Hurry, hurry, for the February frenzy! Drop your stuff, forget the hair, and just make sure you’ll be ready and waitin’ when the love month comes to your door a-knockin’.

Why open with that? You’ll soon learn in a while. But first…

NEWSFLASH: She and I are over. As over as the summer of ’69. By the way, Bryan Adams is Canadian. If you’re me, you always have to acknowledge little, amusing ironies like that.

Sorry if this is something that shouldn’t be blogged about according to whoever’s reading this. See, I watched the first few minutes of The Social Network (yeah, I know it’s older than Casablanca) just 2 days ago; and in that movie, Mark Zuckerberg, or the nerdy actor who’s supposedly giving a passable portrayal of him, blogged about his failure of a date immediately after it came to a nasty, insult-fest halt.

And it wasn’t ok but he did anyway.

So I came to thinking, “Well, it’s probably not right to blog about this but what the hell. Like John Lennon said, ‘Do it wrong or do it right. It’s all right.’”

So I took the cue from the founder of Facebook and the leader of The Beatles.

And here I am now telling you that it’s Over. Finished. Done. Dead. Buried. Decomposed. Fertilizer.

No one should really fault me for talking about it on this blog. No, not on this blog. Because this blog is, first and foremost, a tribute and a record of our relationship. You can dig up the earliest posts and you’ll see that this blog is about her, about us. If there’s a space or venue anywhere to have my say on this matter, it’s here and nowhere else. At least when I visit this blog from now on, I’ll see this post and I’ll be reminded of where things stand now. That I’m officially alone.

But ease your worries and that fury that may be building up in the ovens of your guts right now (if you’re one of her friends and you incidentally have a serious stake on this and you’re just salivating to kill me with a katana). I’ll only talk about this once ’cause I hate it when someone used to say I’m like a girl since I’m willing to talk back and run my mouth. Or my keyboard. I’m insecure of my meager manhood like that, so don’t worry.

Now the question that my imaginary audience would probably be asking is “Why is it over?”

Here’s my take on that, imaginary audience. It’s now over because I couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted more. I didn’t want to be a mere option. Something someone happened to have chosen among other options and therefore could be treated like a king sometimes and a whipping boy on other occasions. I wanted to be an “end in itself.” No, I’m not going philosophical to obscure your understanding in the hopes of befuddling your brains to convince you. What I mean simply is that I wanted to be the dead end of the relationship, the commitment. The dream that she had to keep on dreaming despite the savage bites of reality. That huge wall cock-blocking her every move for I must be loved deeply no matter what. That something she had to live with and care for–without her having any choice in it. And she had to be happy doing it or that wall is crumbling down like every one of my plans these days.

Needless to say, it was too much to ask with a long-distance relationship like this.

But people get so full of themselves that way, right? There comes a point in your life when you think you’re significantly worth more than you used to be. And then you start asking for a higher pay, going for a job with a higher profile, you start demanding a higher sort of respect; everything just needs to be higher in some way. It doesn’t matter if the saying “Pride comes before the fall.” has a special place in your head. You’ll fall and you’ll fall hard. On your tailbone.

That’s basically what happened to me.

Now on her side I’m not entirely sure what cropped up. You should go ask her, imaginary audience.

But what’s with the February frenzy opening? Sorry for taking quite a while to get back to this but here it goes.

I just figured maybe things reached their climax (or rock bottom?) today because it’s February the 1st. And as we all know, no month prompts people to go into a frenzied desperation and desperate frustration quite like the love month.

I don’t know. Maybe she’s in a hurry because it’s February. Maybe she completely misunderstood my point when I said I wanted her to show me she cares because it’s February. Maybe I’m talking like a dumbass douchebag and a stinkin’ asshole because it’s February.

We all want to be loved and give love. At times, life feels like a freakishly long February where the momentum of living itself forces you to seek love, bathe in milk and rose petals, and amass truckloads of chocolates and V-day cards; when in reality, you just genuinely need a friend. We all miss that. I miss that every damn time.

Because if there’s one thing I’m taking away from this relationship, it’s that I’m not really looking for a lover. I need a friend I can grow old with.

But what am I talking about? You’re bored. It’s February. And my argument’s null.

Photo by Kitty Bantayan

If you can buy some land

surely you can buy some time?

If you have enough money for the lot

surely it won’t mean a lot

to let the lot

in your lot

move out without

a drop of blood?

If you have enough cash

to purchase that land

and land people with cash

in condos of lush;

and employ a lush lot

in businesses that encash,

grand and with brands,

then surely you shouldn’t gnash

your teeth when the lot

of people in your lot–

as poor as sewer rats,

as rotten as rotten rots–

refuse your will

for their shanties to be smashed?

For surely

you wouldn’t die

in a week or in a month,

in a year or even longer

–far longer than that–

if your businesses that encash

and your condos that land

lush people with lands

fail to materialize

before your eyes

as quickly as you would like?

