oh, for crap's sake, take a machine's word over mine, why don't you?

the bank keeps calling me "ms. macelo." notice the missing "r" there? it's bad enough that they're confused about leslie samantha/samantha/sam, now they're messing up my last name too. either i keyboarded it incorrectly or i have terrible handwriting. funny thing is, my letters all have "marcelo" clearly typed. CHANGE your records already! i'm telling you who i am! stop believing the machine! i am not a macelo! ARGH! yeah, "r."

from a smell to guelphs.

thought process triggered by a smell:

-weird smell from the stems of a bunch of flowers
-reminiscent of an odor in a high school bio experiment
-google "oxytocin" (turns out, it's a red herring. i must've remembered it because of a times article by david brooks)
-google "plant growth hormone"
-auxin! yes, that's it! and in my head, auxin is always paired with gibberellin.
-the same time we were learning about gibberellin in bio, we were learning about ghibellines in social science.
-ghibellines are always paired with guelphs

the train of thought goes from smell to auxin to gibberellin to ghibellines to guelphs.

the train rumbles on:
third year bio can be summed up in the phrase "cyclopentanoperhydrophenanthrenes are actually steroids."

second year bio in a nutshell is "ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny."

college? well. chem 17... the four laws of thermodynamics as stated by Ma'am Cruz:
1. i forget what the first is.
2. nothing is free. (conservation of energy)
3. you always pay for what you get, and you always get less than what you pay for. (entropy)
4. perfection is impossible. ("the entropy of a perfectly crystalline body at absolute zero temperature is zero.")

enough! between this and not knowing who i am, my eyes are starting to glaze over.

i am sam.

the name is sam. sam sam sam. it's not sammy, sam-o, sampot, samsam, sam-dude, or any other derivative or variant of sam. why do people insist on mangling my name? myself included!

(well, there you go, stupid. you have no right to complain).

i mean, if i'm sam, why the hell is this blog's url "ll"? why is my e-mail address "ll"? who the hell is ll? long story short: UP gave me "llmarcelo" and my anal self decided that all e-mail addresses and usernames must follow suit. easier to remember that way. so it has been, only my yahoo account was spared since it predates my UP e-mail address, the same UP e-mail address that i DO NOT USE anymore.

when i think of myself, i think "sam." i am sam i am.

i think, therefore i'm sam.

ego, identity, me, myself, i=sam.

i'm also a "marcelo." that's my favorite in-joke: "marcelo." depending on how you say it, it's either an insult or a compliment. and only a marcelo can deliver the marcelo in-joke properly.

so, i am sam marcelo. i always have been.

the freaky thing is, there is ANOTHER sam marcelo out there. i've googled myself several times (oh, c'mon, don't tell me you haven't) and turned up another sam marcelo. she's my age, she's also a samantha, and she lives somewhere in canada... i think.

this individual has as much right to think of herself as "sam marcelo" as i do. before i learned of my canadian doppelganger, i knew that i was the best at one thing: being me, being sam marcelo. turns out, there's another "sam marcelo" who is as good as i am at being "sam marcelo."

i'm twisting my mind into a pretzel here. can you tell? these are existential issues!

even our paper's database has trouble saying exactly who i am, i'm listed in at least three different ways. one thing writing for businessworld has given me is an appreciation for my middle initial. the "l" is my mom, i should let it stand. she's as much a part of me as "sam" and "marcelo." there's also something very sensual about "l." it's the tongue stroking, caressing the palate. i digress.

going back: i thought i knew who i was. then my bank had to go and tell me otherwise, so i had to write a letter. i kinda forgot that banks are, like, formal institutions.

To Whom It May Concern:

This is to declare that "Leslie Samantha L. Marcelo" and "Samantha L. Marcelo" and "Sam L. Marcelo" are one and the same person.

...

Thanks, and my apologies.

Leslie Samantha L. Marcelo (or Samantha, or almost always, just Sam)

we're going to the 'ship...again.

beat the rogues, 7 to zip. rozie qb'd the first drive, scored a TD, and capped that run with an extra point. after that, she handed the O to me--and i could NOT, for the life of me, complete a single pass. i finally got a five-yarder in to my slot after one million five hundred fifty-five thousand tries. frustrating. my timing was off, i kept throwing late. hats off to rozie, she was very vocal supporting me, and that meant a lot. the team was also very gracious.

anyway, i'm enjoying the win, we're going to the 'ship AGAIN, for crying out loud! never mind that we didn't bury the rogues 48 billion to nothing, or that my qb skills are about as effective as using a toothpick to slay a dragon.

it looks like i'm going to have to partially violate one of my boxes next week. i really, really, really need to get back into the groove.

i know what a teleber is.

legit term for "eraserheard"* lyrics: mondegreen

came across the word while reading a great nytimes article on the O.E.D and neologisms. hope that link works. if not, try googling for "Cyber-Neologoliferation." excerpt:

"I'm too embarrassed to ask the lexicographers if they have a favorite word. They get that a lot... Fiona McPherson gives me mondegreen. A mondegreen is a misheard lyric, as in, 'Lead on, O kinky turtle.' It is named after Lady Mondegreen. There was no Lady Mondegreen. The lines of a ballad, 'They hae slain the Earl of Murray,/And laid him on the green' are misheard as 'They have slain the Earl of Murray and Lady Mondegreen.' 'A lot of people are just really excited by that word because they think it's amazing that there is a word for that concept,' McPherson says."

and a mondegreen is exactly what "teleber" is.

*eraserheard: after the band eraserheads. i picked up the term from a magazine and thought it was funny and apt. it insinuated itself into my vocabulary and it'll probably stay there, regardless of my mondegreen-mindedness.

instant communication! instant rejection!

"who wants to hang, like, right now?" [send to group: berks]

*toot toot*
"i'm, like, in alabang."

*toot toot*
"sori. m on d way home alrdy"

*toot toot*
"hehe. m going to market2"

*toot toot*
"hey, sweetie. sorry can't. i'm in araneta."

*toot toot*
"m dty.."

*toot toot*
*Hey. Sorry, i'm going home na."

the silver lining is that i actually got replies from all of you.

Very Important Questions.

the democrats have seized control of both houses! rumsfeld has resigned! bush is going down! as america grapples with its issues--the iraq war, birth control, same sex marriage, stem cell research, separation of church and state--i present my own list of Very Important Questions (let the debate ensue):

1.what are the lyrics of the jump rope song? "i love you,...

a. teddy bear, teddy bear
b. teribon, teribon
c. telebong, telebong
d. televert, televert
e. teleber, teleber
f. teleboom, teleboom

2. which pinoy singer/band sang the song with the lyrics "pag-ibig ko'y metal (sa balat ng lupa)?

3. is it "cross merry" or "strawberry" shake?

