Let this page be all about you

Let this page be all about you; know that I will not demand nor beg nor ask; know that I will love you in silence and in silence my pain will be; know that I wish you well; know that I will be fine, not now, but I will be but this page is all about you so I'll skip to that part.

You painted me. You melted my heart's iron cage. You made your way through me. You danced inside my storm. I knew you'll just pass by but I wished you'd stay.

But you are a free spirit. You always are. So, go, fly. Wherever the winds take you.

I will always be looking up.

This is the first of the last I write about you

If some time in the future I will be asked the question of whether I met my one great true love and what happened, I will answer with this: Yes but I am the sea and she is the mountains. While she cannot fathom me, I cannot reach her.

And I may have an alternative answer, too: I stopped believing in the idea of a one great true love. Six days ago, I stopped. Though maybe not yet completely.

So here I am in this messed up situation that every time I hear her sing I already know that the songs are not for me; that every time she does hugot she is thinking of him—because I brought upon myself to confess to her six days ago (and was rejected, as expected) and here I am, tormented by the unseen consequences of my stupidity. My assumptions are gone. My illusions are gone. I am left to deal with the reality that she really is way, way out of my league. But I am a little lighter now. I was happy when I told her that I love her because I was resolved to speak whatever I feel from now on. There’s this rush inside me; that everything’s going too fast and I have to catch up; that time’s running out; that I have to move. So I moved and confessed. It was a messed up confession but she got the point. Maybe she’s used to guys confessing their love for her because she did not act strange when I said it. As I said, way, way out of my league.

But I forgot to tell her one thing. I was preoccupied with the whole “selfless, undemanding love” that I forgot to tell her that I will stop proving myself. I will not do any more efforts to make her at least like me (aside from the fact that I can’t really afford all the chocolates and flowers and expensive dinner dates because as I said, I am the sea and the sea is impoverished.) So I’ll stop proving myself to her because what’s the point? No matter how hard I try to meet up with her expectations, a guy will walk into her life, already built-up and has already met her expectations, so she will choose him. So I’ll stop reaching. My arms are weary and my heart is sick. I am belittling myself, I know. But, really, I’m so tired of proving myself to people so that they could love me; that I need to climb up so they could give back the love that I selflessly give to them. So I’ll stop proving myself to anyone, really. I will only prove things to myself. The only approval I need is mine. I will be selfish. I’m tired so I will be selfish.

But I love her. I always will. And when I said my love does not demand I meant it. I will not beg. Although I’ll stop proving myself, it does not mean that I’ll stop loving her. I am at the point of my life where there are only two things that sustain me: this love and that dream. Let me keep them at least. Let me write verses about her. Let me write stories about her. Let me create characters formed from the scion of her soul because they sustain me. They keep me going. There’s still pain but they keep me going.

She is the mountains and from the sea I will still write about her, though my words will be washed away. It does not matter. She does not know either way.

Let me fucking sleep

Dear Reader,

I'm thinking if I should start with "I can't sleep" but I think it's not gonna make sense to you and why should I tell you that, right? But, really, I can't fucking sleep. My mind is both flying away in the vacuum that is space and twisting with all the random stuff that comes up. I need to sleep but I can't. But, wait. Maybe you're wondering why I'm talking about all this, right? I'm wondering, too.

Maybe because it's 3 AM and I'm wide awake and I turned off my Facebook chat since there is literally no one who would be interested in chatting with me. Maybe because I thought of you, fairly in all randomness, and that I should talk about all the things that comes to mind. Maybe because I need time to pass by quickly. Maybe because I'm sad.

That's it. I'm sad.

I don't know what or why or when or how, but I'm sad. I can't sleep and I'm sad. I'm thinking of many things that make me sad. I'm thinking of many things that stop me from sleeping. I'm thinking of the time when I was happy and I'm thinking of the time when I was sound asleep. I'm thinking of all the memories that I can't touch and I'm thinking of her.

I'm thinking of her.

Why am I thinking of her?

Why am I still thinking of her?

It makes me sad. She makes me sad.