For surely

you cannot die

of hunger

like this lot

of people in your lot

ragged as rats

rotted and rots,

barely human and humane,

living in your land?

For surely

the absence

of splintered bones and homes,

of shattered dreams and hopes

is infinitely more valuable

than cold hard

cash

and

buildings that encash

and condos that land

landed people with lots

and a home for your lot

secure for years with brands,

as grand as grand

can get grand?

If you can buy a title

surely your tail

won’t rattle

if it takes years for the battle

to end without even

a scuffle?

For how can a man

watch his fellowmen

get clobbered and hammered

by the police

like pricey wooden sidings

of encashing commercial buildings?

How can he sleep soundly

when mothers weep loudly

through cold nights

in streets that are

as deathly cruel

as condos are

stylishly cool?

How can a man,

indeed,

be capable of such deed,

just to satisfy a whim

to urgently plant

a residential unit or

a manufacturing plant

on land so soaked in grim?

How can a man do that–

it’s impossible, IMPOSSIBLE!

Unless

he sees the lot

of people in his lot

as nothing but

a nest

of two-legged rats?

So I ask you again,

you proud legal buyers,

you stash of cash stackers,

if you can buy some land

surely you can buy some TIME?

For “time is gold” they say

and these rats their gold

is just that

enough time to pass their stay,

time to play an unwinnable game

time to move out of your way,

finally–oh at long last–

and waste away,

waste away.

Oh Santa, dear Santa, can I pray to you?
This Christmas–it’s abysmal!
I’m terribly blue.
My face is growing pimply
And it’s hopelessly lonely
Unlike yours that’s always smiling
And my, quite mockingly jolly!

So Santa, you busy man,
Please hear me out!
You have to start listening
Lest I grow some gout.
Oh Santa, dear Santa,
My heart’s in a rout!
But man if I don’t say it
I’ll just be singin’ it loud
And the neighbors, they’ll challenge me
To a mean Christmas bout!

Oh Santa, dear Santa, heed this holiday rant.
The only present I want
You can’t cram in your sack!
See, she’s 5 foot 3
And she’ll take up all the space
But dammit Santa fella
She’s the reason for this craze!

Just bring back my baby
You big, laughing, red ape
Ride to Coquitlam–
That’s in Canada, by the way.
Break through her apartment
(Just use the tools of the trade)
And get her out of there
Onto your sled–not a minute too late!

Her name is Cherry
She has the curliest hair
You cannot possibly miss her
She’s THAT unbelievably fair.
Grab her and go
Ride through the night!
Deliver my sweet baby
Back to my arms!

Back to my arms, back to my arms
Drop the lady beaming!
Oh I’ll kiss her and hug her
No mistletoe needed!
Then Santa, I won’t be
Just another dejected lad
Hoping Christmas ends
And be done with the fad.

Santa, bearded hope, I’ll be expecting
I’ll go maniacal for sure
If I don’t see her next morning
I’ll burn Christmas trees
Curse every bit of snowflake
And you better hide Rudolph
‘Cause I’ll turn him into steak!

Into steak, into steak
That Rudolph will be grilled!
So you may feel, you happy Nicholas
A bit of my grisly Christmas chill.
But don’t be afraid
Things need not get ugly
If you’ll just do your job
And bring me my Cherry baby.

So Santa, merry grandpa,
I hope everything’s clear.
Get your ass going
Give me some Christmas cheer!
I don’t need anything else
Only the girl of my dreams
The girl who used to shower me with love
Year after year after year.

But if you fail, though you’ve tried
Santa, I might take it in stride
Just don’t bring your reindeers
And their tasty reindeer hide
I swear I’ll have mercy,
Santa Claus dear
If, instead of the girl,
You bring me my beer.

You know what sucks? Coming to a point in a twisted course of mental maturity to realize that you have absolutely no knowledge to impart.

It’s that Socratic understanding that you know nothing about the world, only you can’t put it philosophically because you’re too hopelessly dumb for that shit.

Maybe your old professor could have done it but not you.

And that’s what’s frustrating, you know? Some people–a lot of people–no, most people can actually impart knowledge. And not just the really smart ones but also the bluntest tools in the shed.

They’ll say things like, “Work hard, live free, love with all your heart and pray.” And lots of people will like that piece of hackneyed, bullshit knowledge and it’ll accumulate Likes and Retweets.

Or they’ll spout ideas such as, “Have peace in yourself and the world will follow.”

They sincerely believe that and a lot of people, upon hearing that message or reading it on their computer screens, will believe that. And that right there is a piece of knowledge benevolently given to people who love such positive thoughts. That was a good piece of advice genuinely given and appreciated.

And the Socratic schmuck that you are, you’re just there in your chair, disbelieving the shallowness of it all. You’re there, half-shaking your head at the inane kernels of truth people are joyfully swallowing.

But then that’s exactly where you’re wrong–when you think these thoughts are “shallow.”

And you know that.

You know you’re wrong.