4. am i really supposed to ask sen-sen my playmate to "bring back the rainbow into my celery"?

what sayeth the decider?

bora bowl champs.

represent! good job. wish i was there. thank you for missing me. thank you for toasting in my name. thank you for telling me that you want me to qb in our game vs. m (for real?). all the way baby, going for the 'ship again. yes, i'm still buzzed. go away.

don't drink and dial, don't binge and blog.

red wine.
san mig light.
swing.
let's sing the blues:

woke up this morning
with a pain in my head

woke up this mooooooorning
with a pain in my head
(pain in my head pain in my head)

woke up this morning
with a pain in my butt
('cuz my girlfriend's a slut)

vocals and lyrics: pa and sam
guitar: moe

alcohol just does wonders to your brain, man.
it isn't surprising that so many authors are substance abusers--it's fun to write when you're coming from an altered state of perception.
badabing badabam badaboom.
plus, you don't censor yourself, and you just have license to say most anything,
and you love everybody, and life is just so fucken fabulous... for real.

check it out, papa's a poet:

Beware the liar moon
that shines to illicit
love’s delight

Whose stolen sheen is dulled
by the coming of the sun’s
true and brilliant light
___
he likes rhyming... and ending with "!"s
here are the ones he sent to me while he was in mindoro.
they're short because they had to fit into a single text message, meaning, what, 160 characters? something like that. technology dictating artistry.
___
Red orb turns to brilliant white
revealing god’s work
azure skies, verdant fields—
LIFE!
___
A white bird circles frantically in fading light
the price of greed—a night of uncertainty in a strange tree!
___
She was the master moisturizer—
her skin was so smooth they idolized her—
one day she got rashez from her nose to her assez—
now even the dogs won’t go near her!
___
what's with all the "!"s daddy-o? not like you read this blog, or even KNOW that it exists.

went to the driving range with the old man. i don't know if i like golf or not. it did make me sweat, and there is some kind of satisfaction to be derived from whacking a poor, defenseless little ball to kingdom come.

but still.

raw pink flesh
skin-brown dots
sun burned sky
liquid sober love
moon scarred night

next? i'm a-gonna keep on going til this bottle is empty.








well, hell.
one solution: drink faster, little girl!

gotta make room for the golden stuff, off to the loo.

so, i've pissed it all away. i'm done. good night.

tracing the origins of the ultimate zone out moment, plus pixelated nipples!

i rubbed proactiv on my burn today, took me a few seconds to realize that i was putting zit cream on my wound. it was the texture of the ointment that snapped me back into the present.

i was thinking about how elegance and efficiency presume (assume? indicate?) the existence of a god--a thought that's been with me for several days (blog entry on that coming, i need to let the thought marinate some more). and THAT thought actually started a week or so ago on a train ride, while ruminating on mathematical proofs and computer code and language, and seeing buildings and re-telling myself how fucken ugly our buildings are.

ugly buildings being the reason i couldn't relate very well to howard roark's passion for architecture. back when i was reading fountainhead, i remember asking myself why ayn rand chose architecture, of all pursuits.

and, of course, realizing that our buildings are ugly only came about when i stumbled on frank gehry, thom mayne, santiago calatrava, etc. while infosnacking months ago.

you know how conversations can jump from, say, t-shirts to pixelated (as in pixel, short for picture element, as in resolution; nothing to do with "pixilated" as in crazy, as in me; which is why i prefer "pixelized"; but google has only 110,000 hits for "pixelized" and 324,000 for "pixelated"... so we go with "pixelated") nipples?

let me say that one more time without going off on a tangent: you know how conversations can jump from, say, t-shirts to pixelated nipples?
it's quite fun to trace how conversations go from one topic to another. same thing with thoughts and coming up with some sort of excuse for rubbing proactiv on my burn today.

gammy (19??-2006)

my dearest gammy,

introductions to memories are slippery things, aren’t they? we usually remember without preamble. so i will write the way i remember. did you know that you’re a wikipedia entry, gammy? if you google for “remmie brillo suaco” you’ll get a list of entries, mainly having to do with “silapulapu and the zebut brothers,” for which you won a palanca.
i have a confession to make—i’ve had a copy in my possession for quite some time, but i’ve never gotten around to reading it (i read a few pages, i remember that your introduction reminded me of michener, perhaps it was the onomatopoeia). are you disappointed, gammy? i have a feeling you aren’t, because you never forced any book on me. i believe it was this gentle attitude, plus the fact that you never thought i was too young to read anything that’s made me the voracious reader that i am (voracious when i have the time. meaning when i’m in the bathroom. the weirdest thing i’ve read in the loo was a yellow cab pizza delivery flyer).
i will also treasure the little dedications you wrote in your distinctive handwriting in the books that you gave me. the books that you sent always had more than one story in them. for example, i know that it was rochelle who gave you the dragonlance preludes trilogy in staten island new york on july 6, 1992.
i adore how you called me “my dearest sam-sam” in those messages, and how you would call me “sam-sam dah-ling” when you would talk to me. it made me feel like i was in a black and white movie, “sam-sam dah-ling, how’s my FEH-vo-rit?” the way you would say “favorite,” with the drawn out first syllable and the trilled r, made me feel i was in another time. that’s another thing, gammy, you weren’t ashamed of superlatives or exuberance, you had favorites and you made it known to everybody that i was one of them (pa was another, yes? does that mean i’m my father’s daughter?).
whenever you’d visit us, you’d sleep in my room. a full bladder would rouse me from sleep and you’d always be up, reading by lamplight. i’ll always have that image of you, the book so close to your face that it was almost touching your nose. “you’re still awake, gammy?” (i have a talent for the obvious, i know), “yes, dah-ling, when you’re old, you don’t need as much sleep.” (i’m older now, and it’s true, you really don’t need as much sleep, or maybe, we can’t sleep as much as we’d like). so, i’d make weewee and go back to bed, comforted that you were awake and reading. it was you, gammy, who made me love books. i will always, always appreciate how you never talked down on me or treated me like a child, i was never too young in your eyes. or is it that we were two children talking to each other? i thought it was cool that you never gave up dragons, elves, and knights. we like our escape, don’t we, gammy?
we also like words. you always said that it was nonna who was the writer, and that it was too bad her creativity took a technical bent. i would have liked to have read stories by nonna. how is nonna, gammy?
i learned the word “limn” from you, gammy. you said i had the ability to limn things (your original sentence was much more eloquent than that, forgive me) in an e-mail, after i sent a long one recounting my don antonio river adventure. i have since used “limn” in, well, you know, my stuff… those words i string together. when nonna passed away, you started sending your memories in e-mails with the subject “the heart remembers.” i loved getting those. i have printouts of them, and i re-read them from time to time. whose heart will remember now, dearest gammy? please say hello to nonna. i know that she’s looking out for me, she visited me in a dream and cooked us carbonara. she didn’t talk to me, but the dream left me with so much peace and so much love. when i woke up, i ran to the kitchen expecting to find her there. when i first told tareens and xandra about it, the tears just came.
i guess my heart is remembering now, isn’t it gammy? it remembers how the “three brilliant brillo sisters” would play mah jong. how you would speak Spanish when you didn’t want any of us to understand what it was you were talking about. how you and mamita would smoke and drink beer. nonna was the good girl, why did she go first? just asking…
papa says that of the three of you, you led the most “colorful” life. what he means by that, i don’t know. in his stories, you were the artist, the dreamer, the one who eschewed practicality in favor of fun. is it true that you treated your friends to a cruise with the money your mother gave you? pa says you were the “carpe diem” type, did you like dead poets society as much i do?
also gammy, i think your sense of humor is closest to pa’s and mine. you like word play, and pa could always make you laugh. did you hear his latest ones? (sili idea and pro bono? man oh man, i DID enjoy them, though).
a vignette: we were out in the garden, in the swing, and you said something to the effect that puns were the lowest form of word play. why? i love puns, if there were a puns club, i’d be a member (you like that, gammy?). if you think puns are low, what about alliteration? i adore alliterating as well. i found this scrawled in piers anthony’s ogre ogre: “the punning intricately woven into the narrative is very enjoyable! smashing!!! hilariously funny” HAH! you do appreciate puns.
you also knew how to make fun of yourself. i remember that time you saw yourself in a video. it was of your party, i think. you gasped in horror, “oh my god, that’s me?! i thought i was pretty!” i thought that was a riot. your mind was sharp until the very end, gammy. i wish we had more conversations.

i will always hold close to my heart those words you sent me a long time ago, after i sent you a bunch of my stuff.

