Tag Archives: Love

Kabaliwan at Sibilisasyon: O Kung Paano Kami Nag-usapang Lasing ni Foucault Tungkol sa Pag-Ibig

Bago sya dumating dito sakay ng eroplano, nagbabasa ko ng Madness and Civilization ni Michel Foucault. Basically, tungkol yung libro sa nagiiba-ibang kahulugan ng “kabaliwan” sa kultura ng Europe mula sa Middle Ages hanggang sa 18th century. Halos wala kong maintindihan. Pero may mga kaunting tumatak sa isip ko na lalo kong naalala habang kasama ko sya rito sa maikling panahon.

Sabi sa libro, at the core of madness is passion and a flawless, perfected reason.

Passion. Kahit anong translation nito sa Filipino, magtu-tunog cheesy: silakbo ng damdamin, simbuyo ng damdamin, pagkahumaling, pagsinta. Kapag hindi nakontrol ng isang tao ang kanyang passion, maaari itong mauwi sa kabaliwan–at wala na sigurong mas may alam pa nito kundi ako.

Gigibain kong lahat nang pinaghirapan kong buuin sa tatlong taon pagkatapos naming natapos, at iiwan kong lahat ang meron ako kulitin lang nya ko ng tatlong minuto. Yung kakulitan na parang bata na sya lang ang nakakagawa. Wala saking nagbago. Ipagpapalit ko pa rin ang trabaho ko, ang common sense, ang hiya, ang tamang pag-iisip–makasama ko lang sya ng ilang saglit. Kahit pilit. Kahit parang ampalayang mapait.

Siguro may mga magtatanong, “Eh kung ganon, bakit mo ginawa pa rin eh alam mo namang wala na? Di ba mukha ka lang tanga?” Sa totoo lang, hindi ko alam. At wala akong pakialam.

Makakalimot ang mga tao, iikot ang mundo, iibig si Kris Aquino, iiwan si Kris Aquino, iiyak si Kris Aquino, at –bukas makalawa–iibig sya ulit. Darating ang araw, mauubusan ng sasabihin ang mga tao tungkol sa kanya at saken, pero ako, di ako mauubusan ng nararamdaman para sa kanya. Continue reading

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Science Fiction

alien world

The year is 9014. I could go for an alien if not for you.

One of those alien spawns born from massive swaths of egg farms in AStD941 in Canis Major Dwarf. They’re raised to life-rearing age within a week using advanced cellular differentiation acceleration and culture implantation. My resource-value has long been ascertained by the Government. I can afford an alien bitch.

That or go traditional mech. Unlike others, I don’t have a misplaced sentimentality that puts organics over androids. Who would’ve thought we’d still have this hippie problem in this age of human devolution and social stagnation? Universes are collapsing, realities have ceased merging some years ago, and yet here we are—these activist fools, not me—proclaiming the sanctity of flesh over ferrous? I don’t carry that bullshit. I’d fuck a robot as savagely as I’d fuck a shape-shifting mass of alien tissue if it would make me hibernate longer than four solar revolutions.

But I can’t do that, can I? ‘Cause there you are, still mapped in my neural networks—an electric anomaly that can’t be removed or rebooted. You’re lodged somewhere in the deepest recesses of the unconscious levels of my brain, and no program or custom-ware could corrupt you. In my dreams, your skin still glistens when hit by the original sun, blinding me for a second, reminding me of Earth 1.0., its roaring seas and chestnut mountains. Extinct fauna like jellyfish.

How unusually human of you. Two big, round eyes; thin lips; wavy strands of hair; two pairs of appendages—so simple. Primitive. But maybe that’s why what’s left of my recalibrated instincts long for you over the black holes and eras that separate us—because you take me back to my humanity. You know I’ve always tried to adjust the past in simulation and in linear life, always waiting for the next time-alteration update, but nothing has worked. I don’t even know why I keep trying when the best minds have done the tests and run the formulas infinite number of times only to reaffirm that the philosophers have won—nothing can change the past.

Some days, I’d lie under the shadow of an intergalactic explorer and wonder about you and me as the scheduled breeze blows my hair on the dot. I’d pointlessly ponder the inescapable logic and categories that have defined our actions putting them squarely in one social system or another, then jumble them again in my head, repeatedly rearranging and fixing them like a Rubik’s Chiliagon. But I would always fare no better than if I tried to live my life as another soul. Time and again, I gravitate toward our impossibility.

