Once More With Feeling

Bravely, I look further than I see.
Knowing things I know I cannot be, not now.
I'm so aware of where I am, but I don't know where that is
and there's something right in front of me, and I --

Touch the fingers of my hand
and I wonder if it's me
holding on and on to Theories of Prosperity,
someone who can promise me.
I believe in me.


Believe, K's Choice

I can't deny it anymore. I am one lucky, sorry-ass bastard. Ten years ago, I never imagined I'd live up to where I am now. (Although where I am now isn't exactly far from where I was ten years ago.) Still, here I am, just as clueless on what it is exactly I am running on and where I am headed as I was when I was seventeen. I barely made it out of high school, and all that was on my mind was -- well, there really isn't any delicate way to put this -- how to end it all. What it was that pushed me towards that point, I can't remember now.

By sheer force of will, I picked it all apart and scattered each little piece in hundreds of secret pockets in my mind. It took a fairly long amount of time, and networks and nodes of interlocking mental walls were built, but I got it done. Precariously held together, but still, done. Occasionally I would remember one piece, but never as a whole, leaving me wondering why I ever thought about killing myself in the first place, "Oh well," and then I'd move on with what I was doing at the moment.

The effort had its trade-off, however, and I'd felt it only the past couple of years or so. I was too intent and focused on forgetting and moving on that I'd never really paid much attention as to where I was headed. Now that I'm dusting myself off and pretty much done with the past, I'm left in the middle of a vast open field with nothing but the clothes on my back and a "What next?" text bubble floating above my head.

BUT. Strangely. I am not afraid. Like I said, I am one lucky, sorry bastard. I used to be less aware of it, but now I think a major reason why I am still here is because... YOU PEOPLE FEED ME. Many, many times I've felt like crawling back to the muck from whence I came and just will myself to stop breathing, but every time -- EVERY~TIME -- something happens and my plans of a quiet curtain-fall are disrupted. Sometimes it's a simple "thank you" from an acquaintance. Other times it's a major booze-fest with close friends. But each time and whatever it is, it pulls me back and I get voices in my head telling me, "This is worth it. You can handle a few more bruises," and they push me back into the ring.

So that's where I am. Twenty-seven, unemployed, purpose-free, clueless, wandering, but still breathing. I have learned to trust in whatever the Universe throws at me by now, be they people or circumstances, to dodge and-slash-or roll with the punches as deemed necessary.


Of course I won't leave out the usual Birthday bitchin'.
There is always a nanosecond of clarity before the jump, or even before impact. Everything I have ever learned from everyone I have ever met adds little dots of clarity in my eyes, for which I am very, very thankful. Here's to life, and all its beautiful messes.

The Tome of Blue Flames: Without A Name

In your life, have you ever looked at something -- an object, a person, a sort of movement, or even a word -- which you felt you will be looking at for the rest of your life? Not in the literal sense, of course. Rather, in the sense that every time you look at that one particular thing, you feel something locking in place. The hinges catch, the air rushes out, and there is no space in between for influence or contention. The past is, the future is, life is.

This is mine. The floating obsidian spires of Montt. For almost half a millennia, since emerging as a fledgling Dark Elf from the craters of lava at the northern tip of Sinner's Inheritance in Ignis, Montt has been a fount of strength, a crest of pride. From the towers thrust deep into the volcanic earth to the floating spires of the Grand Castle of the Lyonans, the indestructible obsidian are as bones and veins to Ignis as my bones and veins are to me. And in both, the Sacred Flames of Flox, the God of Fire, flow into infinity.

And yet, despite this abundance, this pride, this strength, a nameless ache has been persistent. No one in Ignis can say they haven't felt it. There have been signs over the past couple of centuries -- the way the air lifts black smoke when in the past there were none but white and silvery-grey, lava ports storing precious mana mysteriously breaking down, ancient ghosts rising in the Academy of Blue Flames. And just recently, the Luzark and the Marvas at the Last Warzone have been stirring. Whispers among the aristocracy that the nomadic Order of Female Paladins have begun to move once again. Worse yet, monstrosities called Worms and Amethyst Golems have been rising in number at the Scorching Canyon.

In the other parts of the continent of Roha, things have been no different. In Via Marea, where the Light Elves reside, numerous uprisings from the rebellious Ekzine Tribe and the Amazon Savages are being suppressed. The normally peaceful Light Elves have even allied themselves with the barbaric Humans from Einhoren to strengthen their forces against the Dhan assassins from the northern continents, who have been rumored to engage into a secret pact with the mysterious Dekans -- the descendants of the One Last Dragon.

The Half-Elves, although quite numerous and visible across the continents, remain neutral and have not allied themselves with anyone... yet. His Grand Majesty George Lyonan has been thinking of reaching out to the Lord Commander of the Half Elves, but action remains to be seen. Perhaps His Grand Majesty is waiting for what the other races might do as various events unfold.

Of the eight races, two have remained silent. First, the Giants from the frozen mountains of Draht. Their silence comes as no surprise to anyone in Roha. As the mountains surrounding their territory have stood in silent vigil for centuries, the Giants have also been known to share the same discipline. Despite their inaction, however, no one can think them indifferent. At World's Birth, Gail, one of the Lessers, created the Giants as First Guardians. This earned them respect throughout the continents and across all the races. What the races fear is when the Giants begin to move, since this can only mean one thing. Bless Flox it hasn't happened yet.

Second, the Halflings from the Eskar Isles and the Geizan. Deep within their underground shelters, one can only surmise how they thrive all these centuries without interacting with the rest of the continent. The Light Elves and the Humans did say that the Halflings are part of their current alliance, but their lack of numbers belie this. Still, at times like these, one cannot take anything at face value. Halflings have been known to be cunning, and have proven themselves brave during times past. They should not be underestimated.