You know that while you may know a lot of half-understood social theories and philosophies, such thoughts are probably as shallow and useless as the ones that repulse you every day.

Maybe you’re a Marxist who’s not really a Marxist because you’re not doing anything to change the social mode of production. Heck, maybe you’re having trouble changing the mode of your everyday office fashion, or the mode of your Sunday loserly hobbies.

Or maybe you’re a postmodernist who likes to debate on forums about the plot holes in massive theories. But the problem is, since you’re a postmodernist and you’re keenly aware of what makes people tick, of biases and rhetorical tricks, you’re also keenly aware that your being a postmodernist is just an excuse for your dry, postmodern life devoid of ideals worth fighting for. Case in point: you’re all for “differences” but you go gaga with every new revelation that some celebrity hunk is apparently as gay as a Teletubby.

Or you’re probably just another atheist hating Christians, a bookworm reviewing a stack of books in your blog like your literature teacher is going to make you summarize chapters anytime, or an indie and news media-guzzling social butterfly who can talk to anyone about anything:from the Eurozone’s crisis to Ai Weiwei to what the color of shit is after one eats a whole jar of prunes.

Maybe you’re one or all of that and you still can’t impart a single piece of knowledge. Not to your best bud, not to your romantic partner just begging you to spill it out, not even to yourself.

And why?

Why?

Hell, you don’t really know why exactly.

You’re not sure about a lot of things and that’s why you’re silent. You’re not sure that if you speak, somebody will listen, and if their listening would be worth the act of speaking that piece of knowledge in the first place.

I mean, is it worth it to say, “There is an ongoing revolution right now even if you don’t see it. It’s happening online and offline and this blog you’re reading is just another chess piece or battle tank in this historical battle to give Hegel’s Reason a worldly form.”?

And what will you do in case someone agrees with that? Would you like to be responsible for the things in his head? Would you egg him on? “Oh yeah, I have the truth of it, dude. Go ahead and read more Hegel!”

Doesn’t that suck? It’s like attending to a baby but you’re the kind of psychopathic mother who drowns her babies when they cry too loud.

That is actually what separates you from a normal, knowledge-imparting man of the streets: he believes what he says and he sticks with it. And even if he comes to disbelieve it in a week or two, he just doesn’t care.

But you care. You’ve matured so much you fuss over the authenticity of things. It has to be true before you can say it. As true as the fact that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. But aside from being undoubtedly authentic, a piece of knowledge has to be driven by something inside you. It must be motivated.

And you’re not motivated. So here you are, smirking at people’s shallow ramblings when you don’t even have any motivations at all for whatever truth drops from the ceiling.

You’re the ultimate disbeliever. The monstrous, lab accident of disenchantment. Of maturity. Of sterility. Whatever you wanna call it. You don’t even care about the proper names of things no more.

Call the goddamn chair “Henry V” for Christ’s sake! That’s cool. But in the back of your mind, you know things are labeled “cool” because they’re worthless and the ones who thought of them just wasted their time. Because they’re like you, Socratic schmucks.

Somebody says you’re wrong? Who the fuck cares?

You don’t care about being right.

And the sad thing is, the few times in your life you’re sure of being right and you actually bring yourself to fight for your rightness, you just know no one’s going to give enough shit anyway.

You need shit but there’s never enough shit.

Never enough shit for you.

Your parents won’t learn a thing from your strangely busy days. Your kids won’t learn to tie their shoelaces from you.

You just sit there in your chair, smirking your smirk. A silent treasure of knowledge no romantic pirate from the most beautiful fantasy can ever hope to uncover.

A month ago, Chemae started working at Wal-Mart as part of the renovation crew, heaving stuff after stuff to arrange on endless rows of shelves. A month before that, she was at Tim Horton’s, basically running the entire store, suffering from burns and backaches and bloated bitches in the kitchen.

But now she’s at home, probably in her bed, reading immensely thick books of legal cases because she’s pursuing the immigration consultancy program at Ashton College in Vancouver.

I’m so proud of her, of how far she’s come mostly through her own smarts, skills and daring to never give up despite living in a distant, foreign land.

I’m proud of that but I’m prouder of our 3 years together.

3 YEARS and Planning D Day

When does a couple pass from the sizzling “honeymoon stage” to the more settled phase of a relationship? I’m not really sure. All I know is that we’re past the honeymoon stage at this point. For the longest time, ever since I started reading Nietzsche, I thought I was already mature. I thought I knew everything about life. But looking back, I realize I was never mature then even when I was immersing myself in stacks of philosophy and critical theory books in the university. Intellectual masturbation for hours is as childish as playing DoTA for hours. Now I know it was only Chemae who led me to true maturity.

We are both mature now. We both think forward and discuss how to keep our relationship going despite the various challenges that lie ahead.

We think of our careers.

We think of our immigration plans.

We think of our wedding.

