sitting on the roof deck, waiting for breakfast in bora

[02XI08]

I do not want to talk or listen.

I want to sit here and watch
wind-herded clouds,
fat with rain and white,
trek with glacial speed
across the sky.

a jete of the mind.

to speak like a dancer is to speak like someone unused to words; the voice forgotten as an instrument of communication because of the exhortations of the body. excited vocal cords oscillate out of tune. jangling sentences unsure of grammar and syntax grate on the ears and stumble unmodulated through the air — poor graceless cousins to silent pirouettes and pas de poisson.

they have traded speech for the eloquence of flesh. straining sinews beg you to listen with your eyes. a cutting gesture, an exclamation point. a sharp intake of breath, a period. a delicate shrug, a question. each nuanced gesture pregnant with meaning. for hours, dancers poeticize without so much as a stutter — their cursive bodies writing their thoughts without benefit of pause.

kalinga

[08X08]

the persistent clang of gongs
reminds me of you
and the shrugging dance
of your bare shoulders

nueva vizcaya

[07X08]

we go deaf at different altitudes.
in the high silences,
we do not hear the mountains breathe
but we see their sighs.

go ahead and hit me

[25IX08]

symphony of slick tires
on rained road

my fifteen seconds of fame
caught in the headlights

i take a bow for i, too,
am a creature of the night

a whisper on a window competes with pacing footsteps, both from the anxious alone on a rainy night:

i get sad sometimes
like a single lightbulb
on a lonely street.

sitting in the swing, i see a butterfly

[13IX08]

It is a sad commentary on our times
that Darwinian evolution has favored
an ashen-winged butterfly
over its vary-hued sisters.

The drab lepidopteran
flits wraith-like against concrete,
invisible and unbothered
against the monochrome theme
of urban life, while appearing delicately out of place
in the loud company of flowers.

palm reading

[04IX08]

my pen peed all over my hands
and stained my fortune
with rorschach inkblots

crying wolf

[08VIII08]

these lupine
ululations of sadness
are coherent
only to the moon

wet socks = worst feeling in the world

[31VII07]

(they're quantifying popularity)
my feet are cold and my shoes are
leaking gutter water

(they're whispering about galleries)
i look out the window and
contemplate rain-grey hours

(they're buying paintings)
outside, traffic is a tired millipede
belching plumes of smog

(they're skipping dinners)
my black umbrella lies wet and
forgotten on the floor of a cab

i think i'm coming down with something.

[23VII08]

the sick is in my nose,
behind my eyes

and inside my throat
there is a desert

that neither swallowed saliva
nor drunk water can touch.

sometimes a sentence wakes me up.

[16VII08]

your back is a canvas
painted with the sweat
of my palm

--

[11VII08]

i miss talking with you
my flesh does not crave
but my mind lusts after you

meet me in the dark
we will be two voices --
no-bodies --
just two minds
in a sweatless,
smell-less night

there were other things to look at, but...

on the boat from caramoan island
[03VII08]

underneath the history of the universe written in braille
a boat writes its present in indigo ink
and punctuates its journey with twinkling periods of light

30-seconders

blue eyes
[06VI08]

i understood the cliche
of getting lost in another's eyes
when i looked straight at those blue orbs,
a radial arrangement of azure prominences
surrounding a stare

(comment: blue eyes is a wordy piece of crap)
___
white lady in the MRT
[26VI08]

all angles and frowns
asymmetric bangs and cocked eyebrow
legs crossed
white girl
in a sea of brown

(i would have followed her
but she got off at the wrong station)

what?

anting-anting
[21VI08]

he slays the dragon
sleeping in between my breasts
with a single-handed thrust
of his naked sword

another one of those 30-seconders

[26V08]

she was pretty
in a tinkerbell sort of way
but her hands were old
and her laugh was too loud
to be real

i fell asleep on a bus... why am i rhyming again?

[V08]

stealing sleep
going under
without going deep

hate the train
hate the rain

intermittent light
blinking night

slumped in seat
as heavy lids
succumb to heat

resting pain
on window pane

dreaming of bed
and pillowed head

stealing sleep
going under
without going deep

shorties.

