Parallel Pulubi (Flash Fiction) - Part 2

"Tol, anong ginagawa mo rito?"

Tumalikod ako. Si Popoy. Amoy punyeta rin. Nakasuot ng gray shirt na may print na "Punk's Not Dead" in graffiti font. As usual, punit na punit din ang outfit niya like mine. Good news. Good news.

"Tol, di ba may shift ka ngayon? Baka late ka na," sabi niya.

Anong shift? Bakit mali-late? Tangina, napakasamang balita. Wala yatang alam si Popoy.

"Ha? Anong shift, tol?"

"Call center agent ka, hindi ba? You know, BPO stuff? Mag-a-alas syete na, shift mo na. 'Di ka papasok?"

Puta.

"Ha? Ha? Anong call center? Anong BPO? Ha?"

"Tangina, suminghot ka ba? Ba't di mo 'ko sinabihan?"

"Ha? Ha? Anong suminghot?"

Tumawa si Popoy. Humalakhak ang gago.

"Osya, mauna na'ko. Napaka-stressful maging COO ng company! Kitakits sa Mayhem mamayang hapon, tol. Bill's on me!" Lumakad si Popoy na parang normal at malinis at desenteng nilalang sa mundo. Hindi niya alam na amoy punyeta siya at butas ang kanyang suot na pantalon.

Puta. Wala akong nakuhang mga kasagutan.

"Ser, ser, palimos po."

Nasa likod ko't kumakalabit sa aking sando ang isang dalaga. Naka-yellow dress at Ray Ban sunglasses. Six inches na high heels. Purple lipstick. Newly-rebonded hair. Napakasilaw ni eneng.

"Ser, ser, konting barya lang po."

"Iha, makinig ka. Ka-tripping mo ba 'yung lalaking naka-tuxedo? Yung sa kabilang kanto oh. Kita mo? Anong trip niyo, ha?"

"Ano po, ser? Di ko po kilala 'yan. Hindi po. Hindi po."

"Ba't ka mamamalimos, ha? Ang gara-gara ng outfit mo. Anong mabibigay ko sa'yo?"

"Ser, wala po akong trabaho. May sakit po ang anak ko. Andun po," at tinuro niya ang isang batang naka-red hoodie at Converse kicks na naglulumpasay malapit sa traffic light sa harapan ng BDO.

Napunyeta na talaga ako.

"Konting barya lang po, ser, pantawid gutom lang po sa anak ko."

Hindi ko alam kung bakit, dumampot ako sa bulsa ko at nakaramdam ng papel. Kinuha ko ito, at putangina, sampung libong piso!

Puta.

Puta talaga.

"Wew, hanep. Andaming pera n'yan, ser. Siguradong may barya ka rin n'yan. Sige na, ser. Konting barya lang po."

Binigay ko sa nakakasilaw na dalaga ang isang libo.

Hindi ito ang mundo ko. Ngunit, tangina, ang yaman ko rito.

Tumalon sa tuwa ang dalagang naka-yellow dress at purple lipstick. Tumakbo ito patungo sa batang naka-Converse kicks.

Anong nangyari sa mundo? Masisiyahan ba ako sa nangyari?

Lumakad ako nang lumakad. Walang patutunguhan. Hindi ko alam, I'm in deep shit thinking na pala.

Puta, pa'no ako napadpad rito? Pa'no ba makakaalis? Gugustuhin ko kayang umalis? Ano pang mga nakakawindang na surpresa ang naghihintay sa'kin sa mundong 'to?

Huminto ako sa isang kalyeng pinangalanang Blood Street.

Tangina, the name speaks for itself.

Nasa harapan ko ang limang lalaking naka-suit, black glasses, red ties, shiny leather shoes. Ang lalaking nasa gitna, may hawak na pugot na ulo.

Nakalimutan kong mayaman nga pala ako.

Nakalimutan kong minsan na rin palang sumagi sa isip kong gumawa ng masama para magkapera.

Noon 'yun. Noong pulubi pa ako. Teka, pulubi pa naman din ako. Teka. What? What?

Papatayin ba ako ng mga gagong 'to? Hoholdapin? Minsan ko na ring ginustong mang-holdap dahil sa gutom. Tangina, ang gulo-gulo!

"Ang taba ng hawak mong papel, ser."

Napunyeta na.

Parallel Pulubi (Flash Fiction) - Part 1

Holy shit, napabulyaw ako. Holy motherfucking shit.