Oh, yes, we think of our wedding! Always. We think of the motif, of the song playing in the background, we’ve come as far as listing down the bridesmaids and the groomsmen (“But how about this guy? He’ll hate me if I leave him out!”). We would often have this argument about the wedding video because she wants the video to look perfect and professionally done while I want it to look like a candid, amateur video. She said she’ll leave me and let me have my own wedding if I did a ridiculous thing like that.

Was all that planning serious? Maybe, maybe not. The important thing is that we’ve gone from debates about “Is marriage necessary?” to “Where should we hold the wedding?” It’s quite a leap in 3 years, if you ask me. It’s quite a relief, too. Chemae never used to believe in marriage but now she’s happy and willing to talk about it with me.

So that’s another thing to celebrate today on our 3rd anniversary: the fact that I’m completely likable and lovable enough to discuss getting married with! Hooray!

My Girlfriend is My Standard

Here’s one lesson I learned in my 3 years with Chemae: as a relationship becomes more serious, the focus shifts from “Who’s trying to steal my girl?” to “How can I secure this girl for good?” (I hope no one accuses me of reducing my girlfriend into a mere possession with these lines).

Whereas before, our angsty conversations revolved around her exes and my crushes, today it’s mostly about who she may likely meet in her new job or in her class and what are these guys’ qualities that may be better than mine but how–in some twisted, biased, rule of romance–I still deserve her love better. It’s also the same on her part. These days, she’s content on asking me whether I have a new crush in the office or not. FYI, I’ve always said “None.”

We don’t lose sleep over anybody else. We don’t scream at each other’s face because one thinks the other may be gushing over someone else at the office or a persistent ex with a penchant for nightly texting. The headache and insomnia-inducing relationship chess matches are finally over. Things have gotten so settled that we actually kind of miss these things. Nah, not really.

Other parties, whoever they may be, whatever pigment their skin has, don’t bother us anymore (At least not seriously. One time, I particularly got a little uneasy about this one Caucasian guy who looked like Adrien Brody. But hey, Adrien Brody is Adrien Brody. Anyone will be on the defensive against a face like that. Even I want a face like that). We know for sure nobody can be so good–nay, amazing–that he or she can replace our places in each others’ hearts.

I keep on saying she’s my standard.

Anyone who cannot compete with Chemae’s looks, body, intellect, humor, care, etc. doesn’t deserve my attention. And it’s true. The bar is already set too high. The goal now is not to beat it but to keep it there forever.

Marrying Monsters Under our Beds and on Facebook

What keeps us on our toes are actually friends who wed.

These guys will just suddenly announce on Twitter or Facebook that they’re already engaged or, worse, wedded (“What? She’s already married?”) and while Chemae wouldn’t admit it, I know she feels the pressure. I do. I feel pressure because I know this is what I plan for us. I want us to get engaged. I want to take her to the altar, throw a raucous wedding party and get on with the most memorable honeymoon ever–but as of now, these things will have to wait.

Time is both our ally and our mocking foe.

It gives us ample opportunity to carve better careers while keeping the relationship stronger. Within a year or two, she can finish her studies and start her career as a certified professional immigration consultant. I, on the other hand, can fly out of here and be a richer writer somewhere. On the other hand though, time has a habit of laughing at our efforts and reminding us that LDRs don’t typically work. And when former schoolmates marry, I feel like the sand in the hourglass sinks a little faster.

Not WHY but HOW I love Chemae

Answering the question “Why do I love Chemae?” is difficult. It may even be impossible with all the countless big and little things that draw me to her. At this point, on our 3rd anniversary, I feel prouder to answer the question “How do I love Chemae?” The “why” is vague and ideal while the “how” is always practical. Though why we love each other is certainly a huge factor in the strength of our relationship, I know it’s the how that keeps us going.

I will always be proud of that moment when I took a deep breath and asked Chemae out–the very first time I asked any woman out with me, alone, somewhere, so I can possibly woo her with my manly charms, whatever’s left of them. I will always be proud of those moments when our relationship felt as though it were falling apart but I chose to stay just because I loved her so much. I will always be thankful to Chemae for enduring and loving me despite my many imperfections and irrational tantrums.

I love Chemae today more than I’ve ever loved her before. Both of us have matured and changed a lot (for instance, she doesn’t like the night life anymore while I now hate wearing black, which is really saying something). But I still care for her so much. I want to see the best Chemae possible in all aspects of life. And in that regard, the longer our relationship goes, I feel like the real meaning of keeping Chemae is to let her be who she is, and take care of her until she fully blooms.

I’ve always said a relationship is all about compromises and I believe that today more than ever. This relationship is strong despite the challenges of time and space because we are willing to surpass ourselves for the good of both.

People say “You can’t really love someone until you love yourself.” I think that’s wrong. In fact, I think that’s egoistic and completely misses the point of love altogether. You go by that route and you’ll have a relationship that’s all about yourself–a relationship bound to crumble when it really hits something hard.