[25IV08]

stop thinking...
today is friday -- a day for gardens and flowers
and picking out bottle caps from drinking sessions past

smell the love scent of lemon grass and little white blooms
lying together in the green swing
... and rest

___
[12V08]

there is nothing
the world stops

then the heart starts beating
and you remember to breathe

you return to your body
lying prone on the bed

senses come back one by one
and you feel the breeze

before hearing the fan whisper
against heated skin deprived of sleep

finger speed

i wonder how fast pianists like cecile licad can type. and i wonder if people would pay to see writers bang out their stories if they were as entertaining as lang lang when working the keys.

initiate fantasy sequence:

*applause*

“and playing an hp compaq for us tonight is sam… tell us, sam, how does this instrument compare with the powerbook?”

“well, the keys of this baby require a bit more force. they’re not as tractable as the mac’s and you need to put some muscle into the typing. but the sound of the hp compaq is rewarding, so when you’re on a verbal roll, there’s a nice audible accompaniment — you hear the click-click-tap-tap-sshksshka of your materializing thoughts.”

“what piece will come out of tonight’s performance?”

“i hope to write an article about cecile licad. we’ll see how it goes. but then, i might easily end up with a tumblr text post. these things are very spontaneous.”

“good luck!”

“thanks.”

*applause*

i saw some markings on the road.

road kill
[18III08]

a cloud suicide-jumped
from the sky
and left its splattered corpse
on the street

cab thoughts (again)

today smells like the dry heat of a saharan crone's nether-mouth.

you know you're not really THAT old when...

...other people are looting production leftovers for glue and tape while you're the only scavenger interested in a knight's helmet made of plastic.

you know you're getting old when...

1. ...your birthday gift to yourself is a new set of pillows (and you're excited to "test" them). zzz. zzz. zzz. "matanda ka na nga. namimili ka na ng unan." - papa
2. ...you bring a director's chair to the UP fair because you have no desire to mosh with a bunch of emo kids who are skinny enough to look good in skinny jeans.
3. ...you're thankful when your mother sends a message that "it's time to come home" because this allows you to save face in front of your little sister (who was moshing with the emo kids).

remarkable because a) you were actually paying attention to your phone during the concert, b) you didn't feel like your parents were tyrants whose sole mandate was to suck the fun out of your life, and c) you were happy to obey (see number 1).

(from an e-mail i wrote a day or two after my birthday)

toner = portmanteau of "tit boner"

when: february 5, 2008
where: inside a church's chicken

are man-nipples naturally smaller, or are men's shirts just thicker? i'm sure as hell guys don't wear bras, and yet they don't have the same glaring problem i have -- protrusions so unproportional to my mammaries that they could cut ice.

i'd like to write "smart" stuff, but really i'd rather write about man-nipples.

pataasan ng ihi.

when: january 16, 2008
where: quattro, along timog ave.

pinlac: "kung nag-NASA ako, eh di astronaut na ako ngayon."
sam: "kung nag-Ryan Cayabyab ako, eh di rockstar na ako ngayon."
dj: "kung nagpa-sex change ako, eh di babae na ako ngayon."

dj wins.

writing exercise #2: the taxi challenge.

the taxi driver in his oversized white shirt is pissing me off.
"ma'am kudeng po ako eh."
"talo po ako sa trapek sa idsa."
"ano pong gagawin naten?"
"lahat po ng nakapila duon sa malapit nakatira, pwera kayo."

the name of his cab is "johdyan". the extra h's don't make the name coohler; they mhake it lhook fuhcking dhumb.

"ma'am, dagdagan nyo na lang ng pipty."
i ignore him.
"dagdagan nyo ng pipty para di ako talo."

