOR THE FINAL DRAFT. Thank you.]
[Fiction]
[for ideas, comments and suggestions: jootzman@yahoo.com]
PROLOGUE
[Scene 1: INT. IMAGES/SNAPSHOTS OF A FEMALE PERSON (Fem 1), MEDIUM BUILD, HAIR WITH LENGTH JUST BELOW THE SHOULDER, BRIGHT EYES, FINE NOSELINE, AND A BITTER SMILE.]
[FEMALE VO: Fem 1]
I’ll never forget that day for the rest of my life.
Every night for the past two weeks,
The scene has been repeating in my head
In my dreams
I hate Berto so much --- why did he do it?!
I hate him for my dreams, for my nightmares.
For what happened to (Male 2) ---
For what happened to us.
He ruined my life by putting me in this chair.
I hope that he’s in hell right now,
Paying for what he did to me.
[Scene 1 Sequence 1: INT. BLURRED IMAGES/SNAPSHOTS OF FEM 1'S EXPERIENCE.]
For once in my life, I can say
Without the remorse nor the guilt,
Without looking back
Without having to remind myself of the past
For once in my life, I condemned a man ---
but he was no man!! He was evil and what he did was wrong!
Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!
What did we do to deserve this?
Why did it have to happen to us?
Did you know that I fell in love?
We were about to celebrate our first year together ---
[CRIES SOFTLY]
Unya, ingun ana lang kadali!
[BREAKS DOWN]
I’m sorry... I can’t answer anymore --- I’m sorry...
[Scene 2: INT. IMAGES/SNAPSHOTS OF TWO FEMALE PERSONS BEING INTERVIEWED. ONE HAS A BIRTHMARK ON HER CHIN, HAS LONG HAIR, AND HAS A VERY SLIM BUILD AND IS FAIR-SKINNED (Fem 2/VO #2). THE OTHER IS DARKER, HAS A BOB HAIRCUT, AND IS HOLDING A RED HANDKERCHIEF WITH YELLOW FLOWER PRINTS (Fem 3/VO #1).]
[VOICE-OVER OF #2.]
Buotan man siya. Dili siya tabian,
And he was very courteous.
And now...
This happens and... I don’t understand why
Di man sad siya hilabtanon.
[VOICE-OVER OF #1]
It was like I was seeing who he was for the first time.
We didn’t expect na ---
We didn’t expect na psycho diay ‘tong tawhana
[MUFFLED VO OF INTERVIEWER. OFF-CAMERA.]
Yes, depraved kayo na act.
Mura man sad siya’g buang na nikalit lang ug flip!
[VO #2]
Don’t say that sad, (Fem 2), uy.
[TO THE CAMERA/INTERVIEWER]
He was quiet. He never mingled.
We thought it was only that he was simply shy.
He always finished his quota.
He never complained,
Never came in late,
He was polite;
He smiled whenever he passed by our cubicles,
When we asked questions, he would answer,
Although they were very short answers,
But he answered nevertheless.
He was shy but not timid.
Para nako, he was harmless
until all this happened.
I still can’t believe it happened
I don’t want to go to the bathroom...
[VO #1]
Harmless mu’lang!
[VO #1 FACES THE CAMERA]
Berto was a harmless as a ticking time bomb!
Honestly, I had a feeling --- from the very start, gyud ---
[TO THE CAMERA]
That there was something wrong about him;
The way he walked, the way he talked,
The way he carried himself --- Ah, basta!
I can’t explain that easily.
[MORE FORCEFULLY]
All I know is that it was he who did it. He killed them all... And he didn’t even have remorse! He smiled for crying out loud. Berto was smiling when Chito shot him...
[VO #1’S VOICE BEGINS TO GIVE WAYS TO TEARS. SHE TRIES TO HOLD BACK THE TEARS THAT ARE WELLING UP INSIDE.]
The bathroom was clean in the morning...
It was clean, do you understand?
There was no blood. As if it didn’t happen.
It’s like they all vanished!