Nasa harapan ko ang isang lalaki na nakasuot ng tuxedo. Puta, ang desente ng hayop.

"May pagkain ka ba d'yan, boss?"

Ano raw? Anong pagkain?

"Boss, kahapon pa po ako walang kain. May sobra ka ba d'yan?"

Puta. Ba't nanghihingi ng pagkain ang taong 'to sa 'kin? Tatlumpu't dalawang taon na ako rito sa lansangan, ni minsan hindi pa ako nakakaranas na may taong obviously rich na nanghingi ng pagkain sa 'kin. Puta. Anong nangyayari?

"Boss, boss."

"Ano ho?"

"Me pagkain pa po ba kayo d'yan? Napakasakit na po ng tiyan ko."

"Ba't di ka umuwi sa inyo? Na'san sasakyan mo? Puta, may pera ka, 'di ba?"

"Ha? Anong pera po? Anong sasakyan? Tatlumpu't isang taon na ako rito sa lansangan. Pera? Sasakyan? Tatlumpu't isang taon kong pinangarap ang mga 'yan."

What the fuck.

"A-ano? Anong pinagsasabi mo?"

"Lumaki po ako rito sa lansangan, namamalimos araw-araw, dumedepende sa mga taong mayaman para mabuhay, sa mga taong tulad niyo po."

"Ano? Anong tulad ko?"

I looked at my hands, filthy as usual. Puta, amoy kanal na naman ako. Pinalayas na naman ako ng may-ari ng lote sa harap ng pharmacy, doon pa naman ako natutulog. Comfy place. Comfy tiled floor. Puta, nami-miss ko na ang spot na 'yun.

Teka, anong pinagsasabi ng taong 'to? Paano ako naging mayaman sa hitsura kong 'to?

"Kahit barya lang po. Maawa po kayo."

"Puta, pare. Anong pinagsasabi mo? Anong trip mo, ha? Nakikita mo ba ang taong nasa harapan mo?"

"Opo, opo."

"Anong nakikita mo? Anong suot ko? Anong amoy ko? Panget ng mukha ko, di ba? Pulubi, di ba? Pulubi?"

"Ha? Hindi po. Hindi po. Nakasuot ka ng maruming sando na may punit sa gitna. Amoy punyeta po kayo. Panget din po. Pulubi? Ha? Anong pulubi? Araw-araw ko pong pinaglilimusan ang mga katulad niyo. Ang mga mayayaman sa mundong 'to. Tumingin po kayo. Ayun, po. Doon. Kita mo?"

Puta, pinagtatawanan ng tatlong pulubi sa kabilang kanto ang isang babaeng naka-gown, nakadapa sa bangketa, umiiyak. Pinagbabato ng barya ng mga gago ang babae. Holy shit. Anong tripping 'to?!

"Konting barya lang po. Sumasakit na po talaga ang tiyan ko."

Nakatingin pa rin ako sa tatlong pulubi. What the fuck is going on?

"Boss?"

Puta. Puta. Puta. Anong nangyayari?

"Boss?"

"Ha?"

"Palimos po."

"Tangina. Anong palimos? Ginagago mo ba ako, ha? Ha?"

Tumayo na 'ko.

"Anong palimos? Ibenta mo 'yang tuxedo mo, gago!"

"Ano po? Itong suot ko po ba? Napulot ko lang 'to. Maraming ganito roon sa waste dump. 'Yang suot mo po, wew, jackpot po kayo d'yan pag binenta mo. Sa huling pagkakaalam ko, pitong libo yata? Ewan, basta mamahalin po 'yan!" Tumawa ang gago. "Pero, boss, konting barya lang po talaga. Maawa po kayo."

"Tangina, umalis ka sa harapan ko!"

Nagulat siya, yumuko, at umatras. "Pasensya po, boss. Pasensya po," at lumakad sa kabilang kanto. Nilapitan niya ang naka-gown na babae. Hinimas nito ang ulo ng babae, may sinabi, at umiyak. Pagkatapos, dinampot niya ang mga tinapong barya ng tatlong pulubi kanina. Binilang niya ito at biglang tumingin sa 'kin. Puta, ngumiti ang gago.

Pinagmasdan ko ang paligid. Nasa syudad pa ako, ang mismong syudad, ang mismong lansangan na kinalakihan ko. Ganito ang hitsura nito pagkatulog ko kagabi. Ganito rin ito ngayon. Walang nagbago. Well, except this one. This fucking one. Bigla akong nagutom. Hindi sa pagkain, kundi sa mga sagot.