“to take up the subject of sharing creations with others or the public-- i cannot emphasize too much the fact that no criticism whether favorable or not should matter to the extent of providing an incentive when favorable and dousing the creative fire when it is unfavorable. what others think of your creation should be a matter of complete indifference to the creator. one creates because it is a need, a hunger; because the heart, the soul is filled to bursting with all it holds and must empty itself. for as long as you can do so you need no more. if the product of that creativeness pleases you (and very often it does) then indeed is the creative fire justified and when it pleases others (as happens quite often) then can one say 'the cup runneth over'...

i did tell you that your poems call to me… touch my heart and imagination even as i realize that there are some picture images that neither my mind nor heart could have conceptualized.

the siren song… embers… color grey—saludo ako, hija… teka, may insipirasyon ba talaga—in the flesh, or katha lang ng isip at puso…

the latest of which your favorite as of now: the slayer of the sun? well, while i admire the words forged in the anvil of your creativity—i find the images rather strong… almost, violent.

continue writing, my darling… i smile because no force or circumstance can stop you from writing so let me rephrase that with—continue to share your wealth with me.

with oodles of love,

gammy”

-from an e-mail dated July 23, 2001

so, gammy, here i am blogging about you. i wonder what you’d say about what i do now and the “stuff” that keeps on writing itself. i’ll post the pieces you mentioned, so that if you come upon this entry, you can re-read them. leave a comment, gammy? or visit me in a dream, just like nonna did.

siren song/Caylabne
[stanza 1: 4/5/2k1 stanzas 2&3: 4/20/2k1]

the siren song of the sea
lulls me to sleep,
the waves cradle me
and caress my whole body
as i float, weightless
on the water.

every sound is muted as
they make their way
through the depths.
i close my eyes and tune into
the haunting melody of
the waves making love to the shore.

the wind gently touches my face,
reminding me that the sky is overhead.
through closed eyelids i can see
rorschachs of orange as
the sunlight suffuses
my upturned face with warmth.
___
embers
[5/7/2k1]

under the blanket of night
i can think of you
and say that my love
has metamorphosed,
from the white heat
of a blaze
that starts spontaneously
in the womb of an arid month,
to the steadfast glow
of embers that refuse to die
even after the blaze
has been forgotten.
embers, enduring,
unseen, ever present.
sometimes, the wind blows
and fans the flames,
sparks form
and the white heat
rises again,
dies again.
underneath it all,
the embers remain,
among the ashes,
among buried memories.
embers, waiting for you
to stir them to life,
wanting the burn to last
longer than a moment.
and so it has been
for more than the turning
of one summer into another.
___
grey
[undated, ca. 2k?]

if i were a color i'd be grey.
grey like the skies pregnant with rain.
drops unsure whether to fall or not,
but there nonetheless.
tears held back,
hoping for the sun to burn them away.
____
slayer of the sun
[7/8/2k1]

you hang low in the sky,
fat and heavy with the blood of the sun
you have just slain.
the orange stain of your crime
stands out in the darkness.
your guilt weighs so heavily
upon you, my love
that you cannot escape
your earthly bonds.
you are like a feral predator
peering out of its lair,
waiting for its next kill.
unblinking and unwavering,
you stare at me,
i could never survive you
in that game.
as the night wears on,
as the clouds wipe away
the traces of your deed,
your bone-white beauty
shines through,
and you are absolved
of spilling blood.
cleansed and purified,
you rise up into the heavens,
ethereal and unreachable.
free again, you leave me,
your earthbound lover,
to wait until you must feed
once more.

remember merthiolate?

my friends say i should quit complaining about my wound. sandra did, after all, burn her face when she was three. but i'm of the opinion that kids are better suited to deal with these physical wounds. i remember getting cut and scraped, and being swabbed with merthiolate (before it was pulled out of the market) with nary a complaint.
but as we grow older, we lose our tolerance for that kind of physical pain. in return, we are given the fortitude to weather the emotional hurts that leave no bodily scars.

mas kakayanin kong dumugo puso ko, wag lang balat ko.

i must say, that's a pretty romantic--though bullshit--excuse for regressing into a brat.

the flesh of my flesh. bring me back to bora.

i burned a hole into my leg. i rode a motorcycle and it left a moon-mark on me. a scar? well. charley, who has black safety pins as earrings, said i could incorporate it into a tat. the wound is round, so i'm thinking friendster logo. the flag people are off to bora, why go to the beach if i can't swim? i love the water so much, i'd probably be tempted to soak and play. i've discovered that nothing brings out the whiny brat in me like a piece of gauze stuck to my raw flesh. i'll go get a stool sample now, but first--

bring me back to bora
[26X06]

bring me back the sound of the waves
caught in the shell of your ear
drink saltwater through your pores
and share with me the taste of the sea

soak in the daylight
and keep pieces of the sun in your skin
capture the sky in your eyes
as you dive into an azure eternity

let the sand find shelter in your hair
until your body gives up its memories to me
grasp the moon between your thumb and forefinger
and pluck the night of its pearl

then bring me back to bora
so i can offer myself in return

milenyo (international name: xangsane).

storms are sexy (just leave out the deaths). i love the wind. it seldom gets mad, but when it does, it doesn't stop at wind-ing--it waters, it fires, it thunders and lightnings. i've verbed my way to remembering xangsane.

signal #3
[28IX06]

this is the wind that
demands to be heard--
and listen we shall
to banging doors and
naked limbs flung onto streets

this is the wind that
strips the eucalyptus
of its leaves before
dismembering it

this is the wind that
that gutters the flame
before killing it

this is the wind that
recruits all elements to its cause--
its anger is seldom solitary

all in favor, say "aye!" ("i?")

the me-of-two-years-ago thinks like the me-of-the-moment.

[IV04]

names are handles we put on
things, on abstractions,
so we can hurl and smash them
into millions of syllables-
remain anonymous and you cannot
be destroyed, how can you
kill something that doesn’t exist?

stay nameless, love
so i can keep you.

because i love playing, that's why!

this is me, laughing at the me-of-yesterday who didn't want to go. damn good to be playing again, even though they didn't let me qb. manila actually told the girls NOT to talk to me until the third game (which is what, a couple of weeks from now?). well, shit, they just found that hard to do--even manila wound up breaking her rule. that int-TD run was for you, manila (don't i just make you proud?). plus, caisa and i still have that wicked cheering vibe. so much fun.
i love playing, it's the commute from the house to the field that bums me out. it would be so much easier if, on saturdays, i woke up in the middle of the field in playing attire, ready to go (meaning somewhere in lalaland, i get to eat breakfast, take a bath, brush my teeth, and take my all-important crap).
although moved to the tight end position in offense, i was still the designated prayer leader. i find this so funny. god must be laughing, too--probably in stitches knowing that i really want to say something like "dear god or universe or whatever it is that you call yourself" instead of "dear, um, lord/father..."
kudos to the jewels for shutting out the rogues in the first game of the 7-on-7 tourney. WASSSUP!

why? why? why?

it's raining. it's saturday. it's the first game of the 7-on-7 tourney. i don't want to go. it's raining. it's saturday. it's the first game of the 7-on-7 tourney. i have to go. this is me sighing in resignation.

it's only 10, but it feels like forever.

insomnia's accessories include a pink and blue fuzzy-wuzzy bunny-ear headband and black nail polish.

cheap thrills.

here's my guide to getting the biggest adrenaline high, ever:

1. run on fumes. (extra points if you leave your wallet at home. this experience teaches you the meaning of prayer: 'please, god, just let me get to the office, pleasepleasepleaseplease')
2. hold in your piss until you absolutely cannot stand it. (is there such a thing as 'bladder retentive'?)

but the hands-down winner is a combination of both: empty gas tank + a full bladder = a real rush. trust me, i know.

beats sitting in front of a computer pondering The Rule of 72 while leaking blood and mucus. my brain hurts.