# # #
ACT ONE
“Chito & Richard”
[Scene 3: EXT. DRIVWAY, PELAEZ BUILDING. CHITO.]
[VO. CEBUANO / ENGLISH TRANSLATION. SFX: BG NOISE. DIALOGUE IS IN ENGLISH (or, DIALOGUE IS IN CEBUANO WITH ENGLISH SUBTITLES.]
[VO:CHITO]
When I first met him, Berto was a bit shy.
He would only say something in greeting like,
“Good morning,” or “Excuse me,” or,
If he was on his way out, he would say,
“Una na ko.” That was it.
I hold the door open for him
and he would slip in quickly,
as if the door would fall on him.
[LAUGHS SOFTLY]
As far as I know, and as far as I could see,
He was not a problem at all.
When he first started working
Nobody minded him.
Everyone thought that bag-o nga taga-admin
He worked in the front, you see.
He was actually part of Bal’s team.
But I doubt if anybody, except for Bal, knew.
I would ask Marissa or Richard about him
And they would say, “Ambot,
Basta ni-graduate na siya ug Masscomm.
Paspas daw mu trabaho.
Mahuman daw niya dayon ang iyang quota.”
Beyond that, there was nothing else we knew.
[VO: RICHARD]
We knew that he was shy.
Mars and Larri had once invited him
To play basketball with them,
But he politely refused.
When it was lunchtime, he would eat alone.
On Mondays, when the office had lunch together at Joven’s Grill,
He would decline, politely.
I mean, for the first month,
He would join his team.
But if Bal wasn’t calling for a lunch meeting,
He would decline and eat alone.
Bernadette, Oona, and the rest of the girls
Would try to be friendly with him.
He was polite, but he would not join them.
Even when they invite him for a break.
Sometimes, when one of the group editors
Would celebrate a birthday and would have food prepared
He would say a word in greeting, take some food
And go back to his cubicle.
To the most of the staff, he just... Berto;
The older ones, they couldn’t remember when he joined the staff;
They kept thinking he was a new guy.
The younger ones,
they kept thinking that he was one of the older ones;
On of those who survived the one-year period of “madness.”
[CHITO LAUGHS SOFTLY. RICHARD CONTINUES.]
It’s running joke around the office that,
When you reach your first year,
You’ll find yourself facing a crossroad, asking yourself:
do you stay on and try for a higher position,
Or
Leave, when the stress and strain on the job has worn you.
[VO: CHITO INTERRUPTS]
Pero, Berto’s has been with us for more than a year.
[VO: RICHARD]
Around... 1 year and 6 months, no?
[VO: CHITO]
Yes... Around that time.
Murag mas dugay pa gani...
[SLIGHT PAUSE. CHITO]
Although, there was this one time...
I went out, just outside the door,
Right by the driveway,
To have a smoke.
I saw Berto, standing there, smoking.
I didn’t even know he smoked ---
I didn’t even see him leave to have a smoke!!
Anyway, I said something in acknowledgement
And he smiled. He took a drag of his cigarette
And he walked over.
He stood beside me, although not that near,
And continued smoking.
I asked him how his job was
And that I don’t see him taking a cigarette break that often.
He smiled and said nothing.
So, we just stood there and smoked.
When I threw my cigarette away,
I turned to him to say that I’ll go ahead.
I saw him light another cigarette ---
I think it was his third.
He took a long drag and said to me,
“Wa ka kapuyi sa imung trabaho?”
I told him, no. That I enjoyed it.
He asked me if I had a family.
I said no,
that I shared my house with my younger brother
And his family.
He asked me if I was happy.
[PAUSE. THEN, TO THE CAMERA]
Kasuway na ka anang mukalit lang ug panim-bawot
Ang imung buhok?
Kanang mamugnaw imung kamot ug imung singot?
That’s what I felt when he asked me that question:
“Chito, malipayon ba ka sa imung kinabuhi?”
Up until that time, we never talked,
Except to say ‘good morning,’
or ‘goodbye,’ when work is over.
That was the longest conversation I had with him.
I told him that I was happy.