Then I realized, si Popoy.

Tama, si Popoy. Maraming alam si Popoy. Baka masagot niya 'to. Kailangan kong hanapin si Popoy. Puta, na'san ba ang gagong 'yun?

Kaastigan Features of Bob Ong's Si

Kaastigan features sa bagong libro ni Bob Ong na "Si":

1. Imagine na nag-Tagalog si Gabriel Garcia Marquez. This book comes near to be the Filipino "One Hundred Years of Solitude."
2. This book starts from Chapter 72 and ends with Chapter 1. Well, creatively, it ends with the last lines from the back cover of the book.
3. Hindi street language ang gamit ni Bob Ong in this book, unlike the previous nine books.
4. Humor, love, and more love.
5. You will be all smiles after reading the pages of the wedding proposal.
6. Astig lines like "binuo ang puso ko para durugin" and stuff.
7. Add up all romance/love/fairy tale books that you've read and all that gist is inside "Si".
8. You will be confused, but you'll love that confusion as you flip the pages.
9. All your stereotype about Bob Ong being this and that will be crushed. Filipino literature's middle finger just got published.
10. Bob Ong's tenth book suffices the three years of him being in hiatus. It is worth the wait, Bob.

RATING: 10/10

The Palace in the Slums

there’s a palace in the slums.

every night it holds a feast.
fancy lights up there festooned,
illuminates the sober moon
that has her underneath
a sad and ghastly place—

but the palace in the slums

takes the sadness off its face.

there are songs by the angels.

there is food for the gods.

there are tables for royals

enough for them who never had

time for heavenly songs,

swarming dosh for nutrition,

golden merit for royalty;

the slum knows no profusion.

the palace in the slums

holds a feast for children.

young souls of a land broken

may come inside the festive heaven

and sing the songs of angels,

eat the food of the gods,

sit at royal tables

and watch the lights from up above.

the children of the slums

go in there every night,

inside that palace that stands aloof

from its hostile neighbors of putrid sight.

the palace in the slums

is host for these lovely children

but there is no one around

come the day as the sun awakens.

no one around, too,

every night of jubilant feast.

no one that welcomes

or opens the door at least.

no man has been seen

inside the palace in the slums;

but there is word that in dawn

the children hear a distant hum

of a song by a child

up there in the yellow room

of the palace in the slums—

and the child seems in gloom.

the children bid goodbye

to whoever is inside

that mellow yellow room

of the gloomy humming child.

the gloomy humming child

dreams a dream every night.

in that dream is a palace

festooned by festive lights.

in that dream are sad young souls

making their way inside.

in that dream he lets them be,

lets them enjoy as he watches by

inside his mellow yellow room

in the palace that he made.

he watches them below

until his dream will fade.

as dawn comes near

the child hums a song;

a sad song like his dream

that will never be for long.

his song wakes him up

and the dreamy dream is gone.

he lies on a makeshift bed
alongside children of the slums.

On thinking too much and Silent Sanctuary songs

"Ang problema man gud nimo, Den, you think too much."

I am sober now. Well, I was, until Silent Sanctuary's Sa'yo played background on a Koreanovela show late this night. I was already geared up towards not loving her anymore. Funny, since all my previous posts sounded like I was hit by Cupid a thousand times over and over again and here I am saying I'm all over it, I'm all over her. I think I'm not.

You see, I decided to kill this feel. Why? It kills me. All the crap I said about loving someone without expecting something in return did me a lot of pain. Curse you all poets I've known. It wasn't easy. (And I'm looping Silent Sanctuary's Sa'yo while typing this, letting the feels suck me in and transform myself into a cat).

Well, my friend was right. I really think too much. Too much of all things. Too much that I always end up regretting why I always think too much. I end up not doing anything, just sitting there thinking why I think too much. I feel you, Carljoe Javier. This post is a product of thinking too much.

I know that she knows already. Well, that's cool. But that's it. She's too beautiful, too real for my fantasy. Unfair, I know. I'm ending a fight I haven't started yet. Not to confuse but she is worth fighting for. The problem is me. A geek madly in love. A geek too naive about love. A geek staring at a beautiful woman but stays there, steady, silent, wanting to talk but can't.

Curse this song.

