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]
Saturday, January 24, 2004
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
Thursday, January 22, 2004
January 16, 2007
Dear Butch,
Happy New Year!! I’ll be leaving for Cebu on Monday with Angelo and I hope that we could get together while I’m there. If you can round up the guys, the first round’s on me! Hehehe J I missed all of you and I can’t wait to see you guys again!
It’s been what... three years, since our Cannon Creek days? Daghan bag-o diha? Oh, you don’t know the how difficult life is in Manila. Luckily, we were able to get a house near Angelo’s office. Also, it’s a hour’s drive to anywhere you want to go in the Metropolis --- And here I thought I could hold on to my vows of Cebu being the only “metropolis” of my heart!
Manila is okay. I mean, Dindin’s doing well in Don Bosco Mandaluyong. You were right, though. Bosconians are sooooo bastos! He’s learning a new word for... you know! Dili tika i-ninong sa akong sunod nga anak!
Angelo’s doing great! He’s been promoted and now heads the Creative Visuals Department of Saatchi & Saatchi. I’m doing free-lance writing for a magazine aside the volunteer work that I do for Tuloy.
Butch, I am utterly bothered by your email asking for copies of Hustler magazines. Whatever for? I mean, don’t you get those there? Ay, sus ko, Butch! Where am I going to get those magazines --- wait! Why am I going to buy those magazines!! I’m a social worker for crying out loud! I volunteer at a drop-in center for Friggin’s sake! Oh well... I’ll bring them along na lang with me when I get there. Make sure your ass is at the airport by then, because I don’t want Mama to be unpacking and seeing all those magazines in my bag! Hahahahaha!
Gotta go na! Give my regards to Joyce, to Ma’am Sharon, and to the rest of the guys!
Godbless...
Ate Emi
--- --- ---
January 17, 2007
Dearest Emi,
Thank you for allowing me that request! And don’t forget VCD copies of the latest scandals rocking Manila!!! Hehehehehe! Remember the Mandaue Scandal?! Hahahahahahaha!
We have a lot of catching up to do. Martin and Angie got married last December and their on their honeymoon cruise around the world. Louie, Joe and I have started this small comic book thing and things are picking up. Martin and Werby are in on it as well. Werby and Danessa are getting married next month (did you get your invitations?), while the biggest office gossip is that Barcy is going to ask that new applicant named Segundina if he could court her. Apparently, Segundina will say yes. I don’t know the details yet. Oh well... love knows no age limits. I mean, it doesn't matter if the girl's older, as long as the both of you are into Ragnarok.... I’ll email you the details soon.
Alvin is still Alvin. He still sends me my regular Daily Dose. Our conversations have progressed. We’ve mixed a bit of religion into the conversation. We’ve outgrown the pure unadulterated sex phase and have moved on to fetish and priest-nun-altar boy scandals, and then some. It’s quite interesting, really. Geda considered the convent for a while, but it didn’t work out. She joined a search-in at this monastery and noticed that one of the nuns kept looking at her in a freaky sort of way. That ended all illusion about religious life for Geda. Did you know that Joe had twins? Mama is the new Dean of UP Cebu --- yeah, right! You wish! Kidding... Hahahahaha!
Berto now owns the building. Apparently, as the story goes, an uncle of Berto’s died and left him a huge fortune. Now, he drives a mustard-yellow minivan-type multicab and bought the building from Mrs. Pelaez. It’s now called “Berto’s Building. For inquiries, go inside Berto.” I wonder what his family name is... Chito has moved up in the world as well. His gun belt now has ten bullets. It’s an amazing promotion considering that it only held two bullets before.
To answer your multitude of questions about the mags: No. the Hustler magazines are not for masturbation (well, for the most part of it). I can get off anytime I want. The Hustler magazines are for my own pure, unadulterated viewing pleasure and for reminding myself what I've been missing these past 2 years and 7 months and two weeks. And three days.
I need it to keep me from going off the deep end and trying to convince myself that I'm a virtuous person with not a single horny thought in my head. It keeps me grounded --- read: I'm a horny semi-opaw going soft and I need help keeping up my ah, er... virility...!
I need help!!! Can you imagine that I'm starting to read Mama's Good Housekeeping magazines and reading the articles on interior decorating, dealing with your kids' bad study habits and recipes --- the recipes are the worst!
I've changed! I don't think of sex as often anymore! Where I used to think of white cotton panties, tight mini skirts and soft, creamy legs... Now it’s all about chicken florentine, oatmeal raisin cookies and breakfast biscuits!!! Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeelp!
I end by quoting one of my favorite lines... In the great and wise words of Mars: "Cheers!"