I was happy seeing my nieces and nephews grow up.
I was happy to see my cousins
To see my brothers and sisters, everyday.
I was happy at home
Because I had my family to come home to.
I told him that I was happy at work as well.
Sure, I was the security guard, but I have been here
Since the very beginning.
I told him how I had formed lasting friendships
With the office staff, with the older editors,
And with the owners of the company,
And how, through our conversations,
I had learned a lot from them.
[PAUSE]
Through it all, he just stood there,
Looking intently at me, behind the cigarette smoke,
And those eyes.
Those eyes gave me the chills.
I never thought they could turn so cold, so distant,
So... angry.
Then, he said, “Always be happy, Chito.
Because you don’t want to see the far side of loneliness.”
Later on, when I thought more about it,
It was like he was angry.
He was angry that I was talking about my happiness.
I think he was angry that I was happy...
And that he was not.
[SUDDENLY]
Oh, shit... On that day, around 10 AM,
He was standing outside again.
He asked me the exact same question.
He was... just standing there.
He wasn’t nervous, he was shaking or anything.
He just stood there, smoking his cigarette,
And asking me the same things that he asked me before.
# # #
ACT TWO
“Murder Scene Walk-through”
[Scene 4: VOICE OF LEAD POLICE OFFICER, ACTION: A “WALK-THROUGH” OF THE CRIME SCENE / OFFICE COMFORT ROOM. THE CRIME SCENE IS CLEAN AND THE BODIES HAVE BEEN REMOVED. CAMERA: TRACKING SHOTS.]
[VO POLICE]
This is office comfort room,
And the crime scene.
Approximately 9 office employees were lead here,
And murdered one after another,
And their bodies stacked in the last cubicle
At the end of the comfort room.
The last victim had apparently survived.
Berto strangled all of them to death,
Using a No. 6 guitar string.
We found about 10 unused guitar strings
Of the same type at his desk,
Apparently, in case the one he was currently using snapped.
By the last victim, Berto had used three guitar strings.
A few of his victims were found with bruises at their temples,
Some had bruising at different parts of their bodies.
Apparently, he had beaten a few of his victims
with a metal pipe ---
The ones he could not subdue or surprise with the wire ---
and stunning them,
or knocking them unconscious,
before he strangled them.
We also found a stun gun on his persons,
Several stun gun markings on the victims' bodies,
Indicating that he apparently immobilized them before killing them.
[VO POLICE REACTS IN DISBELIEF]
Amazing. Just amazing that he did it
Without alarming anybody to the crimes.
There aren’t even traces of blood from the victims!
Amazing!
[VO POLICE COMPOSES HIMSELF AND RETURNS TO NARRATING,
AND DOING THE WALK-THROUGH]
It has been estimated that the entire act
Lasted from 9:42 to 11:23 AM,
December 27, 2003, Saturday.
It was only a half-day for the office,
And some of the employees had taken advantage
Of their leaves.
It was approximated that, counting Berto,
There were only 20 people in the office.
The first victim was murdered
as soon as she entered the comfort room.
The first two murders were estimated
To have occurred almost simultaneously,
Approximately only minutes apart.
The first victim was a certain Ms. Fem 4,
The second was the helper, Manang Fem 5.
Manang came into the comfort room
after her morning cleaning routine.
Shortly after that, Berto took her keys,
And locked the last cubicle and placed a sign,
“Out of Order,” on the door.
The murderer then returned to his desk
and went back to work as if nothing happened.
The next three murders happened in succession:
From 10:03 to 10:46 AM, Ms. Fem 6,
Ms. Fem 7 and Ms. Fem 8, entered the comfort room
And consequently murdered.
The murderer followed the same routine
for his next three victims:
When he saw his victims enter singly, or
Alone, he would follow and stun them,
Or beat them, or both
and then strangled them.
His next three victims were Ms. Fem 9,
Ms. Fem 10 and a certain Mr. Male 1,
And the couple Mr. Male 2 and Ms. Fem 1.