What I believe is that “You can’t really love someone until you really love that someone.” It’s not about you. It’s about her. It’s about Chemae. It’s always been about Chemae. It’s about how to make this girl the happiest girl in the world because when this girl is truly happy, then I can rest at night with a genuine smile on my face.

_________________________________________

HAPPY 3RD ANNIVERSARY, BABY! Check this blog out a year from now and it will say the same things again. And the year after that. And all the beautiful years after. I love you!

In the train today was a man
who had ants crawling all over him.

Red ants exploring
his grey shirt,
dirt-blue bag and
caveman arms.
Startled me out of my morning train dreams–
this man
and his tiny, warrior friends.
It was kind of weird, yet commonplace
that I thought about this man more than
he thought about himself.

He didn’t care, really
that the ants could be swimming in
his lunch box;
that they could be swarming
his armpits;
that they could be sliding down
his sweaty, sugary skin.
But
to be fair,
this uncaring man
looked like the kind of man
who wouldn’t care if his stinky pants
were a hive of
termites
or roaches
or ants.

It’s a bit creepy but
you know I’d like to surround myself
with snapshots of your every angle
like a suicide-bombing fanatic
kneeling in front of a perturbingly arranged, collage
altar with dried birds and shrunken heads
to honor you

you.

you.

you.

It’s just you, my darling, you
and I know that sounds like a song but
I can’t really help it ’cause it’s automatic
and symptomatic of an addiction for your
crazy antics
and
those goddamn
nighttime acrobatics.

And baby you know I love to play with these rhymes
like a poor man with his pocket’s dimes
dreaming of dames, kinda lame–
to tell you the truth–
if such dames
don’t give a damn
about him
and, more especially, aren’t really you

you.

you.

you.

Last night I drew your face and body,
an enigmatic psycho stalker
obsessed with a pretty somebody
he just met on the train home.
But girl I still held that mechanical quill
and scratched on that plastic slab all

night

long

so that I may ogle your face and body
and immerse myself once more in that
nasty fantasy of my own creation–
a particularly perverse ambition–
like a god masturbating
on his own people
’cause, well,
how can you blame the man–I mean the god?
He loves them so much,
probably sorta like
how much I

love

you.

you.
you.

You, darling, baby, honey,
my Madonna, Mona Lisa, that
goddess-turned-Medusa,

yeah, this poor man
with his pocket of dimes
has his fingers dashing across the keyboard
tonight like an employee
with a deadline
and a dead man
talking to a hangman
and a Hungarian humming a–

hang on.

I don’t really know
and, as you can see, I practically
never gave a damn about what’s going on

with all the pretty dames and their mushy games
in my life. And even if you throw me
a movie star who came from the stars
with a thousand suicide-bombing fanatics
making her the creepiest collage altars,
stalking her in her train home,
baby, you know I would–

there’s just no doubt

I would–

kick that bitch in the face

and I

would send her flying–
flying across the stars where she came from
and in her trail would be a beam so bright
that the darkest, loneliest
night–
during which my fingers dashed
across the keyboard and thoughts of your
face and body
(so ordinary and routinary
of me)–

will explode into a million hues
never seen before
and blind men will see and cry the color red
for the first time;
and auroras will pale before
the splendor;
and the furor will fragment
every fit of fantasy I sketched
on plastic slabs and
heartache throbs;
and that trail of light

will be visible to everyone,
to every creature,
every gremlin
in every fucking airplane

that’s left this fucking country behind

like me.

And darling, baby, honey,
you’ll see it

this creepy, crazy, kinda crappy message

that I

miss

you.

you.

you.

in the weirdest, most spine-tingling way

(silently writing coded poems with bad taste
at midnight)

truly

an enigmatic psycho stalker.

The real problem is gravity. This primordial force of nature that oftentimes subtly, but sometimes violently and mercilessly, pulls our feet down to the ground where we belong. It would throw us savagely against the face of the earth, splattering our brains and guts all over the map. It would crush us the second we get ahead of ourselves and think we can really fly.

How stupid of us. How ridiculous! Just look at how we fill our heads with the most complicated of thoughts and our notebooks with the most elaborate of plans just to see real life break them into two simple shards: to live or to die. And of course, we always choose the first option, making things even more laughable. For the moment we choose to live, we die bit by bit. Who really lives? Is this life? Working from morning ’til night, typing thousands of insignificant letters on a screen, so someone can make millions off them while we waste hours, years, decades, eternities cheating ourselves? Listening to nifty bits of music in the train to dull the senses and hide our consciousness from the zombie of a world banging on our door, screaming, “Let me inside your head, so I can eat your brains, you yellow-bellied fucktard!”

Yeah, that’s about it. That’s about life. And then there’s the amusing fact that when one chooses to die, he miraculously finds the secret passage to real, radiant, thriving life. Ask the people who are ready to die anytime. Ask the rebels in the mountains who have something to live for. The scavenging souls in the streets who still find a genuine reason to smile. The terminally ill who can find spiritual meaning in a matchstick or a dead cockroach. What are their mornings like? I sincerely think they have something I don’t.