I gave her up. I gave up that fight a long time ago but I'm still thinking of her, staring at the what-ifs displayed in front of me like sunshine; the eternal sunshine that melts me every single day of unsleepiness. I still see her everyday. She smiles. I smile. I smile like that smile washes away all the hurt that her smile causes me. Why, I ask. Why am I still fucking smiling? I gave her up and I'm devastated. Why, I ask. Why did I give up?

Yes, yes. She was too far back then. Even now, really. She is soaring high like an eagle with a valid dream. Her dreams outshadow what desire I have for her. She is too far. She flies. She flies like a dreamer. I tried to catch up. Believe me I tried. I ran. She flew and I ran, my head watching her in the skies. But I stopped. I stopped running. I stopped catching up. She didn't even notice me. She is too fixated on her dreams up, up there. I was below, running, trying to catch up but she didn't see me. So I stopped running. I watched her fly as high as the eyes can see. Then I lost her.

I lost that beautiful eagle with a valid dream.

Now I can't sleep.

Now I'm sad.

I've been thinking, too. Why didn't I fly? It would be easy, right?

You see, I can't. Her dreams gave her wings. Those were really big dreams. Big, big dreams. I didn't dream big enough.

Yes, I'm a loser. I can't sleep and I'm sad and I'm a fucking loser. It's 3 AM and I can't sleep and I'm sad and I'm a fucking loser.

So I let her fly, goddamnit.

Let me sleep.

Let her fly.

Let me weep.

Please, let me. I just want to sleep.

And I just want to be fucking happy again.

A letter from a guy in the friendzone

It's cool, actually, you know, being a friend. It makes a lot of things easier. Way easier. Most guys would have a hard time just getting her to talk to you. You have to do all the stupid shit just to get her attention and when you do it gets even harder. You have to keep talking to maintain that attention. You have to be interesting.

Well, me, I don't. By the second she sees me, my day will be like listening to an audio book of a girl's diary. I don't need to do all the stupid shit just to get her attention. I don't have to maintain the attention she gives me because, well, she is always there.

And I'm always here.

This is what you get being in the zone. You'll be a sponge. She grows confident on the fact that you are always there and your ears will always listen to her stories (mostly about other people) and that she thinks you are happy (with the constant laughing on her jokes) and that's it. The friendzone is where bullets hit you the most in a crossfire. And here I am, happy being hit.

I am hit with the fact that this is the peak. There's no developing story. There's no sequel. I am just a steady happy story of a guy with a girl friend. Funny how that space (girl_friend) sums it all up. Funny, and sad.

I am also hit with the fact that anytime, any fucking time, I will become disposable. She will meet a guy and she will be in love with him. He doesn't even have to pass through this zone and that is just fucking sad. They go to date(s), assuming that he's an amazing guy than I am. She will talk about him more often, assuming that he's more interesting than I am. And the sad part is that she will talk about him to me. I'll be one battered sponge.

But this is what I do best. This is what guys in the friendzone do best: being a good friend. She will have her ups and downs and you have to be there flying and falling with her. The flights will be amazing and the falls will be hard. Though it's not true all the time.

You see, there are times when she's happy and you just can't feel it more than she does: like being in love with someone else. That will hurt. Her smiles will be like needles in your heart and you will hate your heart for feeling that way because you know that you have to be happy for her. But you will still feel hurt.

There are also times when she's sad and you feel twice as much pain as she does because you don't even want to see her frown for a second and there she is, crying on your shoulder while you plead for Cupid to just fucking transfer all her pain to you because you are just so good handling all of it.

I know. It is sad. No matter how much you want to burst out the feeling of being broken for too long, you have to suck it all up. You are a sponge. Your job is to listen to her stories and suck all the pain all by yourself.

But you are a friend. You have to be a good one. You love her. I know you do and every single day of your life you wish for her to love you back but you know, as I know, that that part of your story is not written.

Yet.
I don't know.
And that's a good thing.
Right?

On The Imitation Game

The Imitation Game. Benedict Cumberbatch. Self-proclaimed film critics rant about the movie being historically incorrect. Alan Turing was a homosexual, yes. The producers used liberty to bend a good amount of details to let the story be more compelling. Now let's not shove that it was based on a true story. Yes, it was based on a true story, but that alone isn't quite the valid reason.