Ms. Fem 1 survived Berto’s attack.
Apparently, he thought
that when he hit her with the metal pipe
he had killed her.
When we found her, her neck was broken
And she had become paralyzed from the waist down.
By 11:23 AM, the other people inside the office
Were preparing to leave for lunch
At a carinderia nearby.
At this juncture,
We deduce that the murderer,
Seeing no one left in the office,
Made a bold move --- one that deviated from his routine,
And attacked the security guard, Chito.
He first tried to disarm Chito, the security guard,
By using his stun gun.
Somehow, Chito managed to evade the first attack
And pushed Berto away, to create a distance,
And pulled out his gun.
Berto fell on the ground,
And according to Chito, was up again, lunging to attack him.
Berto had a metal pipe in his right hand,
While his left arm was extended forward,
As if to brace himself.
Chito stated that as Berto was rushing toward him
He walked backwards and shouted for Berto to stop.
When it as clear that Berto would not back down.
Chito fired twice.
Both bullets hit Berto on the chest.
The first bullet hit his right lung
And the second, his heart.
He died instantly.
When we came to the scene,
We came upon Berto’s body.
We saw that his eyes were still open
And that he had a smile on his face.
Weird no? And they said, he rarely smiled.
# # #
ACT THREE
“Denouement”
[Scene 5: OUTSIDE THE OFFICE, AT THE DRIVEWAY. BGN: STREET NOISE]
[VO FEMALE / REPORTER]
In a what appears to be a shocking display of murderous rage,
Roberto m. Casili, 24 years old, of Labangon, Cebu City,
Embarked on a cold and calculated massacre
that saw ten innocent office employees die
within the space of less than three hours,
this morning, December 27, 2003, Saturday.
Police reports state that Berto,
As he is called by his colleagues here at Cannon Creek Asia Inc., apparently just snapped and turned on his co-employees.
Witnesses and colleagues were shocked
And dismayed by the sudden outburst of rage
From someone who they thought was a shy and docile young man.
They say that Berto was, apparently, a nice young man,
Who never bothered anyone.
It is not known whether he has close friends
Among his colleagues here in Cannon Creek.
It was as if the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
Has come alive here in A.S. Fortuna Street, Mandaue City.
What turned Berto into a dangerous psychopath,
we may never know.
As of the moment, Karen Toledo is trying to get hold of Berto’s family so that we may get a better picture,
And understand what could have made Berto do it.
In the meantime, we will try to keep you posted
On the latest regarding what the people around here
Are beginning to call, “The Cannon Creep Murders.”
I’m Christine Revallo, reporting for IBC-CDN News Network-Cebu,
Good afternoon.
[THIS DRAFT IS SUBJECT TO CHANGES FOR THE FINAL DRAFT. Thank you.]
[Fiction]
[for ideas, comments and suggestions: jootzman@yahoo.com]
COMING SOON....
The first draft of the CannonCreep short film screenplay (ta-dah!).
Apparent Disclaimer: While we don't have pretenses of making it big in the local film industry or abroad, it is the opinion of myself and, uh... of several other equally enthusiastic people (therefore 'we' --- daghan lagi mi...), that in being able to express ourselves in ghastly last-rate amateur movies, we may purge ourselves of our grandiose megalomaniacal ego tripping and have enough money buy ourselves some peace on this here Earth.
May the Frodo be with you!
[for ideas, nonviolent and nonconfrontational comments and suggestions that actually do help: jootzman@yahoo.com]
The first draft of the CannonCreep short film screenplay (ta-dah!).
Apparent Disclaimer: While we don't have pretenses of making it big in the local film industry or abroad, it is the opinion of myself and, uh... of several other equally enthusiastic people (therefore 'we' --- daghan lagi mi...), that in being able to express ourselves in ghastly last-rate amateur movies, we may purge ourselves of our grandiose megalomaniacal ego tripping and have enough money buy ourselves some peace on this here Earth.
May the Frodo be with you!
[for ideas, nonviolent and nonconfrontational comments and suggestions that actually do help: jootzman@yahoo.com]
Friday, January 23, 2004
... and then, there’s Alvin.