Still, the world remains quiet. Expectant, yes -- air humming with rumors of war, rebellion, and uprising -- but still quiet. Evenings in Montt are the most beautiful. There is a small cradle of shadow within the city which I have claimed as my own, near where Chryme sets up his shop, away from the bustle and rattle of the aristocrats' gaudy carriages. Here I can perfectly see the towering spires of the Grand Castle, black on black on black sky, walls thinly lined with yellow-red lavalight, and corners glowing with the shifting hues of ghostly mana-blue, marking the locations of portals.

There is a nameless ache inside my chest. At four hundred and fifty years, I am still young, and perhaps I do not understand what this ache -- this persistent throbbing -- means. Perhaps it is the thread, binding me to this place. Perhaps it is the fear that someday, that thread will be somehow severed. During my travels outside of Ignis, I remember a Human bard singing the words, "we are the sum of the memories that we have." If that is so, then nights like this, the beautiful pulsing darkness of Montt, the slow-moving flame in my veins, and the nameless ache in my chest, are a prelude to who I shall become.

I, who the spirits of flame and dark and shadow have named Zohariel.

High Noon

It's high noon in March, and everything in my room is simmering in the steady heat. I am in bed, lying on my side, nursing an ache that has taken residence in my head for about a week now. I suspected it was my wisdom tooth, and the first few days of its existence raised hell on the left hemisphere of my brain. Now, after constantly popping painkillers, it has been reduced to a muffled droning, like a distant parade or a machine left running at the back of the house. On a day like this -- hot, humid, and quiet -- the imaginary thrum feels eerily comforting.

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come. I have been awake since the previous evening, alternating my waking hours with a book and an online game -- as has been my habit since joining the ranks of the unemployed five months ago. My attempt was a little halfhearted than usual, however, and my eyes opened once again. I stretch and turn and face the other way and decide that sleep will not come today. The prospect of waking up does not feel particularly appealing, so the chore of resting my body will have to be postponed. Involuntarily, I grope for my mobile phone to check the time. 12:02pm. Two minutes. I press the Menu button repeatedly just to hear the beeping, and I swallowed the urge to hurl the thing against the wall. The internal effort made me conscious of the stillness of my body.

I allow myself a sigh before rolling over on my back, spreading my arms and legs across the length of the bed. My flesh is a geyser mine, steam rising ominously to the ceiling. I feel half-baked, half-cooked; a clay doll left unfinished by an absent-minded doll maker. There is an inchoate mass of potential in my gut -- the kind that commands armies and dominates worlds -- left stale, writhing and pulsing and decaying in a crumbling earthen oven. The thought made me want to throw up, but again, my body remains still.

Three, five, seven breathing cycles and I push my body to a sitting position. I cross my legs and press the balls of my palms to my temples. Water, I thought. I'm taking a bath and I'm going out to walk. I will be putting on normal clothes and walk the normal roads normal people take for a few hours. No one has to see the half-baked, half-cooked, half-finished spirit withering inside me. For a few hours, I become just like everyone else.

Out in the streets, I hear the tinkling of the bells of the ice cream man, with little children at his orbit. At the back of the house, a rooster was crowing, "You have been judged! You have been discarded!" In another neck of the world, it was someone's birthday. I grit my teeth at the conjuration of energy required to stand up, yet, once again, my body remains still.

She and Her Cat

Today is Global Shinkai Day, and the following post is a transcription of one of Makoto Shinkai's short films, Kanojo to Kanojo no Neko (She and Her Cat). (Nihon'go to English translation by KickAssAnime.)

The season was the beginning of spring, and that day, it was raining.


Sec. 1 [Introduction]


That's why Her hair, and my body too, were heavy with humidity. The air surrounding us was saturated with the immensely pleasant fragrance of the rain. Phone rings.

The Earth on its axis turned quietly without a sound, and in this world, Her and my body continued to lose heat peacefully.

I am currently not at home. Your business, please.

That day, I was picked up by Her. That's why, I am her cat.




Sec. 2 [Her Days]


She was kind like a mother, and beautiful like a lover. That's why I quickly became enamored of her.

She lives alone and leaves for work every morning. I don't know the details of Her work nor am I interested, but I very much like the way She looks leaving the room in the morning. Her long hair, properly tied up, the faint smell of cosmetics and perfume. She places Her hand upon my head. "I'll go and come back, OK?" she says aloud. She straightens her back, and with a pleasant sound echoing from Her shoes, She opens the heavy iron door.

A smell like grassy places wet with rain in the morning remains for a while.


Sec. 3 [His Days]


Summer has come and I have a girlfriend too. It's the young cat, Mimi. Mimi is small and cute, and really good at being spoiled, but after all, I like a woman who is more adult. "Mimi, like Her."

"Ne, Chobi."

"What is it, Mimi?"

"Please marry me."

"Ne, Mimi. I've said this numerous times, but I have an adult lover."

"Not true."

"It's not, 'not true'."

"Let me meet her."

"You can't."

"Why?"

"Ne, Mimi. I've said it numerous times, but we'll have this kind of talk after you've become more of an adult. Or something." This kind of conversation goes on forever.

"Please come over to play again, OK? Definitely, OK? Really come over, OK? Really, really come over, OK?"

In this way my first summer passes, and gradually, cooler breezes begin to blow.




Sec. 4 [Her Loneliness]


One day like that, after a long, long telephone conversation, She cried. The other line is cut, then a busy tone remains. She hangs up. I didn't understand the reason, but She cried for a long time by my side.

I think She is not the one at fault. Only, I am always watching. She is always kinder than anyone else. She is more beautiful than anyone else. She lives more earnestly than anyone else.

I can hear her voice, "Da're ka... da're ka... da're ka da're ka... da're ka tasukete."¹




Sec. 5 [She and Her Cat]


In the darkness that has no end, this world that we are aboard continues to revolve. The season has changed, and it is now winter. The scenery of snow that, to me, should be the first I've seen, I have a feeling I've known it from long ago.

