Someday, I might just drop everything, wave goodbye to everyone, and leave for India to find the one who holds decades in her hands.
I’ll fly across the world, jettisoning my worries into the ocean where they’ll feed mermaids and the magical creatures of the deep–and they’ll be no more.
I’ll plant my feet on that ancient land and breathe in the mysteries breathed out by its elaborate temples as old as the gods whose holy names still reverberate through the silent jungles and deserts and in the corners of iron cities drowning in the noise of humanity’s tongues.
I’ll touch the earth and feel the dust of fallen empires in my palms, thinking about my insignificance in the endless river of time and in the vastness of life, sweat dripping as my pale skin bakes in the sun.
Immortal secrets will tear me away from the transient troubles that plague my soul, and the wind–wiser than the wizened shaman in the street–will blow away the worldly whims of my mind.
Into the sea of humanity I’ll dive, riding a whirlpool of saris worn by women whose deep-set eyes peel away at shallow hearts.
I’ll be a foreigner in a strange land that has seen foreigners come and go for centuries and even older times that men can’t possibly remember anymore. And the land will know me more than I do myself, unraveling my trivialities like a scroll.
Yet somehow I won’t care and won’t look back one glance homeward until I find you. Continue reading
Red Chucks made from sin, shaved my face, uncovered my chin. Pop these pimples for these people, can’t hear my voice ’cause it’s too feeble. Getting late not getting laid, but that’s all right, I’m getting paid. Reading books while losing looks–what have you done? You’re off the hook! Refreshing pages converts to wages, wage my war as my face ages. There’s really nothing here, you see, just passing time and holding pee. Updating sucks, ideas flock to distant times you can’t get back. And when your hacks can’t get a Mac, you just sit back and rock and rock. Eat your chicken, a little smitten, come home from work, fuck–more kittens! I guess there’s mess and plenty pests for every day you can’t digest. But come, move on, and bang your head against the wall, forget the bed, forget the fall. Tie up those laces, too poor for braces, will never get out of life’s love mazes. So I just get up from my chair, brush my hair, it’s never fair. Perhaps one day I’ll see you grin, and then I’ll run and scream my scream. But when that day comes and you take the win, I’ll simply take a spin–I mean–while wearing my red Chucks made from sin.
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.
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
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
Typing sleepy. Wanna ponder the world. Pondering is all one can do after a few paychecks. They just soften you. Make you gay. Now you don’t even care if you’re branded a homophobic. It’s just another difference in this stained glass global population of Asians, blacks, men, transsexuals, daughters under 18, daughters over 18, the handicapped, cool, nerd, goth, obese, soccer moms, sucker moms. I’m just one of them. A statistic with beliefs. I rome the Philippines restricted by a foreigner’s table indicating specific allocation of profits. I get his cents, my mother gets part of the cents, so I can eat part of the nutrition-drained meat she cooks. People don’t understand me. They don’t understand a single f*cking thing we’re saying and we’re proud of that. This sets us apart, baseless pride. Pride that has an actual measurable base is uncool, pathetic. Scums only have measurable bases of pride. And usually that means they have a lot of money. But I don’t have any, so I’m cool. I’m not a scum. Still, that doesn’t make me any less slimy. Now with all the negative adjectives you’ve rained on yourself, you wonder who’s the bastard who put this into your head. You can’t think of any because you can’t trace any effect into a single cause today. No God nor science now. Just this random incessant desire to make a difference that’s already there. Like I said, it’s a stained glass window of an existence. My body, my work and my dreams are a huge stained-glass window inside an empty church, glimmering red, blue and yellow on a hot, August night. So we write and take pictures of ourselves and scatter them all over the Internet to feel all right. We gotta make people read the next chapter in our lives. We’re protagonists and they are readers and vice versa. There’s a constant peeping going on and we’re all indecent exhibitionists to some extent. Imagine that, in the Philippines? This place was innocent a hundred years ago. Now, it’s just an extension of the latest Hollywood flick, only grimier because the MMDA is inept. We’re like Americans. Everyone is like Americans, more or less. The Chinese are like Americans except they have a bloody history of Communism and they’re more mysterious. Arabs are like Americans, only they’re learning how to be like them in a very painful way. The North Koreans are also like Americans, fate sees them getting there. And of course, Filipinos are like Americans, only their MMDA is inept. What the flying f*ck are those urinals for? Who’s the big dunce? The head of the MMDA? Yeah, maybe we should blame him. We can always blame the President but everyone’s hatin’ her already so that’ll just make us lame. Let’s just hate the MMDA head. Let’s see ourselves ranting, talking political, putting in our two cents worth a thousand bucks when we’re drunk. ‘Cause when there’s nothing less boring to talk about, politics is a sure bet. Gives us a sense of power. We’re all Filipino citizens, anyway. We wear t-shirts with yellow stars and a sun. We make a lot of money from it, especially the Chinese. Pirates love us.