There is something fascinating about Alvin’s essays and fiction. The words flow so smoothly that the reader is not conscious that he is being swept up in the moment, in the telling of the tale.
Alvin, despite his adamant, and rather pointless, denial, is a writer. He lives in the ‘moment’: of the event, of the imagery, of the experience. And like a photographer, Alvin has this uncanny ability to capture that moment onto paper. Immortalizing the moment in such detail; be it a Sinulog dancer swaying back and forth in rhythm or two dogs fucking on driveway, by the side of the street. Alvin asserts that he writes for no one but himself (and perhaps idle readers and graveyard shift junkies who stumble upon his blog).
Hey, that could be the trick... Maybe... you see, I’ve always thought of myself as a writer. Well.... not a writer, in the purest sense, maybe an aspiring writer. When I was in kindergarten, I wanted to be a businessman. But Mama wouldn’t give me money for capital --- Who would want to give a five-year old chubby-faced chocolate addict, asking for fifty pesos to start an “ice candy for sale” business, di ba? I mean, come on, really, and this was in 1982, when the damned peso currency was higher. Would you? I know I wouldn’t.
So, instead of money, Mama laid down a piece of blank short bond paper and a Mongol 2 pencil in front of me, and said, “Why do you want to be a businessman? Let’s try writing your reasons down.” That did it for me. I began writing and never looked back. My handwriting hasn’t really developed since, but nevertheless, a writer was all I wanted to be.
I fancied myself a writer, or a novelist, even. I fancied myself having a column in a local magazine where I can harangue other people with just about anything, and say what I wanted to say about... er, anything. The only thing I hated about myself was that I was insecure and awfully unsure of myself(of my special mutant ability to.... write. Hehehe! Psyched!). I mean, who wouldn’t flip out: I have an older brother who used alternate from protective hero (Heeee-Man!) to stark raving lunatic, in two seconds flat(He’s more responsible --- read: I’m using his computer right now.), a sister who could turn from bitchy spoiled brat to spoiled bitchy brat in no time at all, and my youngest bro who grew taller than me and makes more sense that I do (Did you know, that he won, I don’t know, maybe several awards, in high school for student writing or journalism something.... that lucky @$&#$*%&&***! I’m such a bad kuya. Syet.).
So I became self-conscious easily. Whenever I sat down to begin writing anything it was like: What if nobody likes what I’m writing? What if they hate it, and tell the next twenty people they meet how much I suck at writing? What if they came to my house and threw molotov cocktails in (Ayaw intawon...)? What if my mama realizes that, in truth, I’m following in her footsteps to gain control over the lucrative education industry and become a dean in a certain local university and take payments from college students to excuse them for not wearing their uniforms. Even worse, what if they don’t read any of my stuff? That would be the death of me.
... and then, there’s Alvin. It was Alvin who got me introduced to Blogger. We were on a cigarette break when I asked him if there are any websites where we can publish anything readable for free. He asked me to check out a site that published written literature for free. It was called Blogspot, or Blogger --- I forgot. So, I did and I became interested. And the interest was as natural as it was a need: I desperately wanted to see my own work out on print --- or anywhere that would have me, I really didn’t care. What I didn’t like in the writing process are snotty editors who are not beyond cutting and slashing your piece (short of rewriting it themselves). I mean, what writer does? But then again, it could just be me.
I’ve always dreaded the feeling of passing my work to an editor, whether it’s the editor of the section of the local daily that I write for, or the news editor of the school publication, or worse, my mama. I dread that very moment when they begin scrutinizing my work right in front of me. And although all my past editors have contributed greatly to sharpening my craft, the experience can never be washed away by countless nights of drinking and masturbation (whoops!).
In one of my majors classes in Mass Communications, we were taught that once your story reaches the editor, it is no longer yours. Rather, it is now a product. A thing that is processed and refined, given a certain sheen so that when it gets to the reader, it’s good and orderly. I guess that got drilled into my head. Pretty soon, I became numb, and so did my writing.