Where do I find inspiration when the degenerative reification of this multiverse has solved practically all unanswerable questions? No magic now in the air when air has been tagged as a precious commodity. I can’t trust no ship to bring me good news from any new planet or asteroid discovered and mined unless the algorithms birth a messianic mutant that would allow us to break free from these logic prisons we’ve built ourselves.

Where do I find love if the dark curtain of space—its only hiding place, so they say—cannot be peeled off?

I tell myself it’s in the trying. I tell myself a logical fallacy. I tell myself I still can find you and that you can find me before aliens and robots devour my soul.

Before I completely scrap the thought of you as mere science fiction.

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Old Dogs Don’t Play No Games

Dog sunset

Ruff!

Been lying here under the car since forever, bugs carelessly flying above my drooping ears, a busy community of ticks underneath my thinning fur, my belly warming the road and vice-versa.

Ruff!

Used to race back and forth along this dusty street, chasing cars, bikes, and strange people with unfamiliar scents. I never got tired even when my tongue was flapping out my snout, leaving a trail of drool in the rushing wind. Life was a never-ending chase then and I was the four-legged speedster behind it, unrelenting, hungry. I never got tired and realized I was spent until now…

Now I just lie here like a log long broken down by poison mushrooms. I watch the road, the cars, the bikes, and the people but the fire in my gut has been extinguished. They’re all begging to be chased screaming from one corner to another but my legs just won’t move like they used to. And so I watch them overrun this street–my street soaked in my sour pee–and I watch them helplessly.

These days, I am a pretty useless “pet”–if you can still call me that. Can’t even protect my home no more should a man with an evil intent climbs over the wall one of these humid nights. If I’m lucky enough to spot his shadow with my bloodshot eyes almost shut by sticky green grit, then I might let out a bark though my owners shouldn’t really count on it since I lost the demon in my voice years ago when a nasty piece of chicken bone got stuck in my throat. Sure, I’ll force myself to run after him and try my best to bite his leg but don’t count on it. Nobody should ever count on it anymore.

*Scratches ears*

Look at these people with the smirk on their faces–how I long to wipe it off with a good growl. Men are arrogant–they think they know life because they live longer than us. A wise, old dog once told me that men live seven of our lifetime, and that makes them proud beings. What fools. If one has seven lifetimes, then that means it takes them seven times longer to commit life’s mistakes and to learn from those mistakes–seven bouts of the same pain from the same wound, which would never close even when it was licked to heal years ago. And from such an unimaginably protracted existence, you may be seven times the wiser but you’re also seven times the fool.

How many lifetimes does it take to learn what to eat? What to put in your snout and be part of your body? Do you really need such a lengthy life to know that your nose tells the truth? The food that nurtures smells good even if may not always look nice, and what’s rotten smells bad even if it’s often a feast for the eyes. The nose doesn’t lie–for it’s an extension of your heart.

How many lifetimes does it take to learn to establish your territory, to pee on the right wheels and scratch at the right trees? Surely once is enough? The independence and insolence of youth might drive you once or twice to cross the invisible boundaries that cut this space of earth but you learn from your first teeth-and-claw fight to respect others, to stay away from the sacred shrines they diligently guard.

In the same way, seven lives are too many to understand that you can never understand cats. Some things are better left misunderstood–and that’s a sign of respect, too, for cats similarly can never understand you.

You don’t need seven lifetimes to realize that the greatest kind of loyalty comes from humility–that there are things bigger than you and you owe your life to them. You bow your head in service to their greatness and transcendence, and when you’ve learned to bow your head low enough, you become great, too, for you have transcended yourself.

It is often said that freedom is overrated but it is more often misinterpreted. Gnash your fangs and howl all you want at cages and collars but nothing teaches the essence of true freedom as bitingly as limits.

And then there’s love–that primeval force that sends you scrambling desperately out the gates at night when all the unwanted eyes are closed or looking somewhere else dark. The unbearable heat of it, the madness that comes rushing through your veins! You can never rest and crawl in a comfortable corner until you’ve smelled her lovely scent and felt her warmest secrets. But you’ll never learn her secrets no matter how deeply you fall–and that perhaps is the greatest limit of all. For no matter how fast you run, love still runs faster–an unchasable car. And because your paws and claws can never even scratch it, you keep running like a rabid canine–irrational, insane, untamed, wild, honest.