On narrative poetry: Once There Was You and Me

Once there was you and me

and the world watched us grow.

Once there was us,

unending, for all we know.

Once there was you

with your silly laughters

and constant japes and fits

and mood swings and jitters.

Once there was you

who sat beside me and said,

"I think I'm in love,"

with all smiles but me in dread.

I asked, "Who's the lucky guy?"

and you smiled like never before.

I asked but didn't want to hear a name

for such a wretched word will hurt me more.

I felt sad and jealous,

my left eye kept on twitching;

sweat beads falling furious

at the thought of you and him kissing.

Then you held my hand;

leaned your head against my shoulder.

then a deep sigh, and came words so few,

"It's you. It has always been you."

Once there was us

with love young and tender.

Once there was such a love

that we thought meant forever.

Once there was a night damp and cold,

I held your hand and saw you crying.

Once there was a night of tears,

I let loose of your hand and saw you leaving.

Once, yes, I remembered,

once there was you and me.

Once there was such a love

meant to last for eternity.

Once was forever.

Once was eternity.

Once, it froze.

Once was a memory.

On narrative poetry: God cries

blue strides, red eyes

his kid on his shoulder.

blue strides, no life,

hands darker and darker.

blue sails, red wails

Death was beyond him.

blue sails, no fail

did he shout at the heavens:

"we are all but broken toys,

broken toys of a cruel god!

broken toys, broken boys,

broken waste from up above!

we are all but broken toys,

broken toys of a distant god!

broken dreams, broken screams,

broken whispers of a man gone mad."

yet he moved forward; blue strides, red eyes,

blue sails, red wails,

blue strides, no life,

blue sails, no fail.

"mister, what happened?" asked a passing shadow.

"my child, my child, hanged himself for love."

"mister, how sad, now where do you go?"

"my child, my child, I'll bury him in the morrow."

and he laughed

and screamed

and laughed

at the heavens.

he laughed

and squealed

and laughed

of his burdens.

"we are all but broken toys,

broken toys of a cruel god!

broken toys, broken boys,

broken waste from up above!

we are all but broken toys,

broken toys of a distant god!

broken dreams, broken screams,

broken whispers of a man gone mad."

"am i mad, am i mad?"

with blue strides he mused,

and walked off the road

to that red light that oozed

a whisper, a familiar one,

coming from not far away.

"here i am now, father,

and here now I say:

you are not broken.

you are sad, that is all.

your god isn't cruel.

he's there, up there, crying as we fall

to the shadows of fate,

that he said to me.

he is crying, o father,

as you cried for me."

On narrative poetry: Murder

throat slit;

blood on his three-year old portrait,

lions dancing

and ducks upfront the door.

he swayed to the curlicues of jazz

with the knife on his pretty hand

spitting blood

on that sofa and remembered

the girl he screwed by behind

and slit her throat

to the curlicues of jazz.

damn the woman.

damn her feelings.

damn his apathy.

jesus he was crazy.

the good kind of crazy

which dances to the mania

of pure

fun.

it was fun.

he was guiltless.

blood spurted.

blood got out.

blood got spilled.

he was dancing.

damn, he was dancing

to the curlicues of jazz.

damnable woman's right eye

staring at him.

he shieked,

and laughed

and got near,

poked the eye

and ate

it.

it was fun;

didn't taste

good

but it was

fun.

Gloomy Sunday

wailing like a bitch

on her vintage radio.

Fuck off, he thought.

FUCK OFF!

melody curved like shit

and he was terrified.

not with the blood

nor the hollowed eye

nor the chickenshit face

nor the malfunctioning kidney.

but the song

menaced him,

tearing his skin

from the inside.

FUCK OFF!

Gloomy Sunday,

Hungarian suicide.

Ah, he thought,

you ain't getting me

you fuck,

you ain't getting me.

he went near the woman

and poked her belly

with the

knife.

poked her slow

then slow and hard

then fast

and hard

and fast, fast, fast

and poked crazy.

Jesus!

God wailing on the corner.

it felt like cotton,

the belly

and the insides

popping out of her.

it was dark red

and blue and green

then all mixed like

rainbows.

Rainbows!

it was good.

it was fun.

it was glorious.

no more Gloomy Sunday on radio.

no more wailing bitch.

just him laughing on the floor

with the malfunctioning kidney.

TV set flashing

Marilyn Monroe.

Marilyn isn't there, he said.