The winter mornings are late, so even when it becomes time for Her to leave the house, it is still dark outside. The sight of Her engulfed in a very heavy jacket makes her seem practically like a big cat.

She, who wore the scent of snow, and her slender, cold fingertips, the sound of the black clouds streaming by far in the upper sky, her soul, and my feelings, and our room... the snow inhales the sounds of all, but only the sound of the electric train that She boarded reached my upright ears.

I, and probably Her too, this world, I think we like it.






____________________
[¹] "Someone... someone... someone someone... someone, please save me."

The Persistence of Memory, Second: Clouds and Cobwebs

I heard screaming. My eyes snapped open and I turned around just in time to see a metal door closing. What I thought were voices turned out to be the shrieking of rusted doors on hinges. Then there was a rattling of gears and chains, and in another second, a thud.

The stillness in the air made me think of walls -- four-sided, all-enclosing, air-constricting -- but looking away from the door, finally taking in the surroundings, I find myself outside. Clouds were within my periphery, and below, a vastness of empty space. I was afloat -- my flesh pulsing with veins and skin and organs of gossamer.

A memory flickered to life before me -- like a slideshow or a silent film. I was fourteen, the day after I came out to a childhood friend, the first boy I fell in love with. I'd just woken up, the cobwebs of a distant dream disentangling from my eyes. I was feeling the same thing then as I am feeling now -- the inertia of a body floating in mid-air, free from any push or pull, when nothing and everything is wrong at the same time.

"What am I supposed to feel?" my fourteen-year old self said, to no one in particular. "What am I supposed to feel?" my present self echoed. The clouds never answered, nor did the cobwebs, as clouds and cobwebs are wont to do.

The Persistence of Memory, First: Thorn

It was about this time when it happened, when I felt something cold snake through my veins. Fever, blue-fingered and mist-eyed, she sidled herself beside me and gave my neck a lingering kiss. I pulled my jacket closer, zipped it three-quarters up, and tried to sleep. The twilight wind was gentle as a mother's touch, whispering sweet nothings as a lover would, but sleep did not happen. The shivering in my body danced with the vibration of air on my skin, and it calmed a storm foreign and further in my mind.

I opened my senses partly, only for a second, and I saw my hand pale and cold and trembling. My vision fell to my wrist, and it glowed white and silken in the moonlight, tainted by a vein with beautiful hues of super-saturated green. "Strange," I whispered to the atoms of dark and shadow. "It looks like a thorn."

And as I slipped into unconsciousness, I heard a voice not unlike mine and thousands of planets away, "Get me away from here," but it did not happen. Then I heard a scream.

The Unwiring

It felt good being away from the Internet for a few days. The unwiring gave me the chance to finish the fourth book of A Song of Ice and Fire -- finally. It's been quite a long time since I spent almost all the waking hours of one day just reading a book, I almost forgot how mind-numbingly pleasurable it was -- especially if the book's such a compelling read. I was hoping to stretch A Feast For Crows a couple more weeks, but having the willpower of a ruinous, crumbling cracker, I devoured the last third in one sitting, to my utter shame. I'm still proud tho. Having read all four books of the series, it feels as if I have stepped into the tightly-guarded stronghold of that elite society of geeks patiently waiting for the fifth, A Dance With Dragons. Crossing fingers that the news regarding its September 2009 release holds true.

I have also just finished watching the first season of Battlestar Galactica. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. I guess it held enough entertainment value for me to watch all thirteen episodes plus the miniseries in one day at least. After seeing the final scene of the thirteenth episode, it felt like the entire first season was merely building up to something greater. If the hype is to be trusted, I should start meditating in preparation before I finish downloading the subsequent seasons.

Sunday was the last Internet-free day, and it was spent with a friend -- first at Bookay Ukay (where my friend purchased two Norman Wilwayco books, Responde and Mondomanila), then at UP Diliman, then, the rest of the evening until midnight, at Jaime Velasquez Park in Makati. For close to eight hours, we did nothing but sing songs mostly from our high school soundtrack -- "vagina rock," as my friend called it. This one, however, managed to wind its way several times into our randomly-generated playlist (I miss Endo).

I got home by 1:00am with the Internet reactivated. I was a bit disappointed since I was hoping to read (and maybe even finish) House of M, but I shelved the idea for the meantime -- I have three days' worth of feeds to catch up on. My degenerate Internet non-life is back on the weave!

My Bucket Is Bigger Than Yours

Weekend will be over in an hour. Not that it would matter much to someone like me, but if it gives one time to hang out with friends, talking until the wee hours of the morning over several bottles of beer, then weekends have their special brand of charm to look forward to -- even for someone like me.

One of the things brought up by a friend was how every person's perception of his or her worth can be compared to a bucket. The size of one's bucket is proportional to the perception -- the breadth and girth, if you will -- of how much space one needs to fill until a sense of satisfaction is achieved. He talked about his parents, how they didn't have very lofty and grand ambitions, but their buckets are at the brimful with contentment. His mother moreso, since despite having a very modest-sized bucket, she still radiates waves and waves of positivity that are influencing those around her.

I thought about mine for a few moments and decided that I'm fine with my bucket. Not a sizable one, true, but I feel I have enough satisfaction sloshing in me already. Ever the honest soul, my friend told me he wasn't convinced. He does admit that there are times when he sees contentment glowing in me, but there are also times in equal measure when that contentment shapes itself more into what seems like resignation -- with a little hint of resentment and regret. My resolve thinned when he mentioned that because... well... it's true.

Somewhere, miles, miles, and many more miles away, I thought I heard a rock splinter, leaving something hollow, yawning with the passing night wind. I downed several gulps of beer to fill in the newly-emptied space. This bucket is full, a thought formed, unbidden. Golden liquid spilling over the edge, glowing amber in the moonlight. I laughed at the idea. "My bucket is FINE," I insisted, and drank again. I heard my friends laugh with me, and I was glowing, and I was glad.