"Based on a true story" is not "A true story." The film's screenplay flashed "Based on a true story" because, funny, it is BASED on a true story. If it flashed "A true story" then you can rant all you want about Alan Turing being a Soviet spy. If that does not make sense to you then watch The Interview instead.

Heck, Legolas and Tauriel aren't even on The Hobbit book and you are so convinced that they are.

Flash Fiction | Barbero

"Kahit isang araw lang sa isang taon, Minda! Kahit isang araw lang, manahimik ka!"

Nalagot na. Parang hindi matatapos 'tong buhok ko.

"Ikaw ang manahimik tangina ka! Gago neto."

"Tangina, tangina, tangina."

Diyos ko po. Iba na ang pakiramdam ko rito. Kalahati pa ang nagugupit sa buhok ko.

"Kapal ng mukha mo, James! Umaasta kang parang ikaw lang ang nagtatrabaho para may ipanglamon sa mga anak natin, ah. Gago mo. Kung di ba naman tayo inisyuhan ng warning ni Kap eh baka napatay na kita ngayon hayop ka."

"Baka una kitang mapatay, tangina ka. Isasama ko na rin 'yung gago mong kabit!"

"Punyeta!"

Tumingin si James sa'kin. Ngumiti.

Suki na 'ko rito sa barber shop ni James. Kada buwan ang inspeksyon ng buhok ng mga lalaki sa paaralan kaya kada buwan akong napaparito. Magaling si James dahil hindi ko pa nasasabi ang gusto kong istilo ng buhok eh alam na niya. Meron ngang panahon na mas maganda pa ang istilo ng gupit niya kesa sa sinabi ko. Alam ni James kung ano ang mas bagay sa'kin. Kabisado na niya ang buhok ko.

Sa loob ng kanyang barber shop ay mayroong tindahan na naghahati sa espasyo sa loob. Si Minda ang nagbabantay dito, asawa niya. Tuwing nagpapagupit ako ay laging may hinanakit ang asawa niya na dinadaan sa walang katapusang pagpuputak. Putak dito, putak doon. Tangina rito, tangina roon. Gago ka, James dito, gago ka, James doon. 

"Pasensya na, Carl. Narinig mo pa 'to."

Walang imik na nag-aabang ang iba pang magpapagupit, ngunit alam kong nakikinig din sila sa away ng mag-asawa.

"Sinabi ko na sa'yo na linisin mo 'yung kanal sa 'tin para tuwing umuulan eh hindi umaapaw. Tingnan mo ang nangyari kahapon. Oh diba nakapasok sa loob ng marupok mong bahay ang tubig? Tangina at maruming tubig pa!"

"Carl, ano bang gagawin ko rito sa misis ko?"

Napailing ako.

"Pagod na pagod na kasi ako."

"At bakit maaga kang nagsara nung isang araw? Wala tayong utang, James? Wala tayong gastusin? Ba't parang hindi ka apektado, ha? Anong ginawa mo nung isang araw at maaga kang nagsara?"

Tumigil si James sa pagugupit sa buhok ko.

"Ikaw ang tatanungin ko, Minda. Na'san ka nung isang araw, ha? Wala ka buong araw, di ba? Anong karapatan mong tanungin ako kung bakit maaga akong nagsara na ikaw itong wala buong araw? Ha? Na'san ka? Sa kabit mong kulay uling?"

"Punyeta!"

Hinagis ni Minda ang isang karton ng katol patungo kay James. Natamaan sa ulo ang barbero. Bali-bali na ang mga katol na nasa sahig ngunit kinuha ito paisa-isa ni James.

"Kita mula sa barber shop ang ginamit mong kapital sa tindahan mong 'yan, Minda. Ang kita ko ang pinanggagastos sa mga bata, sa pagkain natin, sa mga damit nila at mga damit mo, sa kuryente, sa tubig, sa mga burloloy mo. Saan napupunta ang kita sa tindahan mo? Ni minsan ba nag-abot ka sa'kin ng pera para pambili man lang ng pagkain ng mga anak mo? Ni minsan ba humingi ako sa'yo? Ano?"

Pumasok si James sa tindahan dala-dala ang karton ng katol.

"Ano ba ang gagawin ko para manahimik ka, ha?"