She's over here, you fucks.

Right here, he said,

and poked her belly,

watching M. Monroe

on that damned box.

the curlicues of jazz went on.

he stood up

and danced, danced, danced.

knife on his pretty hand,

he danced, danced, danced.

God wailing on the corner,

Marilyn on her couch,

lions dancing

and ducks at the door.

He danced,

and danced,

and slipped.

He slipped on blood.

Falling short,

knife spinning on his head.

Falling slowly,

spinning.

He laughed

and cried

and did both.

Knife spinning on his head.

Falling slowly, spinning,

sheeeek!

buried between the eyebrows.

the curlicues of jazz went on.

sun hit the sack

and the sirens wailed.

Of solitude and sofa monopoly

One relief of being distant from social trivialities is the outstanding fact that I can monopolize my school library's sofa section at five in the afternoon all the way to my class at seven o' clock. This seemingly fated privilege has dawned upon me a disturbing metaphor: I am alone but comfortable about it.

As I sit my ass comfy in this desolate convenience, a part of me tremors that I'm supposed to be sad. I am alone inside this vast space that smells of books and commercialized cooling system but I am not sad. As I've said, it is a disturbing metaphor. Solitude is a tricky companion. The more you dwell into him the more you are succumbed to the idea that you are better off alone.

I wonder what they're doing right now, my friends. I always imagine them at this hour cozy in their houses or at clubs with other friends, never alone even for a second. Maybe that's why they always look rejuvenated in the morning while I wear the same stoic appearance that solitude taught me. Their happy souls paint colors all over the place while I wash them away with gray miasma of a stagnant life. When you are drained of inspiration all you can do is stare at a boring wall and hope someone pops out to hug you and say everything is okay. But it's a boring wall and it's a stagnant life.

I am alone.

That fact is supposed to matter to me but here I am, feeling alright on how things are going. The day that I feared has finally come; the day when I won't need people to feel myself validated, the day when I am happy being by myself, the day that I cast myself away from all of them. It's not that I hate people, I just love it when they are not around.

Someone, someone out there, please save me.

On her being unpredictable

Sometimes being unpredictable isn't an asset. She's sweet now, she's a bitch later. Mood swings, ticks, fits, and helluva lot of surprises. Multiple personalities in one dinner with your favorite bone soup. You won't eat that bone soup anymore. She will ruin it with her unsolicited sudden pessimism about life. She will ask, "What the hell are we doing?" while you try to recuperate your bone soup disappointment with milk tea. Your mouth will be stuck in that straw. "What the hell are we doing?" Damn the woman, you don't know yourself! You are in love with a lot of persons in one body. What the hell are you doing? She's unpredictable. You tried and tried and tried. You tried to understand. But you lost that drive anymore. Her ticks and fits and helluva lot of surprises numb you. You don't know her anymore. A million versions of her in one dinner date. She likes pudding now, she loathes it later. She likes her dress now, she wants to get naked later. She loves you now, then she will ask "What the hell are we doing?" later. You don't know what the hell is going on. You try to get out but you can't. Why? You still hope of seeing her in one piece--that version of her that you loved. Damnable love. Damnable feelings.

Being unpredictable is a shitload that doesn't make sense at all. Why do you have to be this mean? Why do you shock me with your ticks and fits and helluva lot of surprises? I don't need to be shocked. I want clarity. I want to see one version of you while we sit and warm our asses on a fine dinner date with bone soup and milk tea and pudding and buttered chicken and turkey. Why can't you be one at a time? Why do you ask "What the hell are we doing?" Don't you know? We are screwing ourselves waiting for each other to get lost. I don't want that bone soup anymore. Damn that bone soup. I want to get the hell out and cuddle up my pillow--doesn't matter if you'll come along with your multiple personalities. You're too unpredictable. It's too much. It's too painful. But I love you and that's where I lose despite my whines. I love you. Damn I love you. Please be kind and come back in one piece, baby. Come back in one piece.

Of silence and alter ego

I keep my mouth shut for three reasons: 1.) I am in pain; 2.) my mind is telling me something and I need total silence; 3.) Cupid is poking this stupid heart.

Alter ego: What the hell, Dennis? You've been too melodramatic lately! What are these posts about love and pain? What the fuck is going on with you? Have you forgotten that you should not fall in love? Have you been weak? Did you let her get you? Did you let her go inside? Did you let her?