Insert Lame Fair Pun Here

So I was at the UP Fair last night with two friends. I was shamelessly bounding all over the place like a doped-up idiot, and I'm partly putting the blame on the bottles of Red Horse we've downed before heading over the fair grounds. And the other part -- it was my first time to experience the famed and fabled UP Fair. (As well as my first takoyaki experience.)

Someone told me someone dies each year. I was hoping to get in on the action, but altho there was an incident near the stage while Giniling Festival was performing, there wasn't any bloodshed. Ah, well, it was still fun.

My friend's quote for the evening: "Don't cry out loud, for crying out loud!"

The Eternally Distracted Child

Once again, I am being asked by my mother to write a 50-item Values Ed. test for 6th Graders in her school, and once again, I am finding myself heavily distracted by other things. Dragons, to be exact. Cute, cuddly, baby dragons that need hours and hours of attention and click-spamming in order to fully evolve into the mighty and legendary beings they are destined to be. Meanwhile, the test has been left forgotten after item number three.

Dragon Egg Needs Your Warm Tushie!
I am a 12-year old trapped in the body of a 26-year old.

Twenty Five Random Things

After much nudging and tagging, I finally got this done. There's nothing like a good, long meme to get one's idle fingers a-typing. All tagging will be done on Facebook! And so, without further delay, my list of five and twenty:

1. Sailormoon is as much a part of who I am as my porn collection is or my surname. My moral compass is based on one question and one question only: What Would Usagi Do?
   
   
2. Also, because of Sailormoon, I learned how to read and write in Hiragana and Katakana. This started from when I was 11 all the way through High School. It was a slow and informal process, picking up what one character means and letting it stick. It actually felt like a scavenger hunt. I'd come across one character in a Japanese grocery, and then months after, I'd see a new one in a Sailormoon sticker. This was all before I got hooked into the Internet so I can't look everything up all at once, but I think it was more fun learning that way.
   
   
3. I love stand up comedy.
   
   
4. I am still waiting for the DVD release of Endo.
   
   
5. Walking cleanses me. Sunday nights are the best times for very long walks. I'd have a soundtrack playing, a book in one hand just in case I feel like sitting down, and a basic route in my head which I modify along the way. Unplanned walks are good, too. The most recent one was from Katipunan to Cubao, along Aurora. By the time I got on the bus along EDSA, my feet were sore and my legs were aching but my mind and body felt blissfully clean and empty.
   
   
6. There is a clock mounted on my bedroom wall frozen at 5:54:45.
   
   
7. Sinigang na Baboy remains uncontested at the top of my Favorite Foods list.
   
   
8. I have more books than I do clothes. The shirts I wear are mostly my brother's (my younger brother's), and the two pairs of jeans I alternate weekly are my father's. Clothes have never been a priority for me. Books first, then food, then clothes.
   
   
9. My room used to be my grandmother's. There is an altar with old statuettes of saints which bear witness to ANYTHING I do here. Plus, I have been tasked to change the sampaguita wreathes on each statuette every morning.
   
   
10. My aunts still call me by my childhood nickname, Pong.
    
    
11. I used to collect two DC titles: Justice League and Legionnaires. Justice League America, from after Breakdowns (issue 61, I think), on through Zero Hour, until the Satellite group disbanded (issue 113, I think). Also, Justice League Europe until they became Justice League International. I collected no more than ten issues of Legionnaires however, but my love for them wasn't any less true. It was during my comic-collecting years that I really began appreciating the English language, as well as the mighty fine art of drawing.
    
    
12. When I was 10, I used to watch The Sword In The Stone on Betamax everyday after getting home from school.
    
    
13. Mountain Dew is my favorite poison.
    
    
14. I love Neverwinter Nights. I can play it a hundred times over and never get tired.
    
    
15. Ever since I read the short story Saturday Night from the first Ladlad book about ten years ago, I have taken on the name Podi Alejandro as a pseudonym and as an online moniker.
    
    
16. I have an inexplicable aversion towards the number 6. Whenever I encounter lists or do things in sequence and it would threaten to end at the 6th or 16th or 26th, and so forth, I stop at either the 5th or the 7th item. I will breathe easier when I turn 27 in June.
    
    
17. I was heavily obsessed on a guy named Randy during my senior year in High School. It was such a major part of my life that it needed close to three years to run its course.
    
    
18. I seriously think TJ Trinidad is my soulmate. Seriously.
    
    
19. When I turned 8, I was given P100 for my birthday. The high I felt was enough to push me into going to the toy store by myself and pick up three board games that caught my fancy. When I was paying for them, the cashier told me my money wasn't enough. I remember feeling more confused than embarrassed, but not for long. The lady behind me -- a kind-looking, middle-aged Caucasian woman -- told the cashier she'd pay for my board games instead. By then I'd realized what I'd done, and I flushed red in embarrassment. I managed a squeaky "Thank you," before dashing on home.
    
    
20. I am top.
    
    
21. I am bottom.
    
    
22. I don't watch TV. Not too much, at least. When I do, it's only cooking shows or whatever's on Nickelodeon. Everything else I want to watch, I leech off the Internet.
    
    
23. I'm still just a child, really.
    
    
24. I don't believe the world will end on December 21, 2012, nor do I believe in anything heralding the end of days. It has simply, completely lost its power when I realized All Men Must Die. Valar Morghulis.
    
    
25. I press Ctrl + S too much.

The Consequence of Silence

And it's almost like a corny movie scene
but I'm out of frame and the lighting's bad
and the music has no theme.
And we're all so strong when nothing's wrong
and the world is at our feet.
But how small we are when our love is far away
and all you need is you.