‘be seeing you next week!!
Butch
(fiction)
Dear Butch,
Happy New Year!! I’ll be leaving for Cebu on Monday with Angelo and I hope that we could get together while I’m there. If you can round up the guys, the first round’s on me! Hehehe J I missed all of you and I can’t wait to see you guys again!
It’s been what... three years, since our Cannon Creek days? Daghan bag-o diha? Oh, you don’t know the how difficult life is in Manila. Luckily, we were able to get a house near Angelo’s office. Also, it’s a hour’s drive to anywhere you want to go in the Metropolis --- And here I thought I could hold on to my vows of Cebu being the only “metropolis” of my heart!
Manila is okay. I mean, Dindin’s doing well in Don Bosco Mandaluyong. You were right, though. Bosconians are sooooo bastos! He’s learning a new word for... you know! Dili tika i-ninong sa akong sunod nga anak!
Angelo’s doing great! He’s been promoted and now heads the Creative Visuals Department of Saatchi & Saatchi. I’m doing free-lance writing for a magazine aside the volunteer work that I do for Tuloy.
Butch, I am utterly bothered by your email asking for copies of Hustler magazines. Whatever for? I mean, don’t you get those there? Ay, sus ko, Butch! Where am I going to get those magazines --- wait! Why am I going to buy those magazines!! I’m a social worker for crying out loud! I volunteer at a drop-in center for Friggin’s sake! Oh well... I’ll bring them along na lang with me when I get there. Make sure your ass is at the airport by then, because I don’t want Mama to be unpacking and seeing all those magazines in my bag! Hahahahaha!
Gotta go na! Give my regards to Joyce, to Ma’am Sharon, and to the rest of the guys!
Godbless...
Ate Emi
--- --- ---
January 17, 2007
Dearest Emi,
Thank you for allowing me that request! And don’t forget VCD copies of the latest scandals rocking Manila!!! Hehehehehe! Remember the Mandaue Scandal?! Hahahahahahaha!
We have a lot of catching up to do. Martin and Angie got married last December and their on their honeymoon cruise around the world. Louie, Joe and I have started this small comic book thing and things are picking up. Martin and Werby are in on it as well. Werby and Danessa are getting married next month (did you get your invitations?), while the biggest office gossip is that Barcy is going to ask that new applicant named Segundina if he could court her. Apparently, Segundina will say yes. I don’t know the details yet. Oh well... love knows no age limits. I mean, it doesn't matter if the girl's older, as long as the both of you are into Ragnarok.... I’ll email you the details soon.
Alvin is still Alvin. He still sends me my regular Daily Dose. Our conversations have progressed. We’ve mixed a bit of religion into the conversation. We’ve outgrown the pure unadulterated sex phase and have moved on to fetish and priest-nun-altar boy scandals, and then some. It’s quite interesting, really. Geda considered the convent for a while, but it didn’t work out. She joined a search-in at this monastery and noticed that one of the nuns kept looking at her in a freaky sort of way. That ended all illusion about religious life for Geda. Did you know that Joe had twins? Mama is the new Dean of UP Cebu --- yeah, right! You wish! Kidding... Hahahahaha!
Berto now owns the building. Apparently, as the story goes, an uncle of Berto’s died and left him a huge fortune. Now, he drives a mustard-yellow minivan-type multicab and bought the building from Mrs. Pelaez. It’s now called “Berto’s Building. For inquiries, go inside Berto.” I wonder what his family name is... Chito has moved up in the world as well. His gun belt now has ten bullets. It’s an amazing promotion considering that it only held two bullets before.
To answer your multitude of questions about the mags: No. the Hustler magazines are not for masturbation (well, for the most part of it). I can get off anytime I want. The Hustler magazines are for my own pure, unadulterated viewing pleasure and for reminding myself what I've been missing these past 2 years and 7 months and two weeks. And three days.
I need it to keep me from going off the deep end and trying to convince myself that I'm a virtuous person with not a single horny thought in my head. It keeps me grounded --- read: I'm a horny semi-opaw going soft and I need help keeping up my ah, er... virility...!
I need help!!! Can you imagine that I'm starting to read Mama's Good Housekeeping magazines and reading the articles on interior decorating, dealing with your kids' bad study habits and recipes --- the recipes are the worst!
I've changed! I don't think of sex as often anymore! Where I used to think of white cotton panties, tight mini skirts and soft, creamy legs... Now it’s all about chicken florentine, oatmeal raisin cookies and breakfast biscuits!!! Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeelp!
I end by quoting one of my favorite lines... In the great and wise words of Mars: "Cheers!"
‘be seeing you next week!!
Butch
(fiction)
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