I used to hate it when editors cut up my work, leaving nothing that looks or sounds like me. My worst and, quite naturally, favorite critic is my mama. I could not understand why my “perfect” piece prose returned to me, bloodied and slashed red. I got so frustrated that the mere thought of writing was laborious. Then she’d say something that would get me going again. Mothers... You can never beat them in anything. And that’s what’s great about them... I guess. I love my mama.
... and then, there’s Alvin. When I began working with Alvin, and to an extent, some of the finest young writers that in the office such as Ronald, Freya, Julie, Joe, Louie and Geda, to name a few, I began to feel more confident about writing again. The inspiration to write returned. It was like I was seeing color for the first time: It was bewildering, yet, ecstatic. I never allowed myself that much liberty. I criticized myself to quickly, and thus, ending the life of a half-poem, or a nearly-made-it idea. But now, my “Muse” was back, and she was in a tight, black, micro miniskirt.
Before I started working with these young writers, I was a features writer for the three different local papers (at different points in time) and then, a hack writer. I wrote material anything I was familiar with: I wrote for brochures; for private individuals and groups; I also did writing and editing work for company profiles, for portfolios. I wrote whatever they wanted me to write. Just give me the material, tell me in what format would you want it written, and I’ll do it. Heck, I even wrote the occasional school thesis for a friend or two. I was writing for the money. It was always for the money. I never wrote anything for myself.
And it had to be that way, or else, I wouldn’t have been able to help my mama with my tuition. I left the seminary six years ago, came home and found myself down on my luck, and no money for tuition and personal expenses. Luckily, the editor of Sun.Star Weekend Magazine took me under her wing and taught me to write. More importantly, she helped me rediscover writing, and how not to let it slip through my fingers. Parallel to professional writing, she nurtured the lost love I had for writing. Soon, the old murmurs came back. I was seduced again into writing. And then, I had to pay for my tuition.
Writing for my bread wasn’t easy, but it was my way of life for the five years. There were times when I didn’t want to write anymore. That I wanted to give in, get another job doing something else.
... and then, came Alvin. I had forgotten what it felt writing for one’s own pleasure (It feels almost blatant --- me creating this blog for myself --- and the occasional drifter who happens along and reads this...). And he’s good. Even if Alvin does say that he writes for his own pleasure, it’s fun and enjoyable to read his pieces. Forget what that selfish creative idiot says, go read his pieces! It’s at smokemyganja.blogspot.com. When I first read some of his pieces, I thought, ‘This guy’s good. How come I haven’t seen any of his work in the local papers?’ Why? Well, two things: The creative idiot doesn’t like to write for the papers, and Mama subscribes to one local daily only. Pfft! Hooooo-boy! Now, I’ve learned two new excuses. It can’t hurt to learn a new thing everyday.
I love writing. Heck, I even took up MA Lit, just so I could listen in on people talk about literature. I love it when people do that. It inspires me. It urges me to write. Writng is all that’s on my mind. I know I have a pretty long way to go before I become a writer. Especially in terms of honing my craft, perfecting my grammar, writing my first novel, finally figuring the difference between a gerund and a phrase, and writing the sequel to Titanic, but hey --- if there’s hope in the fact that the Filipino people would wake up and smell FPJ’s cologne and not vote for him, if suddenly Kenny G would change music genres and switch to disco, then, there’s hope for me! By the way, what does FPJ’s forefinger-pointed-upward stand for? Don’t tell me he’s planning to change the Boy Scout’s handsign?! Aaaaargh!
Although, there is one hitch I realized when I began writing for my own pure and unadulterated pleasure: I take myself too seriously. Oh well, like it says: “Roses are red/Violets are blue/Sugar is sweet/But only God can make a tree.” --- thanks for this idiom, Diko. I owe you one. You too, Alvin.
Let’s face it, Alvin: We are charter members of the Mutual Admiration Society – Cannon Creek Asia, Inc. Chapter. Toink!