(K's Choice, 20,000 Seconds)

Say, something happens. The way ordinary things happen in an ordinary day. Something inconsequential, something irrelevant. You are sitting outside with a friend, on the sidewalk maybe. Not talking; just watching kids at play under the afternoon sun. A car drives by, the children move to the side for a while, barely registering a break from their banter, as if a giant hand pushed them all at once to one side of the road, then are released. You look at the kids, both you and your friend, and they resume their playing in the middle of the street.

It was quiet, relatively, until you hear a low thrumming coming from above and behind. A helicopter, you thought, confirming even without looking up. The approach became louder, more imposing, and becomes more like a jackhammer in the sky than anything else, really. You and your friend look up, and a few seconds after, the violent insistence faded into a low thrum once again. Both of you are still looking up, though, and you feel like you want to say something. "Well that was unexpected," was what you could have said. Or maybe, "Huh. Been a while since one of those passed by." But for some reason, you chose to remain quiet. The silence stretched on, yet both of you were still looking up. The words were scratching at your throat, but the silence has stretched past a point where anything said would have sounded awkward. Late. Inconsequential.

Hence the month-long silence. Things happened, as if insignificant, inconsequential -- the death of an aunt, my sister's marriage, the days and days spent getting drunk with friends -- and for me it seemed enough that they happened. It has been becoming easier and easier for me to let things go and let things through. I wade into a river, and I neither oppose its flow, nor do I follow it. I stay in the center and let the water flow through me, cleansing me one moment and soiling me the next, never caring either way. This calm, this surrender, has been the closest thing to peace I have experienced.

I think it was a low thrumming at first, when I heard it coming. It wasn't long before it turned into something louder, however. Something imposing. A violent insistence. A jackhammer in the sky, maybe. A persistent knocking. A mobile phone ringing. "I'm here at St. Clare's with your sister and her husband. Can you call up Loyola Memorial and ask them how much it would cost to cremate a fetus?" I got up from the bed, my eyes thick with sleep, but my mind quickly sharpening to a dagger point. "OK, I'll call back," I managed to say.

A couple of hours after, I was with my mother, entering the hospital room where my sister was confined. They were still waiting, her husband said, for the baby to move further down before extracting it completely. It wasn't a miscarriage. The water bag broke and the five-month old fetus needed to be aborted. I held my sister's hand. "We saw him smiling yesterday, me and mother, during my ultrasound. He smiled and he yawned and he was so healthy," she said. I couldn't say anything back. "You're young and strong," was what I could have said. Or maybe, "We all did our best. We're here for you." But the silence stretched on and past the point where anything said would have sounded awkward. Late. Inconsequential.

The pounding is still there. The violence, silent as it is, has never been more oppressive, and something needs to be said. That baby has been a hope for me. His birth has been a beacon, his squalling as he leaves the comfort of my sister's warmth a sonar for the beginning of rest of my life. I told myself things are going to change when I become an uncle. Things happen, though -- a car passes through, a helicopter appears out of nowhere, a baby dies -- but life goes on despite the silence, and my river will flow, cleansing and soiling, leaving moments lost in its wake.

Forever and Forever and Forever

There is nothing to write. Nothing has ended, nothing has begun. One minute is as voiceless as the next, one year an exhale to another -- as easy as shifting numbers on a digital clock, as easy as raven black on a midnight sky. This day will end as yesterday had, and tomorrow will bring more of the same, like a long, thin strand of silver, linked on both ends upon the soft, smooth neck of eternity.

There is nothing else that I could wish for but silence, nothing else I yearn but grey stillness on a vast field of white. Maybe a blanket for warmth and a soft pillow under my head, but I wish that days could go on like this for forever and forever and forever.

However, I do understand that such things as these mean a lot to most people -- numbers and dates, beginnings and endings, remembering and forgetting. While I can't say they mean as much to me now, I do acknowledge how important such cycles are to the people I care about. And as much as I would prefer to express my gratitude in something more solid, more grand than mere words, I hope it will suffice and I hope at least a finger-brush of sincerity is felt when I say,

ありがとう. :-)

These Boys Look Familiar?

Who wouldof thought, right? Click on the image to fly to the whole collection. It's almost criminal for art like this to be stuck in just one community. Spread the love!

Thanks to a friend who shall remain anonymous for sharing this. :-)

An Exercise In Passive Aggression

I have been more aggressive than passive this week more than any other week in my whole life -- channeled at the wrong people, unfortunately -- and I suppose I have you to thank for that. I love you fiercely, the Universe knows that, but sometimes it gets terribly frustrating the way you think of me as less of a person because of what I am and how I feel for you. This might sound like a foot in the mouth now, but from the way you've spoken to me the past few days, I can't help but feel offended and completely unjustified.

For instance, it really didn't sound fair when you told me the other day you can't "waste your time trying to help me anymore." First of all, I wasn't asking for your help. I never did, ever since we met. Not that I'm ungrateful -- the Universe knows how much I appreciate your choice to stay within the swirl and swivel of absolute fuck-up that is my life -- but to point that out and slap me in the face with it? That was thoughtless, rude, and almost mean. It made me feel like a clueless, pathetic charity case whose worker suddenly decided to verbalize how ridiculous and pretentious and unoriginal his life was and that he should get back to dealing with his own issues instead of working with sad and hopeless little people who did not ask for his "guidance" -- but thank him -- anyway.

Also, I don't think you understand nor acknowledge the fact that I am a person capable of reason and coherent thought just because I am one of the legions of guys who have fallen in love with you. Sure you tell me I'm smart, but see, I don't think you believe that because in your mind, I belong to that exclusive little box you have for people like me. Now, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, I know -- I understand -- I can't make you reciprocate how I feel for you. I'm owning it, and it's completely my fault that I've made it out to be such a long and painful process, but finally after almost three years I got it to my head that You Do Not Like Me.