See I’ve tried to rise above it like every John and Mary in the room. Hoodwinked myself into believing I’m worth something priceless and intangible. Perhaps an element of immortal love, rushing above people’s heads in a gust of wind. Or an embodiment of hope–a furnace of phoenix fire eternally renewing itself. A lighthouse signaling ships where to go in the darkest, most directionless nights. I’ve tried to imagine myself as such to no avail.

When the time has come for the twinkling fairy dust to collect on the floor like regular dirt to be swept away, all I see is a man, sitting in a dreary desk in a square building, facing his computer screen for the upteenth time. An existence deprived of the time to love. Or to take his lunch. A bag of sickness and porn waiting to explode into something fleeting, filthy and futile.

It’s all because of gravity.

It’s always been one of my greatest fears that by some twist of fate (not really that strange and even much closer to reality when I think about it) that I’ll end up a beggar on one of the many footbridges of Manila.

That even with all the education and the job experience I have, I’ll end up being one of those subhuman creatures barely distinguishable from the dirty concrete on which they crouch and lay festering with all the grime and soot of the city.

Then one day, my educated and well-off friends from the university will pass by my footbridge and happen to identify my face among the faceless. And they’ll be shocked to their wits’ end. They’ll cry. And they’ll be afraid to talk to me for fear of what I have to madly rave about the world, about life, maybe even about them.

It’s not an exaggeration to say that that fear is one of the many reasons why I strive daily to make something for myself. I want to be able to tell people I’m ok–in fact, that I’m doing great and I have a future. Like many of us who have actually finished our studies, I’ve always wanted to send a crystal-clear message that, so far, my life was worth it.

But what if I fail?

What if the devil whips its cruel tail and this nightmare of nightmares by some not-so-strange twist of fate comes true and I become, by tomorrow, a hapless beggar on a bridge muttering insane?

Would I not be worth considering a worthy friend and schoolmate?
Would I not be worth considering a productive and honorable citizen of this nation?
Would I not be worth considering a good son to my family?
In other words, would my life not be “worth it?”

Let’s cut the bullshit. You and I both know the answer and we don’t have to sugarcoat it just to defend our conscience currently being questioned. When I say “burger,” you instantly think of the object “burger.” And so therefore, just to be honest right here, right now, don’t stop that burger from appearing in your mind. The easy, simultaneous and honest answer, stranger, is that “Yes, your life would not have been worth it. Your life would’ve been a waste.”

It would’ve been an utter waste because I failed to make something for myself. All that learning and toil for nothing. Networks of useful people down the drain. Hopes extinguished by a terrible, inescapable destiny when an unspeakably shameful, shabby and fearsome monster came out from the skin of a former, now forgettable, human being.

What this means to me is that my life’s worth is in my toil–in my hollowed place in the market, in economics.

Stripped bare naked without my education, without my networks of friends, without my career, without my money, I am not worth it. To cut the huge pile of bullshit again, I don’t deserve to live.

No, it’s not that harsh of an idea and this is definitely not just the ramblings of another depressed soul who’s overflowing with sappy melodrama. Make no mistake about it. This is a rational proposition you should think about.

The squalid people in the streets, they don’t deserve to live.
Our pathetic, uncivilized, dirty neighbors, they don’t deserve to live.
Our farmers who barely earn anything, they don’t deserve to live.
The 925 million people who are suffering from hunger in the world don’t deserve to live.

For if these people deserve to live, how come they’re dying? And how come it is within our conscience to let them die?

I tell you the day I join these people is the day I lose my right to live. That is the day everyone who is in their right mind would leave me to rot and be another heap of meat for the city’s voracious host of parasites, the worms, the flies.

If someone has the right to live, we do everything to allow them to live. Or to be more precise, if someone has the right to live, then he has the MEANS to live. What is right but freedom and what is freedom but the means to achieve an end? For instance, if someone says he has a right to education, that could only mean that he he has the power to access education. Otherwise, that right is nothing but an empty word spoken by a lunatic to a brick wall.

To have the right to live is to deserve to live. And to deserve to live is to have the means to live. No more, no less.

And here we arrive at a question of conscience: since it is within our conscience to let other people die of extreme poverty while some of us live in obscene luxury, do we then concede that it is within our conscience to say the majority of the people in the world just don’t deserve to live?

Do we then concede we our complicit to this setup that agrees some people should just die?

Why? Because these people haven’t found their hollowed ground in toil, in the market, in economics. Therefore, they deserve their lives extinguished.

For if these people deserve to live, then obviously, we should have already acted in a decisive way ages ago to save their lives and keep them from dying a slow, terrible death brought about by hunger and sickness. If your mother got sick, wouldn’t you spend every bit of your savings to send her to a hospital and provide her with all the medicines she needs to get better? Heck, if your puppy suffers a stomachache you would surely send it (Him? Her?) to a vet if the fee is within your resources. Your mother, your puppy, and other beloved human beings and creatures in your life–they clearly deserve to live because we have the means to make them live.