"this is my church. this is where i heal my hurts. for tonight, god is a dj" - faithless

was this last night's sky? or the night before last's? i forget when, but i haven't forgotten what.

atmospheric discotheque
[06IX06]

peel away the cloud cover
and reveal her naked pearl
a disco ball moon
hanging in a strobe-lit sky
gyrating to the drum and bass
of rain and thunder

and the cryptic sentence award goes to...

early morning hours should not be wasted on barbie dolls and goodyear tires.

thus spake sam(antha). three unrelated thoughts all in the same entry because that’s how i think—unrelatedly… and i know that’s not a word.

1. i almost choked on my chelo when i was asked who my favorite philosopher was. small talk, in my world, consists of questions like “what is your favorite color?” or “who is your favorite Care Bear?”

but asking about philosophers? the question is loaded because, inevitably, your answer reveals much about your character and the principles by which you live your life. a philosopher becomes a “favorite” because his ideas resonate with your own, or verbalize truths that you’ve always held on to without categorically stating them. i mean, saying “Nietzsche, ‘cause i really dig facial hair” just doesn’t cut it. i’m sure that if that question came up when i was in college, i’d have an answer. but now? the best i could do was mumble something like “that dude, the one who wrote something with a guy named Zagreus in it. and um, i also like Sartre.”

i can’t say i know chapter and verse about these guys. i like them for sentences, fragments of thoughts that are taken out of context. i found a doodle notebook i had in college, and i know exactly why i like Camus (the dude who wrote A Happy Death – the story with a guy named Zagreus in it) and Sartre. turns out, they’re both existentialists. anyway, in the said notebook this sentence was boxed: “man is a useless passion.” and below it was the explanation: life is a bitch and then you die.
the boxed sentence is from Sartre, of course, he of “man is doomed to be free” fame. the whole life is absurd thing appeals to me. if man is the butt of a cosmic joke, i’m dying to know what the punchline is (great play on words, yes?).

but what i really liked about Sartre was this passage from The Look (again from my doodle notebook, everything i’ll be quoting here was scrawled in it by me, circa 2003-04):

“The total enslavement of the beloved kills the love of the lover. The end is surpassed; if the beloved is transformed into an automaton, the lover finds himself alone. Thus, the lover does not desire to possess the beloved as one possesses a thing. He demands a special type of appropriation. He wants to possess freedom as freedom.”

pretty good. Ayn Rand and Helene Cixous have similar takes, i think. but we’re talking about philosophers, not people who have really nice thoughts that appeal to me.

anyway, on to Camus and his character Zagreus who said:

“You know, a man always judges himself by the balance he can strike between the needs of his body and the demands of his mind.”

“I believe in so much… I’d accept even worse – blind, dumb, anything, as long as I feel in my belly that dark fire that is me, me alive. The only thing that would occur to me would be to thank life for letting me burn on.”

“A body always has the ideal it deserves. That ideal of a stone – if I may say so, you’d have to have a demigod’s body to sustain it.”

“Happiness, too, is a long patience.”

all from A Happy Death.

who else? Thoreau and Emerson are mainstays on my night table, both from the transcendentalist school. what that is, i have no clue. all i know is, they had noble thoughts that pandered to my egoism. take whatever floats your boat.

2. moe, my younger brother, bought a second-hand car (honda civic, hatchback) this week. i, on the other hand, recently got the truck a set of side mirrors because one of them fell off like a loose tooth. the marcelo siblings are moving up in the world, folks.

few days later, pa gave the truck a bath and all the dirt that was holding it together disappeared. sue may be clean, but he’s falling apart. he’s going to retire soon.

3. i write in english. i think i also think in english. but once, pa caught me saying “bone of the mango.” a mango doesn’t have bones, it has seeds. but “buto” translates to both bone and seed in english. i guess that time, i was thinking in tagalog, filipino? i was also thinking in that tongue on aug. 15, 2004, i was in church when this came to me… buti na lang may papel at lapis ako.

Tagalog ang Salita ng Halimaw.

sa bawat isa sa 'tin, may halimaw na pilit nating nilalabanan.
isang nakasisikdong berdugo na may umuusok na ilong-
senyales ng mga uling ng mapusok na damdamin na kanyang taglay.

harapin mo siya sa dilim, sa kasukdulan ng kanyang kalakasan,
ito ang sasabihin niya:

tangina, ang simple ng buhay.
pinapakomplikado mo pa!
gusto mo siya, gusto ka ba niya?
paano niya malalaman kung hindi mo ipapalabas sa hawla ang iyong nadarama?
palagablabin mo ang mga baga nang makita mo kung hanggang saan mo
makakaya at kung tatanggapin niya ang init ng iyong pagnanasa.

mahirap ang ginagawa mo ngayon.
unti-unti kang nagpapasunog,
unti-unting kinakain ng mga maliliit na apoy ang iyong kaluluwa nang
hindi sumisiklab ang katawan mo.

sabay magiging lulanan ka ng lamig na iniiwan ng kanilang saglit na buhay.

kung mamamatay ka rin lang, tangina, sulitin mo na!
pasabugin mo sarili mo sa isang makulay na kamatayan
na yayanig sa buong pagkatao mo!

ito ang hatol ng halimaw.

i probably misused a bunch of words, mangled some sentences… but hey, the halimaw spoke to me in tagalog, so there.

just playing around, is all.

i was taking a bath when i was momentarily possessed by the spirit of miguel pinero. maybe it has something to do with my current fascination with causes. this was quite fun to make. there's a beat, find it.

*ehem ehem*

i want to vituperate and polemicize
and exasperate the masterminds
i want to criticize and analyze
like ann coulter does the new york times
i want to hibernate and rejuvenate,
then come up for air and celebrate
in these dead words that never spell out "I"

("I!")

i take a gustatory delight
in inflammatory stories
that leave in their wake
several shattered categories

my music's been pigeon-holed
crammed into an ill-fitting mold
this is the ego breaking free
i'm raising my fist in the air
commiserating with the enemy
and masturbating with language whores
who mix and match their metaphors
with similar ease and care

i refuse to calcify and stultify my speech
i want to play with big words,
use fricking slang, and bastardize
the language of the thinking man

enough of the insidious Mr. Darth Sidious,
whose every appellation must be glorified:
Emperor of the Galactic Empire,
Leader of the Imperial Senate,
and Dark Lord of the Sith...
wait, hold on, which of those should be capitalized?
fuck, man, even my e-dash-mail's been Strunk and White-ified
stop right there, remember you've gotta italicize

i want to vituperate and polemicize
and exasperate the masterminds
i want to criticize and analyze
like ann coulter does the new york times
i want to hibernate and rejuvenate,
then come up for air and celebrate
in these dead words that never spell out "I"

("I!")

because i love me.

i used to be my own cause. i think i've gotten tired of me. maybe this is just a phase. if so, i can always go back to practicing my version of hedonic calculus.

risa's pieces.