And it wasn't some lovelorn 16-year old plea for you to like me back when I told you the other night that I liked you -- especially when it was in response to a question that you asked. If in case you don't remember, you were asking me why I don't bother fixing my life anymore -- again, another attempt at "guiding" me I supposed, but I took the bait and answered you nevertheless. I told you in response, because I felt there really was no reason for me to fix it then, since you -- my insensitive little raison d'etre -- were not going to be a part of it anyway.

Do you remember your knee-jerk reaction? Do you remember what you said? "I'm not attracted to you, P." I wanted to punch you in the face then and there and shout, "I KNOW THAT, YOU ASSHOLE, HAVEN'T YOU BEEN LISTENING? Can't you get over yourself for one second and actually listen to what I'm saying?"

Sigh. You really didn't have to say it again. It hurt everytime you say it. But I suppose it was partly my fault. I could be really patronizing whenever I talk to you. I'd follow you like a stray dog. I can't fully place the blame on you for seeing me as someone not worth wasting your time on -- because I act like I am someone not worth wasting your time on. I hear it over and over again, "You're too nice, P." From you, from the other guys I've dated, "but..." But I don't have to hear anything else anymore. "I'm not attracted to you, P," that's what you said. I wanted to punch you in the face because in my mind, what I heard was, "It's not my fault your life is screwed, P."

We can't really be friends, you said so yourself. That's another thing I have to learn to respect now. No matter how much we talk about music, about books, no matter how many papers I help you with, I guess we can't really pin each other down as friends. With you, there's "Friends," and there's "People Who Fell In Love With Me But I'm Keeping Around Anyway." Knowing where I stand in your life makes me feel a whole lot better.

Just Friends

From xkcd, Dec. 5th posting:

The scary thing is, I can see my pale-skinned face all hollow-eyed and thin-lipped superimposed on the eighth panel.

Things Worth Staying Alive For

Last weekend was made of all kinds of awesome, I couldn't even get a serious minute to sit down and dissect everything that happened over the course of a day past on my journal. Each time I'd get home (early morning, usually -- mere minutes after my aunts have gotten up and are only starting to set up our sari-sari store), I'd be itching to get things written down but exhaustion kept on winning me over. But now that weekend's done and I'm back to living my lazy, languid, and generally unproductive life, I can sit myself down and do a proper recording of events. So while things are still fresh on my mind, let's start with the awesomeness that happened on --


Friday

Actually, if I wanted to be really accurate, it all began on Thursday. Barny, who started working near where I live, wanted to hang out before he went home, so we met up at the Salcedo park to talk and ogle the cute evening joggers in the vicinity. He told me about a party that was happening Friday evening for people in the ad industry and he said he could sneak me in. I reluctantly agreed, but I kind of wanted to go because I knew the food in these parties were sure to be really good and definitely there won't be any shortage of eye candy either.

I wasn't disappointed. Sure, the weather was being mean at the earlier parts of the evening, but gradually it gave way to a clear night sky and crisp, cooling, constant breeze and the Universe let me and Barny have our fun. The food was amazing, and my senses were drowning in a veritable visual feast. Of course there was free beer too! Add to that the intoxicating sensation of having crashed a party, and my brain was shooting out fireworks in every spectra of color.

And if that wasn't enough, I unexpectedly met two people I greatly admire -- Ms. Leigh Reyes and Sir McVie! Turns out that Barny knew Ms. Leigh back from when he was still working as an intern for Adobo Magazine, and Sir McVie is one of Ms. Leigh's good friends.

A little backgrounder: When I was still in college, just about the time I started The White Room, I posted a poem authored by Ms. Leigh entitled Looking for Lightning. It was originally published in a Filipino literary publication called Pen & Ink, and, as the Universe is wont to do, I encountered it at a time when I needed to see something good and beautiful in my life. Here is a reposting:

Looking for lightning,
you stumble constantly.

You walk the nights,
inviting electricity.

Each flash you name
after the lovers you left,
the lovers who left you,

the friends whose last names
you have filed and forgotten.

What can I tell you
that no one else has tried?

I stare at my hands,
their embossed veins.
We have newly met,
under this tree dripping
with the day's rain.
I didn't ask for your soul,

but here you are,
pushing it towards me
with eyes I cannot believe
can still see.

An old man hurries by with his cart
of bottle goldfish. A veiled woman
walks towards us, stops,
moves away.

I want to follow them, but
you grasp my arm.
My heart locks its exits.
You laugh and ease your grip,
then point up beyond the leaves.

I have to look, and there it is.
Streaks flare across the dusk.
You are gone before I can speak.
I close my eyes and see a red smear:
It could be blood.
It could be light.

I have to admit, I still feel the same prickling at the back of my neck everytime I read it. I told Ms. Leigh how much of an inspiration this poem was to me, and how glad I was to have gone to a party I wasn't invited to. :-P She raised a lot of points for me to think about if ever I wanted to pursue writing. I just hope my tender brain wasn't too addled by the amount of beer and lechon I consumed that night.

Sir McVie, on the other hand, is someone I have just recently begun reading. Before this year, I have only been exclusively following the blogs of people I know. Besides, there weren't a lot of gay bloggers then, or at least, I didn't bother to look. But as the force and reach of online journals evolved, the voices of gay Filipino bloggers began to solidify across cyberspace. Sir McVie's blog has been a booming voice in the chorus everyone heard -- gay or straight. He had wise eyes and a firm handshake, and he had the voice and demeanor of a stern but kind mentor. I was deeply honored meeting him last Friday.