But those others I mentioned earlier, they clearly deserve to die.

Oh, don’t feel so guilty. We’re all in this together. We are stopped by the same obstacle and arrested by the same fears. We’re not so bad.

Aren’t we?

This is not a new proposition at all. On the contrary, this is something deeply ingrained in our consciousness, manifesting in our most automatic judgments and decisions. We affirm it everytime we say and we agree that “The poor are poor because they don’t work hard enough. They deserve what’s happening to them.”  We proclaim it every time we cheer the MMDA who clear away shanties, leaving the poor howling and thrashing on the ground in front of their “illegal” dwelling places. They don’t deserve such places. Some people who have already bought those spaces deserve them. They alone have the right to build dwellings and buildings or maybe even leave those spaces growing nothing but tall grasses for years. Curiously, this is the economic equivalent of that karmic belief in Buddhism and Hinduism that underprivileged people deserve whatever they have in life because they have been unworthy in their past lives. They haven’t reached Enlightenment. And in our case, this means our poor haven’t reached economic Success with a capital S. In that country we so find it righteous to follow in institutions, culture, and in many other aspects of life, that karmic enlightenment, that Success is known by another term–the American Dream.

Without toil, we are nothing. We aren’t human beings. Let me correct that.

Without toil that makes us a significant amount of capital, we are nothing. We aren’t human beings. After all, the beggar on the footbridge still captures capital in a cup. It’s just nowhere near “significant.”

And so I go from day to day, struggling to keep all my armors and weapons of life in tact–my education, my networks of people, my career. These are my chain mail, my iron shield and my great sword forged in the fires of bourgeois upbringing. I wear them always and polish and sharpen them everyday lest they crack in the midst of the often merciless battle of the global market. I wouldn’t want to be stripped of them and die suddenly, do I?

I’m sure you’ve heard of that term, the “inviolability of life,” the “sanctity of life.”

Well, it is clear to me these beautiful phrases mean nothing but the “sacredness of toil,” the “the holiness of the market.”

———————————————————————————

From my former professor, Gerry Lanuza:

“If all the food produced worldwide were distributed equally, every person would be able to consume 2,760 calories a day (hunger is defined as consuming fewer than 1,960 calories a day). Food entitlement differs from food availability in that it indicates what a person can command with income and thus consume, rather than what is available in the market.”

He said it on Facebook, if that means anything.

It started just like any other judgment day.

On the Internet, websites were abuzz with jokes about the end of times while in the streets of Manila, the squalid creatures under bridges and along mucky rivers haven’t even heard about the importance of the day. On this topic, just like with any other piece of knowledge worth talking about, the masses weren’t part of the discussion. In other words, access to armageddon was limited.

I was in my cubicle, busily inventing a tale of nonfiction before I start with the day’s copies.

What’s really striking about the whole affair is that it was so Hollywood. You’d think the Son of Man would defy everyone’s expectations regarding his second coming but it seemed he cared less about originality than the purpose of his visit. And so it was that when the building’s windows to my right seemed a bit too bright and murmurs started floating around the office, I stood up, looked outside and saw… something.

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It was indeed something rehashed. It’s the very thing you’ve heard from your Bible-maniacal teachers, priests, parents and friends who joined fellowships about the Man way up there and his much-hyped return. For I saw the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life; something that sent shivers down my spine and made my heartstrings tremble. When I saw it, I instantly knew what it was all about. There wasn’t anytime to think “this shit is crazy.” There was nothing left to do. As supremely creative as I felt that morning, I had to leave that epic non-fiction on my computer screen unfinished in the middle of an incomplete word. I went outside.

We all went outside. Our chests overflowing with a feeling of finality to a whole life’s worth of work, confusion and misery, our legs couldn’t help walking very slowly. There was no hurry. It was the end anyway. There was enough time for everyone to silently weep.

I saw people walking hand in hand with their friends, crying on their shoulders as we made our way toward the fire exit. In a moment of clarity only the witty devil could’ve conjured in my mind, I thought it was pretty amusing that some folks chose to wait their turn at the elevators before they could meet their Maker.My supervisor and I glanced at each other. Alas! This was one time that very helpful man couldn’t help me in any way.

Outside, a huge crowd had already gathered all over the streets and EDSA. As cliche as it sounds, traffic was at a standstill. There wasn’t any “noise”; just the sound of mute beings scuffling to get a better view of the Thing up in the sky. But this wasn’t like your regular pop concert where the audience mangled each other for a better look and howled at each other’s ears. No, everyone could see It with mouths gaping open. I guess it was part of the grand plan for everyone to witness the grand finale.

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Needless to say, ABS-CBN and GMA weren’t covering the big event, neither were any station the world over. Somehow, I wondered what Mike Enriquez could be doing that moment. Just as there was no way to document the beginning of history, there was simply no way to document its end.