THWAP! we hit a guy! or he hits us! he walks away. the taxi driver can't stand it, he rolls down the window and shouts "mandadamay ka pa ng ibang tao sa kagaguhan mo!"
the guy who got hit runs back to the cab. he's angry.
"ikaw na nga yung nakatama, ikaw pa yung galit! tangina ka ah!"
he smacks the driver upside the head. there's more shouting. the guy pulls out a gun and shoves it into the taxi driver's neck. "o ano ngayon, hah? ano?"

the guy looks at me. he has a round face, shaved head, facial hair. the only time i stop being an observer is when he looks me in the eyes. they're clear. they see me.

i get scared. he notices, he stops. he leaves. the taxi driver breathes and rolls up his window. we continue in silence and i give him his extra "pipty" bucks.

writing exercise #1: the starbucks challenge.

[08I08]

i'm hopped up on coffee. the caffeine has stretched my brain stem and pushed my mind out of my skull. from this angle, i can see my thoughts clearly. there they are below me: all the random conversations i've had with myself, swaying this way and that like pieces of trash floating in shallow gutter water. this is me sifting through it to see if there's anything worth saving.

ped xing.

who the hell is ped xing? and how do you say his name? sing? tsing? who is he and why does he have so many streets in manila named after him?

i was watching wonder years and there was one scene where "ped xing" was painted on a road and i thought, "even in the states?!" split second before i had lightbulb moment: ped xing means pedestrian crossing.

i wish my lightbulb moments were of genius wattage instead of congratulations-you're-not-stupid wattage.

blah blah blah.

where do i go to become a writer? not of letters or lists or thank-you notes, but of stories.

i want to labor, sweat, and grunt under the weight of an Idea. i imagine a school where students first imitate others in order to learn -- "ah, this is vintage gaiman. notice the abundance of allusions and references to mythologies of obscure cultures." -- to appreciate, like an oenophile, the words of others. to, like, switch from one voice to another; and you know, recognize, not necessarily criticize, and figure out which one is hot given an Idea. then, in the multitude of voices, find mine.

i imagine a school where students must try writing with a pen and paper and see how words are wasted or how thoughts are seldom linear. i imagine exercises where one must write in different tenses and points-of-view just to see that I am not the same as You, not ever.

where writers are encouraged to write in the middle of the night, in the early morning just so they know how time affects their thoughts. hey you! write naked, write with your thinking cap on, write with music, without music, with a joint hanging from your mouth. write while you're drunk, while you're sad, while you're happy, while you're fucking angry, while you're fucking, while you're shitting. write upside-down, with your head on the floor, all your blood in your brain.

write a phrase, a sentence, write without thinking, write and argue over every fucking word and punctuation mark!

you know what, sam. get a grip. you don't need a fucking school. what you need is a fucking blog. and you already have one. after not updating it for a year, you decide to crap all of your stuff in one day. is this one of your exercises?

cab thoughts

i had a lot of idle time when i was commuting to makati. not all my thoughts were dark.

in answer to the blind or deaf question.

i am more more accustomed to the night than to silence. perpetual darkness and a forced reliance on tactility and spoken words are more appealing than never hearing a song (or my voice) again. besides, "i want to see your face with my hands" is more poetic than the awkward declarations of a deaf-mute.

edit: after reading this, my mind expanded. turns out, signing is a vibrant language.

it's all about managing dreams.

my rockstar dreams are handicapped by the fact that i can't sing to save my life. i can't play the piano although i took piano lessons when i was a kid.

going off-tangent: my mom had a clear idea of what kind of daughter she wanted to rear. as a child, i had to take ballet lessons and piano lessons despite the lack of interest in these two activities. i quit piano after my teacher scolded me for having dirty fingernails. christ, who wouldn't have dirty fingernails after playing on the streets of our neighborhood? why didn't she allow me to take basketball lessons? now those would've come in handy during my varsity years.

anyway.

i can't play the piano, i can't play the guitar either. name any instrument and you can be sure that i can't play it.

what if i pick up some weirdo instrument that NOBODY plays? didgeridoo? jew's harp? nose flute? those look fucking awkward.

a kahon? heck, how about i get rid of instruments all together and learn how to beatbox?

how about the egg shaker? imagine an auditorium packed with adoring fans. the vocalist introduces the band and yells out "sam marcelooOOoo on egg shaAaker!" i launch into my egg shaker solo and the crowd goes wild as i jump up and down and roll on the floor! there's no shame in reaching the rockstar dream via an alternate route.

if i dress my egg shaker in a little silver-studded leather jacket/sleeve/casing, the world will know what a badass player i am.

i can handle the egg, how hard can it be? egg-shaking doesn't require note-reading, does it? this is possible -- my success at playing this ovoid percussion instrument -- since i believe that i do possess a sense of rhythm.

playing ball requires coordination and timing. writing, too, is an exercise in cadence. i have hope.