Barny and I stayed until about 1:00am. There were still a lot of people, and I would have gladly stayed if only to get more alcohol and cholesterol in my system, but Barny had another party to go to and I promised my mother I'd eat dinner at home. Our hearts were full of nothing but happy however, and we still had something to look forward to for --


Saturday

-- because it was Pride Weekend! This time, I was with Elmer and Barny. Saturday evening found the three of us at Robinson's Place in Manila at around dinnertime where we bumped into Sir McVie once again, who was doing his Christmas shopping while waiting for the after-march party to begin. After killing time at Powerbooks, we decided to roll out and check how far the festivities have gone at Orosa. A few minutes and we came upon the stage where the beauty pageant was being held. All the contestants were absolutely stunning, but unfortunately, that was where our interest ended.

Barny suggested we go to a videoke joint that was nearby and Elmer and I were only glad to agree. The place was very cheap but really cozy and clean, and the selection of songs was very much updated. For the next four hours, we were singing an eclectic playlist of rock tunes and pop songs, from B*Witched (!!!) to Boyzone to Third Eye Blind. Of course Madonna and Kylie were ever-present, with Barny doing incredible renditions of both icons' dance moves.

At around 2:00am, we decided we've had enough wailing and thought it might be time to check out the crowd. Nothing of note held our attention for more than a few minutes, except maybe seeing the occasional acquaintance or someone we knew from our specific individual circles who might or might not have been out. We were almost about to call it a night, but I received a text message from another friend, Mikey, asking us where we were and what our plans for the rest of the evening would be. I told him we were getting bored of Malate and we'd rather pick him up at Makati instead. Half an hour later, the four of us were together having a mid-evening meal at Wendy's along Makati Avenue. Mikey and I haven't seen each other for quite a while so that gave us a chance to catch up.

After everyone was full and recharged, we thought it would be a good idea to hang out a bit more for coffee after, but we all changed our minds at the last minute and trudged on back to Malate to spend the last few hours of the night at Bed. We were there for only about 30 minutes, but it felt like it was the proper way to end the party. Elmer and I got back home 6:00am. We were both trying to stave off sleep because I was supposed to meet a friend, Ly, at 11:00am --


Sunday

I set my alarm to wake me up every hour so I can check if Ly's sent a message, letting me know what time he'll be dropping by. I finally received one by 12:00nn, saying he'd be here at around 2:00pm. That gave me and Elmer enough time to get some more sleep.

Whenver Ly visits, I always make sure to show him new videos I have acquired through the slumming I do online. This time, most of the treasures I had were gay-themed stand-up comedy videos. While walking him through some of my favorites, we were all sharing a cocktail mix of gin and orange juice, which got both Ly and I in a moderately pleasant buzz-state by early evening.

It was already 8:00pm when we all decided to leave -- way past the time I was supposed to meet up with another group of friends. Ly rode with me and Elmer to Metrowalk where he got a cab home. After we saw him off, we got together Momi Dea, Marie, Pong, Kat, and Lester -- friends from the company I used to work with. We got right down to business and ordered a bucket of beer to kick off our group's beta-reunion. Pao, another friend from the same company, joined us at about 1:00am just before we transferred to Jay-J's along Julia Vargas. the festivities ended at about 4:00am with promises of a trip to Baguio, a Christmas Party, and more crazy office stories from the ones left working.

Elmer dropped me off at my place before he headed home to Parañaque. Surprisingly, I wasn't at all exhausted, so I brought a mug of coffee to my room while catching up with what's been happening online. I barely noticed the morning sun tracing lines of yellow light through the cracks of my room's wooden walls -- the cool December air still clinging like a blanket in the atmosphere. I dragged open my window, set my mug down on its ledge, gathered my pillows as I was lying down, and closed my eyes to the first rays of --


Monday

Where I slept the whooooooooooole day. :-)

Dance With The Devil

I finished watching Maou about fifteen minutes ago. I should be sleeping now, but really, how can one sleep after having been made to -- as Kaelyn the Dove from Neverwinter Nights puts it -- wear someone else's skin, calluses and all? Because that is exactly what Maou makes you feel.

A little background on what I'm talking about. Maou, or Devil, is a Japanese drama series based on the original Korean drama, The Devil. It is about Ryou Naruse -- a lawyer whose younger brother was killed eleven years prior to when the series started. He grows up to be a very successful lawyer, and is referred to as the "Angelic Lawyer" by the media. Unknown to the public, however, Ryou has an alter ego -- Makoto Amano -- who, using his brilliant mind, draws out revenge on each person who was involved in his brother's death. Moving against Amano is Naoto Serizawa, a detective with a dark past who believes that a hand shrouded in layers and layers of mystery is controlling the series of deaths happening around him. Shiori Sakita, a woman with the the ability of psychometry, aids him in uncovering the shadows cast among these deaths.

Saying that this is a very painful series to watch is definitely an understatement. While Death Note treats death as a necessary tool -- a cold, unerring knife which a self-proclaimed God has power over, Maou pries it open with fruit-breaking, juices flowing, blood-warmed human hands. Ryou makes sure the terrible amount of pain he has shouldered for eleven years is felt in equal measure by the people who deserve it. And Naoto, bearing the burden of his past, suffers through these deaths as well. Throughout the series, the audience is compelled to empathize for either Ryou or Naoto, but any distinction is eventually blurred as both characters come to realize the human truth about the pain they were both carrying.


Truth by Arashi, Maou Opening Theme
There is one question Maou leaves the audience with at the end of the series though: What did Shiori see?

This Might Have Been Fiction

I was supposed to go out tonight. I wanted to finally get the two books I've been meaning to buy for quite some time now -- especially since I've recently been able to drop by the office again the other day to collect the check for my final pay. Originally I was planning on using that money on a date I was supposed to ask you out for, but after our talk last night over the phone -- you were pissed drunk from partying with your friends and words were marching out from you like some colorful parade -- I figured my heart needed some spoiling, so books it shall be.

I just about finished bathing and I was drying my hair with my towel when your message window winked at the forefront display of my laptop screen. "Are you there?" it said.