"Hangga't nabubuhay kang gago ka hindi talaga ako matatahimik! Punyeta 'tong buhay na 'to!"

Lumabas si James sa tindahan at nagpatuloy sa pagupit sa buhok ko.

"Carl," napatawa si James. "Tanginang buhay talaga. Lord, kahit kalahati sa isang araw lang ho, sana manahimik ang asawa ko."

"Manalangin ka ng mas specific, kuya James," sabwat ko.

"Tama, tama. Lord, hindi ko po pinapanalangin na sana mamatay na ang asawa ko. Gusto ko lang na sana maputulan ng dila ang punyetang 'to."

"Tumahimik kang tangina ka!" bulyaw ni Minda.

"Kahit isang araw lang ho, maputulan ng dila 'to, okay na sa'kin 'yun. Kahit isang araw lang na tahimik at walang gulo. Walang asawang putak nang putak."

Hinagis ni Minda ang isang bote ng Tanduay na muntikan nang matama sa ulo ulit ni James ngunit nakailag ito. Natapon ang bote sa kalye at narinig ang banal na KRAAKSSH.

"Tangina ka! Gago ka! Gago ka!"

"Carl, ayoko na."

"Ano na gagawin mo, kuya James?"

"Gago ka! Gago! Gago!"

"Suko na 'ko."

"Paputol po banda rito, ito po. 'Yan. Tapos po, kuya, ano na po?"

"Gago ka! Tangina! Pisti!"

"Bahala na."

Tumigil si James, inilagay ang panggupit sa mesa malapit sa 'kin. Napabuntong-hininga ito. Kinuha niya ang gunting at ang pulbo.

Anong gagawin niya? Di pa tapos ang gupit ko.

Lumakad siya papasok ng tindahan. Nakatingin lahat sa kanya.

Nakatayo siya sa harapan ni Minda, na nakaupo at nagte-text.

"Minda."

"Gago, ano?!" Tumingin si Minda sa kanya.

Winisik ni James ang pulbo sa mukha ng asawa.

Dalawang beses.

Tatlo.

Apat.

"Puta! Puta!" sigaw ni Minda.

Sinaksak niya ang asawa sa leeg.

Dalawang beses.

Tatlo.

Apat.

"Puta!" Sigaw ng lalaki sa likod ko. Tumingin ako sa labas at nakitang nagsitakbuhan na silang lahat.

Tangina, James. Ang buhok ko, hindi pa tapos.

Let me tell you why I don't want to hang out with people

Let me tell you why I don't want to hang out with people.

Nothing sucks more than watching every word that comes out of your mouth so your precious friend will not get offended. Let's be real, humans are oversensitive motherfucking bastards. One glitch of what you say will affect how they treat you afterwards. Now don't tell me friends won't mind. Friends mind the most. That's the cause of friendship wars in the first place. If John says, in a spontaneous flow of a conversation with Dick, says how a dick his boss is, and Dick gets offended on the fact that his name is being used as a reference to a batshit boss, then John is fucking screwed.

"Hey, John. What did you just say?"
"Huh? Ah--nevermind."
"No, you said something that involves my name."
"Of course everything we talk about involves your name."
"Oh now we're talking. So you're saying I'm a dick?"
"No I'm saying we're boys and we're always talking about dicks and stuff."
"No we're not."
"Yes we are. Remember, five minutes ago, you talked about how little Johnson at the office had a boner in front of you and you said, and I quote 'What a little cutesy dick he has'? Right? Even with a boner? That it's cute? And why the hell would Johnson do a boner in front of you? What are you? A stripper or something?"
"Take that back you bitch."

Then they fight. Not with their dicks, of course.

And I don't really want to listen to dramas. People are being full of themselves that they still believe that the world revolves around them and every little detail of their lives should be told to the next person that coincidentally has ears.

"Oh man my nostrils just got stressed yesterday because of sneezing. Have you ever had colds?"

But they will not wait for you to reply to that question.

"I had colds, man, and it's the shittiest feeling ever. Ever. You know when you sneeze every five goddamned seconds and it's fucking stressing you out? You experienced that shit?"

Still they will not wait for you to speak up.

"Yeah, it sucks, man. Really, really."

Like, fuck your colds, dude. Shut the fuck up.

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.