We were rendered illiterate like the primeval primates, like dinosaurs and the beings before them. And this is no exaggeration at all. The feeling was that of deep naivety or idiocy. Everyone went back to being children or rather, everyone realized they hadn’t grown up at all; like they were putting on papa’s big shoes or mama’s smeary lipstick for a whole week and now the angry folks were here. We were going to get spanked.

There wasn’t any need to talk to the guy transfixed at the sky next to you. An overwhelming sense of futility overcame every soul. After all, this wasn’t about the matters of men anymore. The instant you see that Thing, that marvelous Thing up there, all your issues melt into nothing. Me, I wasn’t thinking about the next payday anymore, or capitalism, or the RH Bill, Manny Pacquiao, my family and my girlfriend. Once in a while, a little stupid thought would still pop in my head, like Mike Enriquez, but it would disappear just as quickly for the only thing left to do was to immerse yourself at the certitude of the situation. This was the novel’s resolution, the final step in a long, arduous journey, an actor’s shedding of his costume when the curtains fall. The only relation left was between every man and his undoing.

I guess what Hollywood missed was that the occasion made chaos impossible. Last-minute looting, shooting, binging, smoking, copulating, jacking off and raping weren’t possible. For how could anyone even bring himself to do something “evil,” let alone do “something” when there wasn’t any purpose to anything anymore? Even purposelessness was purposeless. Nihilism and anarchism were reduced to empty terms–but to be fair, just like any word. “Dog” didn’t mean anything, neither did “Apple” or “love.” It’s the closing of the closed; what Marxists termed the “negation of the negation” but definitely not what they imagined it to be.

———————————–

To be sure, regret flooded the sea of humanity over the face of the earth. But there wasn’t any desperation. Each and everyone somehow knew that he should keep the regret to himself, however earth-shattering that regret was. No sin was big enough to make someone shoot his head or throw himself over a billboard. After all, wherever you were going, to hell, purgatory or heaven, you were surely on your way there and your guide was nothing less than the merciful Creator or, for the majority, the merciless Death Reaper.

And don’t you even suspect that skeptics were quietly criticizing the phenomenon. No way. The most brilliant scientists kept their mouths shut and the sharpest philosophers kept their minds blank. No one could question anything. It took a long time for people to learn it, but finally, people understood and took to their hearts the value of acceptance. And my god, how they could accept every little thing that day. No one was scratching his head over the validity of tools of measurement of sin. All the atheists, the agnostics, the people who hadn’t thought of the concept “god” since third grade wholly accepted their fate, the certainty that there was no tomorrow after this fateful day.

Suddenly, the clouds opened up and a powerful beam of light shone on the multitude. Again, like Hollywood. No one expected for the affair to be so literal an enactment of Bible verses, too. That psalm that said, “The Lord lifts up the downtrodden; he casts the wicked to the ground”–that’s exactly what transpired. The first to literally get lifted off their feet were the shabbiest of the shabby: men who never heard it on the news that today was judgment day, men who were so busy finding a way to live that they hadn’t been living their entire lives. They were the greasiest, the most emaciated, the creatures who the globalized, industrial world had consciously forgotten about. And they rose up from the cruddiest corners of cities. A shower of dirt and pieces of garbage from their feet rained upon the face of humanity who understood a little too late what that profitable holy book really meant. Acceptance was replaced with Shame. The most well-dressed cried the hardest.

Congregations waiting with their spiritual leaders anticipated air below their feet any moment–but many of them were disappointed. It seemed the Thing up there didn’t particularly care how frequently one practiced the “sacraments” or if someone knew the savior’s correct name at all. In fact, the ignorant tribes in the forests, savannas, mountainous and icy regions were the first to ascend. These people weren’t familiar to this monotheistic god. In fact, no one was really counting how many supernatural beings were there now. Nobody cared how many were out to get us. What mattered was, they’re out to get us.

———————————–

Then I kept looking at my feet. Several times, I half-thought they were rising, too. I couldn’t help running through all my sins and “good deeds” though I knew the activity was fruitless. It’s up to that Thing to decide what to do with the helpless child that was me. But scenes still kept appearing in my mind: porn sites, street children I turned down, those countless hours in the bathroom. I knew I wasn’t the only one but it didn’t comfort me at all.

Then I thought I saw my mother flying toward the clouds, riding the mighty light, and even if that person wasn’t her, I knew she’s one of the chosen ones. Finally, her endless chores were over. Her back won’t break no more.Toil was over and it’s not a revolution that ended it but a seemingly ordinary, quite boring in fact, Saturday.

A symphony of sounds sang by a billion heavenly voices swept through the crying crowds. It’s coming. Funny that everyone was just Facebooking and tweeting about it just that morning and now it came to harvest its crop. The tremendous feeling of my insignificance and the universe’s impenetrability hit me with an enormous force in the stomach and my knees buckled. Breathing heavily, squinting, I thought I saw a face slowly unmasked by the clouds.

I sho