WAIT! egg-shaking requires more than i thought (a hand to shake it). my sister tells me that the snare is the pointy end, the bass the rounded. moving all the pebbles requires a combination of wrist flicks and arm movements. she politely says that i'll have better luck with a tambourine.

the valentine's post that was supposed to be a birthday post that was supposed to be a new year post

regurgitated crap.

feb. 7, 2007
lto fantasies while renewing my driver's license.

1. wish i were a powerful person.
piss-in-your-pants powerful.
mess-with-me-and-i'll-hand-you-your-ass-on-a-plate powerful.
at the very least, i wish i could give off the alpha-bitch vibe.

"hi, i've been here the whole day. i've been standing at this window for 10 minutes. the least you can do is give me five minutes of your time and answer my questions."

and like lemmings marching to sea, the rest of the people lined up at the window and started demanding answers.

2. fantasy: strap dynamite to my body, threaten to blow up lto because its systems are fucken unreliable.
or, shove a stick of dynamite up that miserable pencilpusher's ass and watch him squirm.

feb. 9, 2007
went to baguio.

myopic perspectives are godless
in all their intimate details

since majesty gets lost
in the sweat and smells of the living

(i crave distance and the detached beauty of wholes)

march 3, 2007
the moon was pretty.

statement.

the sky tonight
is a black silence punctuated by
a bleeding period
___
dumudugong buwan
sa kalagitnaan ng isang talatang
gawa sa katahimikan

march something to april something, 2007
the family goes to boracay.

remembering bora
[29V07]

i love her empty.
i can impose upon her silence
and fill her up with my self.

empty, she is mine.

april 7, 2007
why do i have crap entitled "makiling"?

did i go to makiling? this was probably with the family.
oh yeah. on the way, i was fascinated by the view of cemeteries.
thought: we try to impose our logic even in death. these neat rows of tombstones are laughable attempts at ordering the unknown, structuring chaos. who are we kidding?

on to makiling. i walked on water and the waves carried me to the sky.

april 14, 2007
ogoy is eloquent tonight.

"i remember things in sepia."
"it wasn't night. it was dusk, last light."
"once in a drunk."

may 2007
utong song (tong, to-tong, tong, tong)

my nipples make up
for the subtletly
of my breasts
twin exclamatiOn pOints
punctuating my body's
whispered declarations
of womanhood

may 2007
i had a dream.

...if i can make you cry with my eyes closed, what hope is there for us in waking?

may 5, 2007
a bit much, i think.

this is the kind of night that inspires excess,
an exuberance and overflowing of words

celebrate and revel in synonyms
as the billowing clouds dare you
to use decadent words that have no place
in conversations

//edited down to:
the night is an overflowing of ink that overwhelms even the moon.

may 12, 2007
there are sunflowers along univ ave.

natutuyong bulaklak
nakatuwad sa sa daan
nalundo sa bigat
ng init ng araw

may 31, 2007
maybe i should trying talking to people.

e-mail seems so much like work
seeing my thoughts materialize
one keystroke at a time

i would rather talk...
out loud...

in starts and stops and
unstructured missteps that
can still be understood
even if i trail off in the






middle of a sentence.

june 2007

i discover that tegan and sara make me happy. they still do.

june 24, 2007
huggery.

from an e-mail to my friends:

in keeping with the strange sunday tradition...

a sort of actual conversation, well monologue really, which probably led some of my colleagues to think that i'm one step away from becoming a vague kind of sexual deviant:
"you know how in some hospital bills, there's an item called
'huggery'? ... ... ... i was thinking, what if i went to the hospital and visited the huggery, not because i gave birth or anything, but just because i wanted a hug. i wonder if they'd let me choose my hugger-er. i'd be paying, after all. but then, if they saw me lurking near the huggery, they'd probably think i was some kind of
pedophile..."

