Darkness had already descended on the bare cubic buildings of SM City, highlighting sombre yellow lights of more buildings under construction. They’re like gluttonous fetal monsters still developing inside their shells. I could almost imagine them drooling. Soon they’ll be devouring shovels of shoppers forever frantic for the latest cool touch-screeny devices and sweet, iced blobs with largely unknown ingredients.
Chemae and I were drained from a week’s worth of working and thinking about working when we walked into this group of boys — running, laughing, screaming, tearing the sleekness of the night apart. They were playing soccer just outside the mall; except they were neither kicking a soccer ball nor any type of ball for that matter. Their thin dark feet — some bare, some wearing slippers — were excitedly kicking a crushed soda can. Continue reading
A group of friends. Very noisy. Three were gays. The gays were even noisier. Said that if all gays died, the world will be quieter by 50%. Said that my gay friends will not like me for the thought. But this group had mouths as big as the moon’s craters. Filled the entire coffee shop with noise. Couldn’t hear my own explanation of my blog stats to my girlfriend. She was dazed and exhausted. But this group crawled out of hell. Screamin’. Noisy ugly devils in a cheap coffee shop. And as I looked, this guy – quite good-looking, too. He caught me looking at him. His index finger was shoved all the way to the inner depths of his nose. Wiggling there like a salted worm. No hanky nor paper towel. Just his pale index finger. Wigglin’ excitedly. Nose pushed side to side by the violent force. His eyes fixed on me. I looked away so quickly it’s as if someone slapped my face.
A few months ago, in this country, the media saw dozens of corpses — stabbed in the eyes, shot in the genitals, swarms of flies having a sumptuous feast — they said it’s “inhuman.”
I went a bit further and read about cannibalism. Apparently, it has existed from time immemorial in almost every part of the world. Asians did it, Africans too, and you bet, even Americans. Today, the Korowai tribe in Papua, New Guinea is believed to be still practicing the gory ritual. While filming a documentary, the crew of a television show attempted to rescue a 6-year-old boy from being ham dinner because he was accused of being a witch doctor. They failed. I have reason to believe the boy’s body now fertilizes the ground that grows all sorts of healthy shrubberies and trees there. It’s hard not to feel sick after you read all of this taboo trivia.
But to me, it all comes down to one thing: We’re meat and we hate it. Continue reading
Life is vicious, like a rabid mad dog, I can tell you that. Didn’t use to be that way but it definitely is now. I think the world might be getting too dense, too suffocating, like everyone out there is getting pounded real hard, so they’re only three-fourths of their original size and, well, humanity. The air must be too condensed and saturated with microscopic droplets of sweat and blood and spit and oil. And I guess the grounds can’t be walked anymore because they’ve risen up, swallowing trees, plants, and every crawling green that’s fresh to the eyes and to the brains. They’ve now turned into tentacles of a gigantic toxic monster egging people to go to places that lead to nowhere. So the people are lost; and the sky must not be too much of a comfort for them too, because in its untainted innocence, it only serves to push down guilt and shame and senselessness into their throats.
That is why you get people who whisper “I love yous” to each other in the morning and throw murderous curses to each other at night. Blame them for my unfit body and soul. I got this guy Ted who’s always on my left ear — he’s generally a nice guy. Talks about .NET and CSS and HTML and other goddamn strange jargon all the time with a guy with a funny accent on the other line on my right. Harry’s the name, if I remember correctly. I think they might be up to something heroic to save the perishing world ’cause they’re always exchanging smart incomprehensible stuff about “problems” and “solutions.” I never did get what they mean but whoever this “client” guy was, he isn’t gonna be better off once Ted and Harry figure out how to save the world. So Ted — as I said, ideal guy, if you ask me. He takes care of his grandma Lucy from Mondays ’til Fridays, making sure she takes her meds ’cause she’s got a whopping lump ’round her neck. Which reminds me, that’s also the problem they got out there today: everyone has a fatal disease. Continue reading
You’re a fish hook
And I’m a fish.
This is a sea
And above’s the sky.
You have your wiggly worm,
Fat and juicy.
I have a scaly mouth
That wants something oozy.
You made waves when you dipped
Into the sea,
Deeper and deeper
Like you knew your way.
Then when I saw you – gulp!
My fins just sighed.
Before I knew it
I was already fried.
A bright blue peacock runs in circles in the middle of a busy mall in Quezon City. Big brown eyes reflecting the shocked people all around it, the majestic bird threatens to stretch its wings and fly toward everyone’s dumbfounded faces. It’s a proud male of its species (albeit clearly stressed with the present situation), decorated with brilliant gems and beads of light only nature can so creatively invent in its random biological musings.
People carrying their green shopping bags are cheering, laughing, clapping their hands, whistling, telling spontaneous peacock jokes to each other. An old man celebrating his 75th birthday with his 6-year-old granddaughter heard the commotion from a floor below and told his most favorite person in the world that the Eraserheads are having a show above. The befuddled security guard runs to the scene and starts to crouch to catch the harassed animal. Seven men, 3 of whom wearing moustaches, one’s a stereotypical Jamaican with dreadlocks that seemed to have been dipped in tar, thought that they would like to be heroes of this most curious moment, so they began to crouch too, carefully moving toward the bird, clucking like chickens.
Obviously, they thought what works with runaway chickens also works with bright blue peacocks in the middle of a mall.
Thunder Spike is the “gin runner” of his gang, the Marikina Maniacs. His task is to procure a bottle of gin for his group every night before 10:00 PM or else his scalp risks losing a few more fertile areas of follicle because of angry cigarette butts. It’s 5:00 PM and Thunder, wearing his oversized black shirt with Pacquiao’s sweaty face in front, is strolling through the mall, heading to no particular place as of the moment. Continue reading
Who cares what others think about how we think, how we speak? Why must we play along with this web of rules and standards they have set upon themselves? Why must we feel pressured for the correctness, righteousness or validity of what we have to say? Why must we tremble in our own bedrooms, afraid of their cold vengeance? Can’t we shout “We’re not part of it! I’m not part of it! I refuse to be defined by it!” Have we really been plugged into this monstrous machine of dreams and sleepwalking since the day our unknowing mothers set us free in this shackled world? Isn’t there a means for an uncontroversial escape? Is there a way to live without agreeing to the term “responsibility?” — therefore, without agreeing to any “term” at all?
Yesterday, I saw two boys lying on the steps of a footbridge. They can’t be older than 7. They were fighting because the younger boy seemed to take up the space of the older one. All the while, we were passing before their sleeping space as hundreds of vehicles disturbed the dust on the paved roads underneath. Continue reading