It took a while before I thought to respond. I eyed the system tray clock -- 5:44pm. Too early for dinner. We'd spoken earlier this afternoon over the phone; I'd just woken up after only four hours of sleep and I wanted to check up on you, sure as day you'd be nursing a massive hangover. As soon as I said "Hello," you cut me off, saying you were on your way to the gym and then a haircut after that, so you thought you might be home some time after dinner. We hung up after you made me promise to tell you everything you'd said last night before you passed out. I agreed, because there really wasn't much else to say. And now, as a curve ball from the Universe no doubt, you're here and you're online.

"Yes," I typed back. "I just finished taking a bath. You're home earlier than expected. What's up?"

"My hangover won't leave me alone," you said almost immediately. "Plus, I got hungry."

I didn't bother typing up a response anymore and called you up on the phone right away. "Hey."

"Hey."

"I was actually supposed to go out, pass the time until you get back, but now you're here so..." and then I chuckled like a 14-year old idiot. 'You weren't supposed to say that to him!' I scolded myself, biting my lip hard. 'You have officially made yourself sound like a codependent hatchling.'

"... yeah, I'm here. So... what despicable things did I say to you last night?" Your voice sounded childish -- almost apologetic -- like it was coming from a very cramped space.

"A lot of things," I said, absent-mindedly switching the phone receiver from my right ear to my left. I'd thought about this last night, what I would tell you. And what I would tell you was this: "You said a lot of things, all of them I believed to be true. And while I can't repeat every word that you said -- not because I don't remember them, but because they're too scalding and too true for me to say out loud -- I can, however, say that at this point, I think it's enough that you know how I feel for you. And whether you think and feel that all I am is worth making time for, that decision is yours to make. Until then, I can wait, like I have always done."

But the Universe will not permit me to be as articulate and as cautious with my words. The truth is way too complicated and unsatisfying and hard to believe. And it is in this vein where the words I was about to say would be flowing from. "A lot of things," I began, surprised at the distinct strength of each word. I could feel the initial clarity in my mind gradually losing to a thick mist. I started laughing, which I think was a terrible symptom to what I was experiencing -- you must be thinking I was going insane. And when all there was left was swirling, sloshing grey smoke, I grabbed on to the first idea I could like a drowning man on driftwood and trusted whatever it was I was going to say will save my life.

Everything you'd said last night started to flow out from me like a stray mountain river. You said you were introduced to this guy, a law student from the same university where you're teaching. You were attracted to him, and you're considering seeing him again soon. You also said talking with me has been becoming more of a pressure to you than anything else. "You are ever-present," you managed let out in between gasps of breath and drunken giggles.

I told you I could hear you were hitting and hitting your mobile phone against a hard surface, and you said you were trying to get it to work again since you dropped it earlier in the evening. Tak tak tak, it went, on and on in the background as you were talking, like a ritual drum. I must have told you to stop a lot of times, but clearly, the alcohol was jamming your comprehension.

Regardless, you continued. "You always have something new for me, I feel like I always have to keep up but I can't," you said. "Even if you keep saying 'It's fine, it's fine, you don't have to,' it isn't fine for me. If anything, it was making me feel guilty." There was a long pause, and I almost thought the Universe opened a pocket of lucidity in your senses. "You're too, too, too nice." Tak tak tak tak.

"I'm sorry," I heard you saying suddenly. I didn't notice I'd gone quiet. Your voice, piercing like a searchlight in a dark, gloomy, old Spanish house, pushed me back to the waking world.

"No, it's true!" I said quickly, all too defensively. "I guess I was being too imposing even without meaning to." And, thick with words unsaid, the silence stretched on from seconds to minutes. I felt drained. Lifeless. Only dry earth was left, parched and cracked and dying.

After a while however, I felt something primal stir from inside me, something longing for survival. I started digging. "You shouldn't have kissed me," came a sharp whisper from my throat, more to the air between my mouth and the receiver than to you. That night, two weeks ago, in the middle of an empty field, under the Sunday evening stars, you shouldn't have kissed me. There should have been a moment, a nanosecond, a rational heartbeat among hundreds of irrational heartbeats. You shouldn't have looked at me the way you did, leaned your head close, and touched your lips with mine.

"I'm sorry," you said again. I shut my eyes tight and punched a pillow in frustration. Crumpled. Crushed. Somewhere in between those words, I felt my heart resonating. I wanted to put the phone down. It seems you can't say anything else. And I can sense it, the familiar feeling of something draining, seeping out from you. The effects of that night were leaving you, evaporating from your every pore. Colors were simply refusing to vibrate within your periphery.

You mentioned you were feeling guilty. I understand that, more than you know. Guilty, because no matter how much you look into yourself, you can't find a well from where you can draw the same intensity of feeling I have for you. Guilty, because all you have for me is the empty space and the phantom pull of a soul-hurt. Guilty, because you're not brave enough to say anything else than "I'm sorry." I wanted to put the phone down before this guilt consumes you, before the boy who kissed me was completely gone, before this understanding solidifies itself into words, and an ice-blue cold corpse. I wanted to put the phone down, thinking that by cutting the line, I could postpone what was going to happen -- what always happens.

But... it does. And by the time we both put the phone down, we were both gone.

And Then There Was Hope

Last week, my sister shared an unexpected bit of news. It was not as solid as I preferred it to have been, so I decided to wait until something official was produced. This morning, a small beacon of something like hope caught my radar a bit far off in the distance. It was faint, but definitely, undeniably there. And, like a lost sailor unable to find words powerful enough to express the miracle of being found, I shall let this image do the mirthful shouting for me:

Six weeks, and it already has a heartbeat. What made me even happier was, according to my sister, her doctor said she's due on the 29th of June -- my birthday! Of course it's only an estimate, give or take a couple of weeks, but still! By my 27th birthday, I will be an uncle. :-)