at this point, all you can really do is say "what the fuck?" and go back to work.

sam

july 13, 2007
the what if will kill me.

i resign, effective july 13.
i start working at a new place july 16.
proof of my superior iq. why didn't i take a two-week break?

july 15, 2007
two-and-a-half years at businessworld summed up in two sentences.

from an e-mail to my friends:

they'll miss me, i'll miss them.
a new chapter begins tomorrow, but i have a deadline to meet.

sam

july 16, 2007
first day blues. i was taking down notes.

sam's first day at the new place.
soundtrack provided by tegan and sara.

6 a.m.: i wake up. i try to crap but only small bits come out. drat.
7 a.m.: P20 = special trike. P30 = standing in a bus to philcoa. i decide to move in with ogoy tonight. on the bus, a senile lola relives her days as a whore. harsh, but that's what i think.
random lola quotes:
"darling, malayo pa?"
"punta ako escolta, bibili ako ng high-heel pero wala akong pera."
"kissing partner, you like, darling?"
"you're the man, so you should keep me."

lola starts singing.

8ish a.m.: P45 = fx ride going to makati. the lady beside me cuts her nails. the fat girl beside me stretches her legs.

9 a.m.: get down at makati avenue. intense pride for recognizing the petron station. start planning where to eat lunch, how to get home.

9:10 a.m.: get to the office. no one is here. i'm early. stippy texts. start feeling like going to the loo.

11 a.m. - a bit before 5 p.m.: "work."

july 2007
i watch pirates of the caribbean: dead man's chest and dream of will, elizabeth and a new social network similar to bing's. i wake up and write down the dream.

fodder for a story. takes off after will is doomed to ferry dead souls from this world to the next... imagine a mobile phone whose signal is so strong it can connect you to the dead. scene shifts to social networks like friendster. status: deceased. haha.
"is so-and-so still alive?"
"why don't you check realliving.com?"
"oh yeah... hey! he's changed his status to deceased!"

technology binds this world to the next. elizabeth and will can use mobile phones to keep in touch.

august 2007
sentences that will be regurgitated sooner or later.

once dreams capitulate to convenience, we are left with...
___
a skyscraper is man's attempt to flip god and the universe the bird.
___
i'm holding a tape recorder to my head and holding my thoughts hostage.
___
every heartbeat in my head adds to the weight of the world on my eyelids.

august 9, 2007
i swim with cartilaginous sea-dwelling beasts in my sleep.

i dreamt about the oldest place in the ocean
where the sediment has never settled
because of the circling sharks

september 18, 2007
songs from the island

i declare myself a bonafide card-carrying member
of the rat racers association, the silent and mindless mob
of lemmings marching off to sea

amidst bowed heads and shuffling feet
i hold a tape recorder to my head
and hold my thoughts hostage

i dare to look up and watch the sun
bleed into brakelights and the tired eyes
of my fellow commuters

soulless bodies jammed together
as tightly as my toes in high heels
nospacenoroomtowiggleorbreathe

... ... ...

in other words, i fucking hate makati.

september 25, 2007
commuting makes me sad.

sa loob ng taxi 2
[24IX07]

naiisip ko sa mga panahon na ganito --
putangina, ang sarap siguro manapak ng tao
magdroga (humithit ng marijuana!)
magyosi (hanggang maubos ang baga!)
kapag hindi pa makuntento
nandiyan ang bote
maglasing nang mag-isa
hanggang maisuka ang lahat ng lungkot at galit
hanggang ang hapdi ng puso
ay umakyat sa lalamunan at labi

*bow*

makati fills me with a vague, undirected anger that manifests itself
in hastily scrawled passages. the feeling begins in the mrt and
reaches its peak while standing in the rain waiting for a goddamned cab.

sam

october 26, 2007
twilight in the garden of 4 aruego

from an e-mail to my ex-colleagues:

a few days ago, i went to our garden with a pint of ice cream in one hand and a spoon in the other. i was going to be happy, dammit, and nothing was going to stop me.