Me: I did and I am sorry. I have not forgotten that I shouldn't fall in love. But I did and it's not that bad at all.

Alter ego: Not that bad? Let me remind you of her, then.

Me: You don't have to do this.

Alter ego: Yes, I have to. Let me remind you of the catastrophic history that almost ruined your entire life.

Me: It is the part of my past that haunts me until now. You don't have to tell me what I've been through because I've been carrying the shitload of pain with me all throughout these years and I assure you I am still badly wounded.

Alter ego: But here you are doing it again.

Me: You've seen her, haven't you? You know how I feel about her. You know it's different. You know this isn't going to be a major screw-up. This is it, man. I know you know.

Alter ego: And I've seen you being hurt, Dennis. Remember those nights? Remember all the fucked up nights you have to go through? Remember the days inside campus that everything felt void and you are but a shadow of a broken soul? All I'm saying is that I don't want to see you hurt yourself again. You worked so hard getting up. You collected all the pieces of that broken heart and tried to piece it back together. You worked so hard for everything inside you to be right again, man. And here you are throwing it out again to the void. You said so yourself that she isn't feeling the same way. Why are you doing this?

Me: Man, love isn't about getting something back. Love is total sacrifice. I've said it many times: even if she doesn't love me I will still love her. That's the gist of it.

Alter ego: But you are hurt. A part of you wants something back. A part of you wants her to love you. That part will be your major screw-up, man.

Me: That part is you.

Alter ego: And it is you.

Of a song reminisced

A song always reminds me of you. They play it everywhere I go and it reminds me of you. At first I felt unprejudiced longing for you. It was good. I felt like flying above cloud nine as that song played on. But it also reminded me of the unrequited. The unrequited feeling. The unrequited care. The unrequited love. The melody stabs and breaks what little hope I have with the idea that I love you and you don't. It was like how Tom felt listening to that song he and Summer used to sing (500 Days of Summer). I hate this song! I loved it and I hated it. Why does it hurt so bad? Why does it fucking hurt so bad?

I know you've heard the song. You're singing it. You sing the heartbreak of my soul, fair lady. You sing and I die with it.

October Reads

October Reads:

1. Fight Club
2. One Hundred Years of Solitude
3. Inferno
4. Doomed
5. Radiant Void
6. A Separate Peace
7. Sputnik Sweetheart
8. Thus Spoke Zarathustra
9. Naked Lunch
10. Goldfinch
11. Middlesex
12. The Ocean at the End of the Lane
13. Smoke and Mirrors
14. Devlin Diaries
15. Atlas Shrugged
16. American Psycho
17. The Fountainhead
18. Blood of Olympus
19. The Giver (Quartet)
20. No One Writes to the Colonel

On loving that woman

That woman.
That ever-beautiful female human specie.
That powerful woman.
She stunned me.

I love that woman. I know for a fact that she will not love me back but I love that woman. Even if I'm making up false realities for our love story to be a fascinating fairy tale that ends happily ever after, I know for a fact that that will not happen, and I still love that woman. I will continue doing so.  Even if she is surrounded by handsome male homo sapiens I will still love her. Even if she is happy and I am not the one making that smile on her face I will still love her. I will continue doing so for the rest of my life.

Maybe I can hold her hand. Maybe I can touch her cheek. Maybe I can do all that stuff but that maybe exists only in my dreams. I can be with her in my dreams. I wish to linger in there. I wish to stay. I wish that everyday I am dreaming and in that dream I can hold her hand and touch her cheek.

I love that woman.
That woman is far.
That woman is going away.
And I am here.

I will conquer universes and mix up singularities in time space continuum, if that will lead me to her then I will do just that. But I can't conquer universes and fight off time paradoxes. I can't. She is going away and I am here.

I love that woman.
That woman shouldn't know.

I love her in silence. Even if this crazy fragile heart bursts to shout to her, I will fight this off. She shouldn't know.

If she will know?
Let it be.
I still love that woman and if she'll know, nothing will change.

I love her.

On dreams and scrutiny

Come on. Give us this benefit that we will screw up. Heck, we don't even know how to shoot an MTV. I mean, what the fuck are the formalities of shooting a music video anyway? We don't know. This is our first production project. This is my eleventh time using a digital SLR (don't have one, but hell my powershot is cool!). We did it for fun. We did it for learning. We did it because it was cool. It was cool. It was cool that as we made mistakes along the way, we could still smile and say "Yeah, shit, that was wrong. Now I get it."