Ruff!

Another kid throws a ball at me. I don’t even flinch. I’m tired and lazy like a young cat. The world now has to forgive me for every little thing I can’t do for I’ve paid my dues, barked my blues, and done them all before. People have this saying that old dogs can’t learn new tricks. They’re wrong. We can learn new tricks anytime–but old dogs don’t play no games. Not anymore.

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What to Do When You Like Somebody Who Doesn’t Like You

cupid arrowed

Let me crush all your hopes and dreams for a moment and say it plainly that some things are just impossible. You can keep blabbering on about all the self-help lessons you’ve learned from some New York Times Bestseller but that won’t help you when reality finally bites you in the buttocks and you don’t have a choice but to grasp the fact that there are things you just can’t do–and one of them is make a girl who doesn’t like you like you.

When faced with such a situation of a sinister kind of certitude, here are a few things you can do:

1. Stop “investing.” — So you’re about to send her another private message again hoping that you can slip one or two lines of cheesiness in between all the normal, friendly talk? STOP. BREATHE IN, BREATHE OUT. STOP. Don’t do it. See, the more you “invest” in a hopeless matter and a relationship that doesn’t exist in any universe or multiverse, the more you hurt yourself, if not today then in the future when the big elephant in the room, which you so fiercely refuse to see, finally shows itself. So whatever you still have up your sleeve (a half-finished poem or a song in your head), better throw that in the trash bin now. Now. Not later, not tomorrow, NOW. Less investments, more resources to consume when the market of your feelings finally crashes launching you into the literal Great Depression.

2. Adopt a hobby. — All of us have hobbies or things we like to do. Falling for a person can oftentimes interrupt these hobbies when we start shifting our attention to the object of our affection. While before this romantic madness, you were able to practice drawing and painting, now your day is only limited to thinking about her and thinking about her and thinking about her some more, which is of course, indicative of a malignant disease. So, what you have to do is go back to doing these hobbies no matter how hard it is to break the habit of not having any habit but daydreaming about stuff that can’t happen in real life. Can’t draw? Don’t want to work out or read a book? I don’t care. JUST DO SOMETHING ELSE FROM NOW ON.

3. Work like a maniac. — Work is different from hobbies because hobbies are what you’re supposed to do at home while work is what you do at the workplace. The strategy though is the same: you must let your work consume your heart and soul, so there’s not a second of your life wasted on pondering the feelings of a person who’s so busy pondering the feelings of another person who’s not you. Do you normally go on little facebooking breaks in between tasks? Quit it! Work like you’ve never worked before. Triple your productivity. Go for those incentives. Hound your boss and make suggestions on how to run the entire freakin’ company. I don’t know. Just occupy yourself with a humongous amount of work and act like workers don’t have rights. It’s good for you.

4. Fuss over other people’s problems. — Let’s face it: you have a problem. Unfortunately, facing your problem in this case isn’t healthy because you’ll only drive yourself crazy thinking about that person again. So instead of minding your problem, fuss over other people’s problems. Yep, you read that right. Their problems, not yours. Your coworker’s cat died? Make him tell you more about how his pet was an irreplaceable part of his life and now he might as well kill himself because the world is going to end! Your friend’s boyfriend left her? Wear your best shocked face and tell her that she has a big problem, which she will surely have the rest of her life. Ferment problems. Heck–create new ones! Spread them like a virulent virus! All the while hiding that you’ve got a problem, too…

5. Drink to celebrate… ANYTHING! — This is the opposite of number 4. Whereas in number 4, you are deliberately generating and propagating negative emotions, here, you’re forcing yourself to create positive energies of the drunken kind. Doubtless you’ve heard that intoxication helps solve problems but that’s not really true. Drinking while thinking and discussing your problem would make you forget the problem only for a brief period of time–the time you spend sleeping after you get drunk. But clearly that’s not helpful at all because you essentially just wasted your money wasting yourself but the same problem still faces you in the morning with a renewed tenacity and vengeance. So instead of wallowing in self-pity while binging on beer, CELEBRATE. Celebrate what? Celebrate anything. Anything. Your coworker wore a different shirt today out of his regular 5-day-a-week shirt rotation he’s held onto for the last 2 years? Celebrate his newfound life! A friend didn’t complain about the train this morning? Cheers to his freshly adopted positive outlook and contagious grateful vibe! Toast to the moon, the stars, the earth below your feet and everything in between, even that disgusting piece of shit you ate for lunch. But never, ever drink because you’re obsessed with somebody.