A cause is an individual dream writ large—
in blood and in big block letters.

If blood makes you squeamish, you have the other human secretions Churchill kept blathering about at your disposal.

(you don’t have to tell me that “toil” isn’t a secretion. Toil is synonymous to work, which in physics is equal to force times distance. If you ask me, though, work is… work. It’s not a cause.)

I don’t have a cause, but I do have dreams.
A year ago, dreams were welcome strangers capable of exquisite torture:

violent sleep
[24I05]

dreams can fuck with you
with 30-second spots
of love and sex with your never-can-be's
in full color and sense-surround sound

censors are dead in your sleep
and you are both audience and actor
in this sequence so real
that reality is rendered pale

praying to god for a rerun,
a reprise,
a sequel
seems blasphemous
and you close your eyes again
fearing the dreamless sleep of the bored

Three years ago, I was already resigned to the ephemeral nature of dreams:

beside you is accepting what dreams are—
fragile things that shift and vanish
at the slightest movement—
and dreaming all the same
though we are never still, even in sleep

(excerpt from an untitled piece written [22XI03])

And seven years ago, I discovered that dreams require good lighting and inspire bad writing:

Dreams Look Better When You're Drunk
[10/20/99]

dreams look better at night, under the gentle light of the moon and the stars (or the yellow light in the green swing in the garden).
dreams look better when you've had a drink or two, and you're loose and happy and free.
dreams look better when you're drunk on life and laughter
and you're with fellow dreamers who believe.
dreams look better when all you have to do is talk about them,
and the people you're with listen, (dreams look better when you share them with your sibs under the yellow light in the green swing in the garden, with a beer and a smoke [he puffs away while i inhale second hand smoke])

but when night turns into day, and the harsh sunlight beats down on you,
the dream doesn't look like so grand anymore... a mirage?
is that what it was?
a hangover, all you're left with is a headache and a fleeting memory of something beautiful...
something about the moon and the stars in the sky.
you stay in your bed and try to recapture the moment when you thought you had the answers, when life was going to be ok.
you shake your head and think "dreams look better at night, because at night, you can't see the flaws."

Point: these aren’t dreams that explode into causes. My dreams implode soundlessly. I need a cause so I can quit dreaming and start making some noise.

(I was supposed to write something totally new. I've already started, but it’ll have to wait. I blame Risa and the indigenous people for this entry.)

"deploy"? who the heck uses "deploy" in everyday talk?

when your tagline is "the computer is personal again." using "deploy" in your copy kinda ruins it, even if the word is printed in a font size that's barely readable. i mean, c'mon! who uses "deploy" in ordinary person-to-person talk? not me.

enough of this rant, i'm deploying my ass outta here.

crap.

i recently got crap-colored chucks to go with my crap-colored room and my crap life.

take that!

i was finally able to submit my sample vlog to 5 takes yesterday. i had to go to a net cafe to do it 'cause we're on dialup-- kinda reminded me of the time i had to walk to a friend's house to watch an MTV special on alanis because we had no cable.
i digress.
we had a rather hard time getting the vid to the right size. a colleague "compressed" the inital 22MB file into a whopping 100MB. how she managed to do that, i don't know. we, not "we," more like "they" (i know nothing about compressing videos, if you want to talk about .txt, .rtf, .cwk, or .doc, i'll be able to relate and say something intelligent like, "oh, it's safer to send word processing files in .txt format just to make sure that it opens regardless of platform" ... once again i digress, ye gods and little fishes!)... as i was saying "they" got it down to 5.6MB, but the screen size was a step down from what the folks at discovery required. ah, well. if they take that against me, there's nothing i can do.

making that vlog released my inner ham.
trinka, jason, and stephie: supersam thanks you for your help, really.

if i don't get into 5 takes, i figure i can just make more videos (er, trinka?) and saturate youtube with my presence.

you think this will work?

dear google,

how could you let yahoo! get a toehold in the philippines before you did? they've partnered with a telco firm here, and you? you're nowhere to be found--except on all of our PCs.

come to the philippines, use our country as a hamster for your mobile apps. better yet, just come here.

if you need someone to sell the google brand, i volunteer. if you want to train a mascot, i volunteer my services as well. i may know little (ok, more like nothing) about programming, but i do know how google has made search, e-mail, and all the other stuff easier for us programming-ignorant people. everytime you come up with a new service, i tell anyone who will listen about it and why it's so great--my colleagues have called me a "google god" several times. i believe in your brand and your philosophy (don't be evil) and i get all excited when i come across an article on google.

love for a product makes for effective and compelling marketing. use me.

worst pick-up lines, ever.

"are you married?" (do i LOOK like i'm married?)
"are you a girl?" (not the approach i'd use)
"are you naughty?" (my parents think i am)
"what's your sign?" (oh my god, people actually use that line?)
"make me a good writeup, baby" (baby? who are you calling baby?)

speaking of writeups (all those lines above came from a guy i had to interview for a supplement. he reminded me of a bald and bearded johnny bravo). i made seven pieces around 450 words each and due to lack of space they had to be whittled down to a quote each.

analogies:
1. "i'm sorry, but all we could find of sam's corpse was a fingernail."
2. "could you condense beowulf into a haiku, we're kinda short on paper."

it was frustrating because they had stories to tell. but as my editor said, "let go."

so i'm letting go... this serves as a eulogy for my 3,000 plus words.
rest well, say hi to all my killed intros for me.

dirty talk.

my truck is so dirty that someone took the liberty of inscribing this message on his windows (yes, my truck is a boy... named sue):

"completely
we belong
i never told you
the one i have
i love you"

several weeks have gone by, the words are still there.
contrary to what others think, it's lack of time-- rather than the wish to preserve the vandal's sentiments-- that keeps the inscription there.

so, i was in a cab, right? and...

[02VII06]

roads are beautiful when they're empty;
you can see the promise of somewhere
written on those lonely stretches of asphalt.

got game, got no game face.

looking at these pictures, it seems like i got my game face during the tail end of a clearance sale: "ALL GAME FACES MUST GO!"
"GET THEM WHILE YOU CAN! GOOD WHILE SUPPLY LASTS!"
when that happens, this is what you get.

if you find a picture that does me justice, tell me. i've been to the site several times and my face still looks the same, dammit.

can you see what i'm trying to say?