[ideas, whatnot and helpful suggestions: jootzman@yahoo.com
There is something fascinating about Alvin’s essays and fiction. The words flow so smoothly that the reader is not conscious that he is being swept up in the moment, in the telling of the tale.
Alvin, despite his adamant, and rather pointless, denial, is a writer. He lives in the ‘moment’: of the event, of the imagery, of the experience. And like a photographer, Alvin has this uncanny ability to capture that moment onto paper. Immortalizing the moment in such detail; be it a Sinulog dancer swaying back and forth in rhythm or two dogs fucking on driveway, by the side of the street. Alvin asserts that he writes for no one but himself (and perhaps idle readers and graveyard shift junkies who stumble upon his blog).
Hey, that could be the trick... Maybe... you see, I’ve always thought of myself as a writer. Well.... not a writer, in the purest sense, maybe an aspiring writer. When I was in kindergarten, I wanted to be a businessman. But Mama wouldn’t give me money for capital --- Who would want to give a five-year old chubby-faced chocolate addict, asking for fifty pesos to start an “ice candy for sale” business, di ba? I mean, come on, really, and this was in 1982, when the damned peso currency was higher. Would you? I know I wouldn’t.
So, instead of money, Mama laid down a piece of blank short bond paper and a Mongol 2 pencil in front of me, and said, “Why do you want to be a businessman? Let’s try writing your reasons down.” That did it for me. I began writing and never looked back. My handwriting hasn’t really developed since, but nevertheless, a writer was all I wanted to be.
I fancied myself a writer, or a novelist, even. I fancied myself having a column in a local magazine where I can harangue other people with just about anything, and say what I wanted to say about... er, anything. The only thing I hated about myself was that I was insecure and awfully unsure of myself(of my special mutant ability to.... write. Hehehe! Psyched!). I mean, who wouldn’t flip out: I have an older brother who used alternate from protective hero (Heeee-Man!) to stark raving lunatic, in two seconds flat(He’s more responsible --- read: I’m using his computer right now.), a sister who could turn from bitchy spoiled brat to spoiled bitchy brat in no time at all, and my youngest bro who grew taller than me and makes more sense that I do (Did you know, that he won, I don’t know, maybe several awards, in high school for student writing or journalism something.... that lucky @$&#$*%&&***! I’m such a bad kuya. Syet.).
So I became self-conscious easily. Whenever I sat down to begin writing anything it was like: What if nobody likes what I’m writing? What if they hate it, and tell the next twenty people they meet how much I suck at writing? What if they came to my house and threw molotov cocktails in (Ayaw intawon...)? What if my mama realizes that, in truth, I’m following in her footsteps to gain control over the lucrative education industry and become a dean in a certain local university and take payments from college students to excuse them for not wearing their uniforms. Even worse, what if they don’t read any of my stuff? That would be the death of me.
... and then, there’s Alvin. It was Alvin who got me introduced to Blogger. We were on a cigarette break when I asked him if there are any websites where we can publish anything readable for free. He asked me to check out a site that published written literature for free. It was called Blogspot, or Blogger --- I forgot. So, I did and I became interested. And the interest was as natural as it was a need: I desperately wanted to see my own work out on print --- or anywhere that would have me, I really didn’t care. What I didn’t like in the writing process are snotty editors who are not beyond cutting and slashing your piece (short of rewriting it themselves). I mean, what writer does? But then again, it could just be me.
I’ve always dreaded the feeling of passing my work to an editor, whether it’s the editor of the section of the local daily that I write for, or the news editor of the school publication, or worse, my mama. I dread that very moment when they begin scrutinizing my work right in front of me. And although all my past editors have contributed greatly to sharpening my craft, the experience can never be washed away by countless nights of drinking and masturbation (whoops!).
In one of my majors classes in Mass Communications, we were taught that once your story reaches the editor, it is no longer yours. Rather, it is now a product. A thing that is processed and refined, given a certain sheen so that when it gets to the reader, it’s good and orderly. I guess that got drilled into my head. Pretty soon, I became numb, and so did my writing.