Laugh now. Scrutinize. But that will not stop me from hitting that red record button and shoot. This is my dream. And this dream is valid.

Ode to the Line

funny how i stayed
inside this long queue
made of handsome
homo sapiens sapiens.
funny how i lingered
with frail hope
that I'll be the one
you'll choose.
funny how i moved forward
as you rejected
those metro-sexual
fools.
funny how i had hope
with the universe
tapping my shoulder
i could get to you.
let me be.
let me fall in line.
let me take this risk.
for you are that sunrise.
you are that sunrise
that melts my nocturnal coating.
you are that sunrise
that paints happy on my face.
you are that dandelion light beam
dancing above the orange horizon.
you are there, the end of the line.
you are the end of the line.
an inch closer and closer,
my red blood cells gone mad
with platelets
shaking schizophrenic.
but i vow to the line:
i will stay!
i may sound like a drunken Shakespeare
but believe me I'm Edgar Allan Poe--and I will stay!
with you at the end
i will stay.
the line is long
and the line is rough.
the line is filled with perfect humans
and I will stay.
i bid farewell to you,
rejected metro-sexual fools
this queue may be long
but a stout heart can push.

Of a father's love

"Makit-an lang nako nga nakapaso namong duha sa stage, okay na kaayo nako nga matumba." It was a line, completely random, spat out by my father yesterday. He was drunk. And it came after my mother asked me "Kuya, maka-graduate ka? At least pakit-a mi nga makapaso naka. Okay na kaayo na namo."

My father is the best human being there is on this wretched planet. He was known to be the one putting smiles on other people's faces but I was witness to his grief. A grief for a father, a grief for a mother, and a grief for a brother. I saw him cry and I saw the child in him. I saw a child missing his father.

Wala'y igong mga pulong ang makabayad sa tanan niyang sakripisyo. Sa tanang paghuwat nako sa eskina hangtod alas onse sa gabii. Sa tanang pagsabot ug paghilom kung masapot ko. Sa tanang pagmata sayo sa buntag. Sa tanang paghatod nako sakay sa bisikleta niadtong elementary pa ko.

I was six. The event was UN Day. I am holding the flag of Algeria. And I was alone inside that big sports center. My mother was late. I panicked. Everyone else was already falling in line to be on stage. Mother didn't show up. The teacher prompted me that I'm next. I was silent. And crying. I was crying. I was six and I was crying, holding that Algerian flag. Then popped out my father. He was smiling. He was laughing at me crying. But I continued to cry. He didn't say anything. We got on stage, I waved my Algerian flag, said something silly about the country, and got off. He held my hand and walked near a photographer. It was the best picture I had with my father because that was the best smile I'd seen from him.

I was fifteen. It was a barrio fiesta. A cold night. A cold noisy night. My father was drunk. It was the month of my uncle's death anniversary. Father rode on his motorcycle and said "Akong apason akong igsuon." I was fifteen and naive. Then a lady rushed and said that my father fell off the road not far from our house. I rushed. I arrived at the scene filled with people, and not one of them helped my father. Bangin to siya, and I jumped off without thinking. I knelt beside my father, with blood all over his face. He was unconscious. I cried for help. Then an ambulance wailed. His head needed an operation. And for all the nights that my father was on the hospital, I cried. He became so thin and passive. By the time he got out, he was frail. But he recovered. My father was back.

I was nineteen. News of my grandmother's recent diagnosis welcomed me home from school. Stage four cancer. My father wept alone in his room. From that day on, he barely smiled.

Everybody else thought that my father is a man of jokes and satirical punches. No. He is a victim of a screwed up comedy.

Pa, mosaka ko sa stage. I'm sorry kung dili ko makahatag ug speech like I used to. Mosaka ko sa stage and I will shout "Pa, Ma, daghang salamat!" and I will invite you to come up and screw the graduation program because I want everyone to know that you are my father and I'm proud of you and from that day on I will be in charge and I will take care of you and buhaton nako tanan para makasukli sa tanan ninyong sakripisyo. From that day on, Pa, ayaw usa'g katumba. Daghan pa kaayo kong plano para ninyo ni mama. Ayaw usa.

On siblings and grandfathers

It was the fourth of October, 1999, my brother was born. The next day, October 5, my grandfather died.