[29V06]
what
cannot
be
touched
can
be
limned
with
words

eep!

i caught a typo in a previous post and almost died.
it's the absolute worst when you're all serious and shit and you make a boo-boo.
"oh, look at me, i'm deep."
"oh, look at you, you've got a typo."

kinda reminds me of that time i was arguing with moe.
tempers were flaring, voices were octaves higher; at a critical point, i became ungrammatical.
grammar trumped logic-- he won that one.

so, i was sitting in the garden, right? and...

eucalyptus I
[06XII06]

without its leaves, the eucalyptus tree
in our garden becomes an accusing
finger rising from the ground--
a silent, static gesture that blames
the sky for its nakedness

around it, other trees whisper of
its vulnerability and pity its voicelessness
and lost knowledge of dance

the wind and birds don’t recognize
the eucalyptus unclothed
and above, the clouds race past
unwilling to get caught in its
still, bone-bare branches
___

eucalyptus II
[06XII06]

a white finger
pointing at the stars
graceful and long
unencumbered by modesty

or a paralyzed paintbrush
held upright and firm by the earth
with the paper sky doing all the work
for the uninspired artist

xandra, this is what my murmur meant.

the sea will change you, she said.
all i could do was murmur my assent.

i have learned that some things are better read than heard.
for example,
winning is the wild, fierce joy of a raptor flying.

murmuring has no place here. so let us begin again.
the sea will change you, she said.
i offer a stone as a reply. one that is shiny, black, and smooth after years spent in the water.
yes, the sea will change you.
flesh is more pliant than stone, softer,
more susceptible to the dulcet songs of the ocean.
consider how quickly we allow the waves to dictate the movement our bodies.
we float and we are carried away.
consider how quickly we glow after imbibing in the sun. we are mutable.

but before we talk of the ocean, we must speak of the trip--

on the way
[27V06]

the sky closes her eyes
and clouds darken
behind her lids
tears will fall
and night will follow
___

there
[28V06]

sleep
face up, sheathed in warm liquid
and rock to a basso profundo
soundtrack

dream
underneath the
waves,
and see serpentine sunlight
chase each other on the sand

wake
to the pulsating pink
heart of the world
that reveals
itself at dawn

how my boxes and taking a crap keep me sane.

see, this is the thing, i have boxes. these boxes give structure and order to my world. it's a framework i use so i don't feel like a schmuck every time i have to ditch.

saturdays belong to flag. even if my dad tells me i'd better seriously look for a place of my own if i insist on playing flag while there's a bad-ass storm ("you leave this house, don't come back"), i risk his anger and play. that's the extent of my commitment--saturdays.

if the team holds practice during the week, i'll have no qualms about being absent. my weekdays fall under the box labeled "work." there's no guilt associated with not showing up for the team.

things are neater this way. i can say "no."

sundays are for family.

notice that there isn't a box labeled "sam." the only alone time i have now is while i'm taking a crap.

the joy of winning.

winning is a beautiful feeling. but i have to confess that winning the first women's 8-on-8 championship (shameless plug, right there) pales in comparison to our semi's win over the rogues.

that game was scoreless after four hours, and both my body and spirit were crying out for rest. but i had no right to admit that i was tired because there were girls who were going both offense and defense. it frustrated me that time and again i couldn't bring my offense into the zone. we'd move, i'd bring them close, only to turn the ball over.

it almost came to a point where i didn't care who won or lost, as long as it meant the end.

but it didn't end, and we had to continue it the week after.

nothing compares to the feeling you get when you throw a long pass right down the middle to your receiver, who catches it perfectly then takes two or so steps to bring the ball into the endzone. that touchdown meant the end of an epic battle.

it's a pure, fierce joy that lasts a few seconds, unadulterated and distilled.
it's a violent happiness that demands release.
it makes you want to yawp barbarically.
it's a bottle of coke shaken like nobody's business.
it's so beyond words that my metaphors are getting messier with each iteration.

WHAAAAAAAAAT'S UP!!! YEAH! YEAH!

the rush is amazing. i mean, c'mon, finishing an article (no matter how hard to write) doesn't inspire fist-pumps, nor does it give you license to jump in the air or roll on the floor.

the analysis and comparison of the performatory aspects of poetry and rockstar-dom, or why i will never be adored by the masses.

an image on the television screen: a man stands with his head tilted skyward. his jaw hangs slack, his eyes are shut tight. sweat has plastered his shoulder-length hair to his forehead.
his name is john frusciante and he is jesus on guitar.

pay close attention to the tightness around his eyes. his music is translated in those few centimeters of flesh, with guitar riffs writing themselves in the creases and folds of his skin. lines appear and disappear in tune with the guitar's keening. the higher and longer it sings, the more he tries to hide himself behind his eyelids.

he hits his musical climax, he undulates against his guitar, and his face contorts in euphoria. we are voyeurs, we see him orgasm close up and he awakes to a million screams. there is a prurient aspect that marries the exhibitionist to the peeping tom.

a song is a means, not an end. the purpose of writing a song is for it to be sung, performed, preferably in front of the adoring masses.

writing poetry, on the other hand, is its own denouement. once written, it is over, done with. the act is the writing itself, and committing one's thoughts to paper is the performance. anything after is inconsequential, unnecessary.

an analogy: a rockstar is jesus turning water into wine, feeding the hungry, and preaching on a mountain. the rockstar is worshipped, and for worship to occur, two or three must be gathered.

an analogy: a poet is a sinner confessing misdeeds to the self. confessor and confessant are one and the same. the mouth does not have to say things aloud for the ears to hear.

an image on the television screen: a man pirouettes on the stage. his body is his instrument.

the poet does not, cannot pirouette. the closest thing is the movement of the hand on paper, assuming that the poet still uses a pen. loops, curves, and lines--the wrist dances as dictated by the shape of letters and the tempo of thought.

i could milk this some more. but i'm tired, the moment has passed, and this has been sitting on my desktop for too long. on to the next...

where the fuck is the moon?

the moon was beautiful last night. i accidentally saw her, and all i could come up with was "wow, the moon is nice."

the moon is nice? what the hell is that? i was looking for her tonight, i couldn't find her. but i did find something else.

behind cloud and concrete
[15V06]

i miss having beautiful thoughts—
she’s taken them from me, my words, my cadence,
my brief encounters with brilliance

she’s robbed me by hiding herself
behind cloud and concrete

i miss her jaundiced face,
scarred and beautiful

compare that to two months ago:

fruit of the moon
[16III06]

the moon is an overripe fruit
waiting to be plucked
from the night sky

human hands cannot relieve
her heavy succulence

thus she overflows and
stains the clouds yellow

*sighs* i really miss my early morning thoughts. odd hours are conducive to writing for yourself and nobody else. so is an empty house. i was digging through my folders and i found this:

[11IX03]

How do I start? By saying: “there is no beginning, no end, there is only now, and here”. Words stumbleovereach other, wanting to break loose, unborn children impatient to see the world. I cannot tell them to wait, or else they will vanish and become aborted thoughts only because I could not think of a proper beginning.

I like sitting in front when riding a jeep. I wanted to sit up front today, so I waited. I can be stubborn—the patience and the will are innate. Today, I also had the time.

Several passed me by, they were never the right ones. They had no space for me up front, and that is where I wanted to be. At last one came, but someone got there first, though I had been waiting longer.

That was fine. I could wait some more.
Another came. I took my place and I was where I exactly wanted to be.

Why do you like sitting in front?
Not just in front, but by the window. My right side hanging out, my face turned towards the unobstructed view. Half-in, half-out. Not really anywhere, just sitting in-between, I become a liminal category.
I like the wind and the sensation of flying and the minute risk of falling because I am not holding onto anything.
I like the in-between-ness, the illusion of movement though I am still.

It’s like writing, isn’t it?
How do I mean?
Words give me the illusion of action. Of doing something though I am not.
My fingers hold a pen or move across the keyboard and give voice to all the things I know I can do but will not.

word
play
comes
be
fore
play

The house is empty.