6. Look for a human receptacle of unspent feelings. — And finally some advanced psychological crap. Thing is, even if you do all of the above tips, you will likely still have a portion of feelings that can’t go anywhere else except in your nightmares where your inadequacy will hunt you and make you wake up in the middle of the night shivering cold and looking like a complete wuss. To avoid that, you must be a little proactive in managing your energies and emotions. One good technique is to find another human receptacle of unspent feelings. This person will serve as the object of your romantic momentum instead of the person you really like. The only requirement is that this human receptacle should not be entirely likeable–that is, you can only truly like her when you’ve completely bullshitted yourself into madness. The advantage of steering your feelings toward this unwitting, poor soul is that no matter what you do or what you don’t, you’ll never get hurt. ‘Cause she doesn’t give a fuck about you and you don’t give a fuck about her.

______________________

*Written in mockery of the author’s own experiences throughout his lifetime. And in preparation for the doom that is Valentine’s Day

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Pagtatapat

The following piece is inspired by the sheer simplicity and honesty of “Bakit Ba Ganyan” by VST & Company and Dina Bonnevie, and my admiration for classic OPM ballads–the sweetness of which can’t be matched by any English song. In an ideal world, this is how I would like to confess to a girl. NOTE: This is, again, “fictional.”

————————–

Wala naman sigurong masama kung magtatapat ako sa’yo. Pagod na rin kasi akong magpaliguy-ligoy. ‘Di naman dapat palalimin at hulaan pa kung anong nararamdaman ko. Ang gusto ko lang naman sabihin, sa tingin ko mahal na kita.

Please, wag mo akong tanungin kung bakit–mauubusan lang ako ng salita at ‘di ko naman mahuhuli yung gusto kong iparating sa’yo. Wag mo na ring isipin kung anong kailangan mong gawin dahil ‘di ka naman responsable sa kung anong nararamdaman ko. Ang gusto ko lang talaga ay malaman mo para lumuwag naman ng kaunti ‘tong kalooban ko.

Ewan ko kung dapat ba ‘kong magpasalamat sa’yo dahil lumiliwanag ang araw-araw ko sa tuwing makikita’t maririnig kita. Siguro ‘di mo pa ko kailangan sa ngayon o wala ka pang pakialam. Pero kung dumating man ang panahon na kakailanganin mo ang tulong ko, pinapangako kong ibibigay ko ang lahat para mapangiti kita.

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Skips a Beat

I simply remember
all the things about you
and my heart skips a

Heck I don’t even know you
but my heart skips a

Well, I don’t give a
I just can’t feel my
In my chair, it’s hard to
At the table, it’s hard to

I like you without reason
like how I like the Christmas

Like I don’t need to wonder why
I like the bright summer

Like I don’t need to question
why I like the deep, blue

Like I don’t need to ponder
why you’re over and I’m

A simple look or
a meaningless smile
is all that it really takes
for my heart to leap a thousand

‘Cause your hair
is lighter than

Your voice
drowns out all the

You walk
as lightly as you

And when you do it all
I simply can’t help but

I wish I could tell you
to stop running after that
That guy who makes you
And who wastes your precious

I wish I could tell you
to give me a
like that night that we
with your hand in my

Yeah, I wish you’d give me a
to prove I’m a better
that I’m even better than Tom Cruise,
Brad Pitt,
Clint Eastwood,
and James Dean all

But never mind.

I think I’ll just grit my
Suck the air up and
Lest I die in my
The next time you stare at me
and my heart skips a

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But the Woman Who Will Truly Love Me Would

I wanted to shave. But the woman who will truly love me would not care if I shaved or not. So I grew a beard as long as the Taliban’s.

I wanted to comb my hair. But the woman who will truly love me would not care if I combed my hair or not. So I never looked in the mirror again.