This kid, my lil bro (but technically taller than me, damn), is a genius. Trust me, he knows all jet fighter models there are in this planet. Let him look at an image of a plane and he will tell you all of its specifications. He knows every country's defense profile. He knows history more than me. He edits Warcraft maps that you fondly call DotA. Yes, noobs. My bro customizes characters and skills. And he will be attending a leadership summit tomorrow (tho I don't really want him to be a student leader).

My grandfather, Dativo Premacio Sr., was a writer. He wrote articles for national newspapers. And he wasn't able to go to college. He was the municipal bookkeeper and how he did the magic of organizing all of those books amazed the professional bookkeepers of USJ-R. He did accounting, theater, radio drama, crossword puzzles for local newspapers, balak, poetry, and tons of manuscripts of Visayan literature. He was the first one to bring in famous actors and actresses to Cordova every town fiesta. How he did that was a crazy awesome mystery. He was my Charles Bukowski.

On women and slimming pills

(A 1-minute extempo speech for our English 3. And yes, I remembered every word that I said on that day.)

Q: Women are fond of using slimming pills and other slimming treatments. What is your opinion on this?


A: I'm going to ask why. Is it for self-esteem? Or is it for validation? Or do you think that the society slams you a false truth that if you're fat you do not belong? No. Women can be fat or slim or anything she wants to be. That is what makes you real. What you want to be makes you real. What you are makes you real. You see, beauty is superficial. It does not pass through the skin. To hell with carbs. To hell with fats. To hell with the society slapping you a false truth that if you are fat you do not belong. Of course you belong. You are not objects. You do not need validation. You can be you. And you are beautiful.

On a friend's blog

writespeakshare.blogspot.com/

On the status quo of Filipino literature

Many of my book friends are complaining about the degrading Filipino literature in the international scene (as YA and teen romance books are invading the book shelves). I told them that it isn't degrading, it never got the attention. There are Filipino authors with international bestsellers. We have Miguel Syjuco and his 2008 Man Asian Literary Prize novel, Ilustrado. The book is available in my school's library. This man writes better than Dan Brown. We have Arlene Chai and her two novels, The Last Time I Saw Mother, and Eating Fire and Drinking Water. They were first published in the US and UK. It spread like wildfire afterwards. (I'm reading Eating Fire and Drinking Water now, and the Filipino touch is in every page of this book).

Now here's the catch. What these two authors have in common is that they are based outside the country. Miguel earned a master's degree in Columbia University. Arlene migrated in Australia. Their books got the attention since they are in the front line of the publishing business. We have writers here in the Philippines who write better than most published authors that continually suck our wallets with their books of low-bar narratives and silly one-liners. Check them in bookstores, mostly side-by-side with teen romance fiction that have funny titles.

Karl De Mesa (News of the Shaman)
Dean Francis Alfar (The Kite of Stars and Other Stories)
Eliza Victoria (A Bottle of Storm Clouds)
Ninotchka Rosca (Sugar & Salt)
Lualhati Bautista (Bata, Bata... Pa'no Ka Ginawa?)
Nick Joaquin (The Woman Who Had Two Navels)
Jessica Hagedorn (Dogeaters)
Melissa de la Cruz (Blue Bloods)
F. Sionil Jose (Dusk)
Samantha Sotto (Before Ever After)

I excluded Bob Ong and Eros Atalia. BO is a collective, I believe, not one person. Eros Atalia writes perversely well but he sticks on the Filipino medium. His short story "Ripol Epek" was damn epic nonetheless.

On pursuit of passion

I feel those students who come in classes late, confused, and pale; those who still don't know why they chose this program; those who are scared shitless of what will they be after college. I've been there. February of 2013, barely a month to end the semester, I ceased going to my classes. I neglected all academic duties I had. I dropped out of confusion. I feel you, kids. There is no such thing as Bachelor of Arts in Something I'm Good At, or Bachelor of Science in Things I Love Doing. It is more like choosing our factions or playing the hunger games. You are forced to be someone you're not. Those mornings of coming to school late and scarce of spirit, I feel that. It came to a point that I don't want to be educated anymore. I don't want to be fed and dictated. I don't want to get a job. I don't want anything but to learn. I did just that. I read about stuff not inclined with my program. I go out, meet people, talk to them, learn from them.

Separate yourself. Finish that program, get a job if you want to, but never abandon what your heart mostly desired. Don't worry, young ones. Tap yourself and whisper "I will fail. I will fall. I will get up." Carry on.