Am I sober? Does it matter? These thoughts are all mine. Whether I am sober or not, mine.

The house is quiet and I can hear myself clearly, my self and not my voice. If I speak, my voice seems foreign, intrusive, apart from my thoughts.
Empty,
empty--

fickle Eros has played
in your heart’s vacant rooms

leaving arrows without targets
lying carelessly on the floor

Another one of my exercises in temperance. Keep them short, how about:

Eros rose sore.

Ha ha.
Riding up front in a jeep is the same as sitting in the back of a trike.

I have had an idea, but I do not know how to state it briefly, so I must run off at the mouth now and edit later.

Does the night envy the moon of her light, borrowed though it may be?
We are both children of the sun but the moon has shared her secrets with you.
You do not burn, you reflect. Your body is a mirror.

I seem to be fascinated by light these days.
Black and white.
What would your whiteness feel like on my darkness.
Probably the same way the night feels in the luminous presence of the full moon.

Unlike the moon, you do not wax nor wane, you are simply here or not.
In plain view or absent.
True.
But that is physical reality, the corporeal realm.

Emotions wax and wane, ebb and flow.
So you could be here, couldn’t you?

Enough of that.
Enough of words.
Why?

love, our lips
and tongues
shall deal
in a currency
other than kisses

words words words words words. I have more, and there will never be enough.

let me photograph you
nude--
naked,
skyclad.

but nude is different from naked
nude, you are without shame and beautiful

yes, beautiful
beauty goes by many names
and i think that yours is one of them

Quiet! Work on it another time.
You’re reading too much of D.H. Lawrence.

What does he say?

“Give me the democracy of touch, the resurrection of the body!”

“Ravished! How ravished one could be without even being touched. Ravished by dead words become obscene, and dead ideas become obsessions.”

Yes, but he also says

“it’s no good It’s no good trying to get rid of your own aloneness. You’ve got to stick to it all your life. Only at times, at times the gap will be filled in. At times! But you have to wait for the times. Accept your own aloneness and stick to it, all your life. And then accept the times when the gap is filled in, when they come. But they’ve got to come. You can’t force them.”

Yes.
Are you sober now?
Were you drunk, to begin with?
There are no beginnings or endings,
remember? Only now.

yeah, those were the days i was reading d.h. lawrence. now i'm reading stuff like freakonomics and the tipping point.

good reads... but i miss beautiful thoughts, is all.

don't quote me.

caveat: the fun is lost if you don't know the nuances of Filipino.
from an e-mail i sent june 5, 2004:

for posterity and future reference (not that you really care).
presenting a list of fabulous samples of sam's communication skills:

1. "am i kasya?"
2. "was it butas?" / "is it nabutas?" (i'm not sure which, i was tipsy when i said this...)
3. "fucken putik on my legs, man."
4. "sa'n tayo magt-talk-talk?" (talk-talk, like usap usap, y'know?)
5. "you might have bitbited it." (i still maintain that "bitbited it" is shorter than "taken it with you")
6. "tawag the landline."

hopefully the list ends there. yeah, i'm bored. so?

...nope, the list doesn't end there. *sighs* i recently added

7. "i don't want to dikit it there."

how to gauge your maturity.

you know there's something wrong when you meet up with friends and they're talking about:

1. doing it a bezillion times a day
2. bad breakups and broken hearts

and all you can add to that list is how pimples have decided to make real estate of your face for the time being.

when i grow up, i want to be...

a grup.

"poker in front, liquor in the rear."

poker is today's badminton. i wonder if the cardplaying craze will last longer than zagu (i've only had one of those so far, and that was only because christi got me a glass and demanded that i drink it after i said i would never have one). as for me? the only chips i'll play for are the edible kind.

skinless chicken and swords.

i got home only to find that everybody had already left.
on the table were two pieces of kentucky fried chicken, de-skinned and unappealing, plus the dregs of my father's tuna salpicao.

i almost burst into tears.

please understand that i starved myself in preparation for this easter meal.
all i had for breakfast was a biscuit and a glass of water.
i deprived myself of food while i was in the office because i KNEW what was waiting for me at home. at least i thought i knew.

i was so frustrated that i went to the neighborhood grill queen and got myself a slab of grilled liempo. while i was there, i derived satisfaction from the sudden downpour of rain. god knew that nothing but a freak summer shower and omega-3-free pork would soothe my soul.

going off-topic, the steak knife/butter analogy reminded me of this bit in my anthro 112 paper (Batad: “Kapag Ang Palay Naging Bigas… May Bumayo”):

"Aside from clothes, I had a nailcutter/can opener (very useful. I was able to open a number of cans, I felt so proud of myself) and a knife--a REAL hunting knife, not some puny blade (courtesy of my father who seems to have a fascination with knives and guns, I think he sees himself as some kind of woodsman). But I think I degraded it when I let my friend use it to chop onions."

that knife was worthy of crocodile dundee, i felt so cool having it with me. didn't see any crocs, though. as i said, the only action that knife saw was versus a couple of onions.

dragonlance's tanis had wyrmslayer. arthur had excalibur. frodo had sting while the shards of narsil became aragorn's anduril. who cares? i had onion-chopper.

why a period means the end of a discussion, plus fabulous things you can do with steak knives.

random thoughts while waiting for pages to close.
i'm still at the office. posting via safari, some of the functions aren't supported, hence the linklessness of this post. i'll probably edit when i get home. home, where the fam is enjoying easter lunch. without me.

regularly met up with marga and paul during the holy week. together, we weren't exactly the holy trinity. trinity, yes... holy? not even if we were dressed in white robes and cardboard wings complete with cotton balls for added angelic authenticity.

how did i wind up staying at home? ah, well.
*cue tinny music that initiates flashback sequence*

cast: me (of course), marga
setting: a mat in the garden of 4 aruego

*some parts of the actual conversation have been edited

marga: i wish the beach were right there.
me: mmhmm.
both: whoosh whoosh (those are supposed to be waves)
me: let's go to batangas.
marga: game.
me: you drive, i'll give you gas.
marga: i don't want to drive. let's take the bus.
me: ok. where will we go? you think we'll have somewhere to stay? they might be full.
marga: *eyeroll* there are plenty of places! game?
me: hmm. i can't. i have my period.

silence.
periods. end. discussions. not. just. sentences.

YES! update: the pages are good. i can go home and eat!

last thought before leaving the office: after my editor asked me about job-related concerns last week, i said that i was a steak knife being used to spread butter.

steak? butter? i'm heading home.

intros back from the dead.

in the spirit of easter, i'm resurrecting introductions that never saw print for one reason or another--these reasons may be painfully obvious once you've read them.

start monologue.
should i be bothered that paragraphs that have more of "me" in them wind up in limbo rather than on the pages of the newspaper for The Thinking Reader?
but then, i'm not my audience (i'm not a Thinking Reader, i go straight to the funnies of other dailies, because we don't have funnies, we don't have "your stars" either), so the lines that appeal most to me inevitably die.
end monologue.

i present to you, intros back from the dead, plus comments:

Just another manic mall day
When rapper Andrew E.'s ditty "'Wag kang Gamol" (Don't be a Gamol) came out sometime in 1995, most didn't know what a "gamol" was and why it wasn't desirable to be one. Some thought that the term referred to a mallrat, since the song was released within a few years of SM Megamall's opening. Whether it's true or not, "Gamol" has morphed into the nickname of the biggest mall in the Philippines. Which brings us to the topic at hand- supermalls. (Feb. 2005)

//i liked the title, but i can see why Thinking Readers won't relate to the finer points of Gamol etymology.