I used to hate it when editors cut up my work, leaving nothing that looks or sounds like me. My worst and, quite naturally, favorite critic is my mama. I could not understand why my “perfect” piece prose returned to me, bloodied and slashed red. I got so frustrated that the mere thought of writing was laborious. Then she’d say something that would get me going again. Mothers... You can never beat them in anything. And that’s what’s great about them... I guess. I love my mama.
... and then, there’s Alvin. When I began working with Alvin, and to an extent, some of the finest young writers that in the office such as Ronald, Freya, Julie, Joe, Louie and Geda, to name a few, I began to feel more confident about writing again. The inspiration to write returned. It was like I was seeing color for the first time: It was bewildering, yet, ecstatic. I never allowed myself that much liberty. I criticized myself to quickly, and thus, ending the life of a half-poem, or a nearly-made-it idea. But now, my “Muse” was back, and she was in a tight, black, micro miniskirt.
Before I started working with these young writers, I was a features writer for the three different local papers (at different points in time) and then, a hack writer. I wrote material anything I was familiar with: I wrote for brochures; for private individuals and groups; I also did writing and editing work for company profiles, for portfolios. I wrote whatever they wanted me to write. Just give me the material, tell me in what format would you want it written, and I’ll do it. Heck, I even wrote the occasional school thesis for a friend or two. I was writing for the money. It was always for the money. I never wrote anything for myself.
And it had to be that way, or else, I wouldn’t have been able to help my mama with my tuition. I left the seminary six years ago, came home and found myself down on my luck, and no money for tuition and personal expenses. Luckily, the editor of Sun.Star Weekend Magazine took me under her wing and taught me to write. More importantly, she helped me rediscover writing, and how not to let it slip through my fingers. Parallel to professional writing, she nurtured the lost love I had for writing. Soon, the old murmurs came back. I was seduced again into writing. And then, I had to pay for my tuition.
Writing for my bread wasn’t easy, but it was my way of life for the five years. There were times when I didn’t want to write anymore. That I wanted to give in, get another job doing something else.
... and then, came Alvin. I had forgotten what it felt writing for one’s own pleasure (It feels almost blatant --- me creating this blog for myself --- and the occasional drifter who happens along and reads this...). And he’s good. Even if Alvin does say that he writes for his own pleasure, it’s fun and enjoyable to read his pieces. Forget what that selfish creative idiot says, go read his pieces! It’s at smokemyganja.blogspot.com. When I first read some of his pieces, I thought, ‘This guy’s good. How come I haven’t seen any of his work in the local papers?’ Why? Well, two things: The creative idiot doesn’t like to write for the papers, and Mama subscribes to one local daily only. Pfft! Hooooo-boy! Now, I’ve learned two new excuses. It can’t hurt to learn a new thing everyday.
I love writing. Heck, I even took up MA Lit, just so I could listen in on people talk about literature. I love it when people do that. It inspires me. It urges me to write. Writng is all that’s on my mind. I know I have a pretty long way to go before I become a writer. Especially in terms of honing my craft, perfecting my grammar, writing my first novel, finally figuring the difference between a gerund and a phrase, and writing the sequel to Titanic, but hey --- if there’s hope in the fact that the Filipino people would wake up and smell FPJ’s cologne and not vote for him, if suddenly Kenny G would change music genres and switch to disco, then, there’s hope for me! By the way, what does FPJ’s forefinger-pointed-upward stand for? Don’t tell me he’s planning to change the Boy Scout’s handsign?! Aaaaargh!
Although, there is one hitch I realized when I began writing for my own pure and unadulterated pleasure: I take myself too seriously. Oh well, like it says: “Roses are red/Violets are blue/Sugar is sweet/But only God can make a tree.” --- thanks for this idiom, Diko. I owe you one. You too, Alvin.
Let’s face it, Alvin: We are charter members of the Mutual Admiration Society – Cannon Creek Asia, Inc. Chapter. Toink!
[ideas, whatnot and helpful suggestions: jootzman@yahoo.com
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