I wanted to treat my pimples. But the woman who will truly love me would not care if I were the biggest pizza face in the crowd. So I let the nasty green buggers spread down to my neck.

I was planning on getting fit. You know, jogging, gym and veggies? But I realized the woman who will truly love me wouldn’t care about my weight. So I scratched out “healthy living” from my vocabulary.

I was meaning to read this novel my friends recommended. But then again the woman who will truly love me wouldn’t give a damn about what I read. So I stuck with comicbooks and started mocking all the idiots reading that stupid novel. Sad, unloved hipsters.

I was looking to visit some old friends. But the woman who will truly love me may not be friends with my friends. So why bother? Let those bridges burn, I told myself.

I was wondering whether it’s time for a wardrobe switch for something more elegant, professional–something girls would find dashing. But then I remembered I don’t need other girls or their taste in fashion. The woman who will truly love me would like me whatever I put on. So I just wore the same 3 sets of jeans and shirts every week ’til they smelled of rotten cheese and onions.

I wanted to save. But the woman who will truly love me wouldn’t do so for my money. So I spent every penny before the next payday and fell into debt with my boss.

I used to envy guys with cars. But the woman who will truly love me would gladly walk with me to the train or bus station every day even if we both end up sweaty and stinky. So screw cars.

I used to use deodorant.

I used to dream about being a lawyer. But why go through all that trouble if the woman who will truly love me wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if i were a bum? So to hell with lawyers.

I used to help in the house. Not anymore.

I used to care about what my colleagues would say about my work. Sorry, they’re clearly not the woman who will truly love me, so they can go ahead and talk behind my back. While they’re at it, they can kiss my hairy crack.

Used to play the guitar even if I wasn’t good at it. The woman who will truly love me wouldn’t force me to be musically pleasing in any way, though. So I ditched the guitar and now I couldn’t play you the G chord even if you put a gun to my head.

Used to write poems. Became virtually illiterate.

Used to sketch. Stick figures.

Eat on time. Ulcer.

Come to work early. Suspended. Fired.

Brush my teeth. Cavities.

Sleep early.

Play ball.

Let old women take my seat in the train.

Tickle other people’s babies as if I really like them.

Well, the woman who will truly love me would accept me as I am. So I became me and fell down the rabbit hole.

Drowned myself in alcohol and dove into first-hand, second-hand, third-hand, fourth-hand smoke. Slept with every skank in search for a slob for the night. Feasted in fried chicken forever without an end in sight. Checked out some nifty booze and got high as fuck. As Spock. And cracked. Door’s locked. At home. No Luck. Collapsed onto the roadside slobbering drunk.

But the woman who will truly love me would always call me back. Whatever I do. She’d welcome me back to her arms.

She’d tell me it’s all right to be imperfect. Nobody’s perfect.

And she’d hold my hand and tell me I’m enough. And then she’d hug me. Kiss me. Sing to me.

So I got lung cancer.

Began to wheeze and sneeze everyday ’til I freaked out everybody in the new office. The woman who will truly love me would’ve understood.

Started spitting out huge blobs of toxic green sputum all over the place. The woman who will truly love me would’ve given me comfort.

Coughed my blood out ’til my gums were soaked in red. The woman who will truly love me would’ve puckered up and sucked my big, fat lips dry.

Ribs quickly rose like a mummy decomposed. Skin dried up pretty fast. Eyes sunk like somebody’s sucking them out the other side of my huge skull. The woman I’m talking about would’ve shagged me still. She’d shag me hard while I’m coughing up ooze in her face. Oh, she’d shag and I’d cough, shag and cough, shag and cough, and then we’d do it all over again.

Of course ’til my boner gave way.

But something tells me she’d still try to stroke it. She’d love me that much, you know?

And then in my final days, I’d write my will. Wouldn’t be able to give my mom anything–not a single dime. She’ll curse me to hell but the other woman won’t.

I won’t have anything for anybody.

Except my undying love for the only woman who will truly love me back all the years of my short life.

Then I’d die.

Unfortunately, I won’t have money for a good burial, too.

I’ll tell my dad to throw my disheveled bag of bones in a river like the way he did it with our dead pet dogs and cats.

The woman who will truly love me would cry the only tears I long for, anyway.

She’d get down on her knees and cry. She won’t be able to help herself.

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