Does going global mean going gone for SMEs?
If a goldfish accustomed to the fishbowl life were thrown into the open ocean, one wouldn't expect it to come out again, unless it was in the form of sushi.
The times we live in have been labeled as the age of borderless societies. Borderless in the sense that information, services and goods flow in and out of countries with little or no restrictions. (April 2005)

//the title, along with the sushi, disappeared.

Mario's: from fine dining to franchising
Mario's has nothing to do with the video game about two plumbers with a fondness for fungi. (Feb. 2006)

//when i was interviewing mario, i kept asking him about italian food. note to self: mario's serves paella, sisig, kare-kare (definitely NOT italian food)... he had a moustache for crissakes, can you blame me?

Ensuring good karma: corporate social responsibility (tongue-in-cheek)
Let's face it, when you're on top, you become a prime target for competitors. While you're happily looking for new horizons to conquer, those behind you are sharpening their knives, taking aim at your large, profitable back.
Perhaps corporate social responsibility isn't a purely benevolent concept. Think about it, in the world of sports, when somebody badmouths a winner with a reputation for being a "nice guy," he's inevitably branded as a sore loser. On the other hand, if the winner has an ego the size of his paycheck and an attitude to match, the press and the public will root for whomever is able to knock the wind out of his sails.
So with businesses, it's easier to forgive a huge company that charges an arm and a leg for their services as long as they provide arms and legs to the more unfortunate-arms, legs, houses, electricity, whatever. (April 2006)

//i knew this was going to die, but i had to write it. i saved it under the filename "i wish"

Julie's Bakeshop: anthology of bread
As exhibited by pan de coco, pan de regla, and all pans in between, Filipino bread typology is rife with humor, imagination, and creativity. With 500 bakeshops spread nationwide and more than 200 varieties of bread, Julie's Bakeshop has established itself as the fastest rising dough-maker in the industry. (April 2006)

//pan de regla and the rest of the first sentence didn't make it. but i'm glad that the "fastest rising dough-maker" bit stayed, that phrase took me a good few minutes of actual thinking. i'm not sure how many got the "anthology of bread" reference, dough... i mean "though."

happy easter.

50% brad pitt, 100% nondescript dude you wouldn't look twice at.

on the train, i once sat across a guy whose profile hinted that he was a pinoy version of brad pitt. then he turned his head and brad pitt disappeared... no brad pitt potential whatsoever could be found on his face. i wonder if the train dude has any clue that the left side of his face is better looking than the whole of it, and if he did, would he consciously look to the right (thus showing the left side of his face) when posing for pictures? hiding half of your face is kinda hard, but thoughts?

...
...
...

this post has been edited. you'll never see what i originally wrote.

it's so hot.

to the cheek of the dead asses society now present in ATC: i'm sorry i couldn't make it (shoutout to deej: i'll crash boys' night out just to see you). i'll never forget the day we asses almost burned down pisay-- we were toasting marshmallows in the field, reading whitman. today is kinda like that golden day. so bright, it's unreal.

[09IV06]
there are days that burn so clearly
they render themselves in sharp relief

memories are etched in light and shadow
as the sun writes itself on skin

and every stinging detail is set in
higher contrast than reality
while every second ticks louder than the last

big dreams and the wrecking of childhood constructs.

it was cheska's birthday on the 6th. it was good to see the "berks"--the people i'm stuck with for the rest of my life. good for them. even better for me.

on the way home, conversation revolved around the dreams we had when we were children and the things we want to do before we die. may i present my list of short-term, mid-term, and long-term goals:

short-term: get rid of my zits. honestly, who thought i'd hit puberty during my mid-20's? i thought i skipped it altogether. this is what i get for chanting "[i've got] baby skin, baby skin" in our high school cafeteria while my other friends were comparing acne-removal notes.

mid-term: pursue post-grad studies, get a job at google (i'd gladly be their mascot), learn how to sing one song perfectly.

long-term: write something that means something (what? keep writing like that, and you're setting yourself up for failure. what a wonderful display of exposition) and become famous (neil gaiman type of famous). see the world... while seeing the world, i have a to-do list as well:

1. keep asking where the "fifteenth chapel" is while in the sistine chapel.
2. ask if ohana really means family, and if family really means no one gets left behind while in hawaii.
3. write something about sunset over the colorado desert while watching the said sunset.
4. do my rameses-as-voiced-by-ralph-fiennes impersonation ("moses! why can't things be as they were?") while in egypt.
5. ask a random greek what the meaning of life is (while in greece, of course).
6. while in an irish pub, ask an irishman what the pronunciation of "deimne" is.

which brings us to the wrecking of childhood constructs. "deimne" is the name of the main character in the wizard children of finn, a book most of the marcelo cousins have read (it was always lying around the house, waiting for the next kid to pick it up). while we were talking about it, we discovered that none of us said his name the same way.

"DIM-nuh"
"DI-mi-ni" (rhymes with "jiminy")
"daym-ni" (dime-knee)
"di-MEEN" (i was a kid, ok. it looked a lot like "denim" and i took my cue from there).

there's also "majere" in dragonlance. what if they decide to turn it into a movie? how will they say "majere"? i've come across five variants:

"ma-he-re" (like the spanish "mujere")
"MAH-zheer"
"mah-ZHEER"
"MAH-jr"
"mah-juh-RAY"

it's disconcerting when you talk about the same people and disagree on the pronunciation of their names.
nomenclature is potent, just ask rumplestiltskin.

on top of the name game, co-workers recently told me that what i thought was mamon is actually pan de regla. dammit. there go my childhood constructs. at least i still have my childhood dreams
(what a neat tie-in! you saw that coming, didn't you?).

postcards. pages. poetry.

got a postcard from a friend, she spent three days in amsterdam after six weeks in germany. how is it that i'm still here? the world is so big and i haven't seen much of it. we work so that we can do the things we want. by the time we actually have the dough to do the things we want, we're short on time and loaded with responsibilities. i've been planning to pack a bag, fill it with clothes and the necessary stuff-just so if i get the urge to go somewhere, all i have to do is grab it and GO, everything else be damned!

one of these days i'll fill up my truck's tank and see where the road takes me. knowing my truck, it'll probably stall before it runs out of fuel. ah well, one can dream.

anyway.

i've been playing with google's page creator. pretty nifty.
so far, i've made a shrine to myself.
well, not really a shrine... more like... just click on it already and save me the trouble.

last saturday, another friend (what can i say, i'm a friendly person) said something like, "so, you write poems." she might as well have said "so, you have a ripe zit on your forehead" or "so, your fly is open." if you REALLY know me, you'll know why this is. the day after, i remembered bits and pieces of that conversation, and out of those bits and pieces i came up with this:

[05IV06]
longing stretches the skin so taut
that a single breath can threaten
to rip its seams

when the body cannot contain
we asphyxiate
quietly, secretly
and kill just enough so we fit
comfortably in our selves

world's best. state-of-the-art.

use superlatives often enough and they become meaningless. seriously, how many "d'best" buko pies can there be? and who knew that "asia's best in hairstyling" (hand scrawled sign) could be found in a sleepy philippine town? with that said, i daresay this is going to be the world's best blog.