then the smell of day-old excrement had to go and ruin my quest for happiness. just imagine a pair of hands emerging through your nostrils pulling your soul back into your body.

sam

october 28, 2007
calatagan... or a bunch of mountains in the distance

my supine lover
awaits my arrival
with dignified indolence
she lies still
never once flinching
though naked and exposed
under my rapacious stare

more thoughts: iris amazed by the quiet, "parang panaginip yung tubig." voices eaten by the wind. horizonless vista, sea and sky forming one grey sheet.

october 31, 2007
30-second love affairs

i saw a hot foreigner chick across the street. she had long, wavy hair and a sleeve tattoo running down her left arm. she was dressed in skinny jeans, a stretchy sleeveless brown top, and bug shades.

november 11, 2007
i stay in my room while in bora. how sad is that?

at 5 p.m., the question is "how many sips of beer are there in a sunset?"
at 2 a.m., the question is "why?"
at 10 a.m., the question is "where are you?"

november 2007
mrt

my heart hurts.
dull and heavy.

i feel like i'm on marijuana.
there's talking on the train from unknown mouths.
words blend into one gigantic incomprehensible chorus.

the train stops, the noise doesn't make it past the sliding doors,
but the pain gets off along with me.

november 22, 2007
resolution number 2873465

to write a sentence that makes me happy whenever i'm unhappy. yesterday, it was "gusto ko lang ilabas, ayokong ilaban."

and today, that sentence is:
"i have no interest in smelling like milk squeezed from the teat of an ungulate."
do not obfuscate, elucidate!

"i have no interest in smelling like milk squeezed from the boob of a goat."
crass.

"teat of a goat"
"boob of an ungulate"

"boob of an ungulate" provides nice contrast.

i have no interest in smelling like milk squeezed from the boob of an ungulate.

now that the hook is finished, it can start to build itself.
my morning cab rides give me too much time to think.

sam smells "dynamic and invigorating."

november 2007
commuting songs

unos 1

wakwak na langit
biniyak ng kidlat
guhit ng luha
ina ng baha

___
unos 2

langit na nilaspatangan ng kidlat
bumukang ulap nanganak ng baha

november 2007
thursday. thank god for friends who tolerate my weirdness.

message to cheska:
today would be a good day for fucking. nice weather. i just wanted to share. it wasn't an invitation. all my "fuck buddy" contacts are greyed out. oh, wait, i don't have any contacts listed under that category.

november 2007
this is how i channel unused energy.

the sky spread her legs tonight
and let me love her pearl

i reached heaven with my head
buried in between the clouds
and my knees firmly planted on the ground

november 20, 2007
timesick

from an e-mail to friends:

miss you guys. i'm timesick. i was in UP last saturday and i went to CASAA to make myself happy. when i got there, it was closed. drove home miserable. i miss the times we'd hang out and worry about where we'd have lunch.

sam

november 23, 2007
happy happy happy! joy joy joy!

the christmas stars decorating the trees in buendia look like
barnacles clinging to the hull of a ship.

november 2007
still channeling unused energy

meryl streep was in a dream i had last tuesday (11/27/07). she was a botticelli goddess with titian hair. it felt like a movie.

camera angle from the top, somewhat like a surveillance camera. you see a ringlet-covered head, curls cascading a naked back. a woman is seated, half-covered, her right hand is playing with water inside a clawfoot bathtub.

she's waiting.

for the look and the mood, think stardust.
setting: big bathroom lit by candles. there's a soft yellow glow. is this the victorian era?
a note on the time: it's dark outside. it's been raining. it's around 8 or 9 p.m.

footsteps. someone is bounding up the stairs.
camera pans to the door.

it's me! i burst into the room, dressed like tristan thorne. my ruffled shirt is unbuttoned. i look like i've been running. my hair is tied back, but a few strands have come loose, falling across my face. i'm a girl dressed as a boy.

who is this botticelli muse? she's not a prostitute. she's rich. think glenn close in dangerous liaisons or michelle pfeiffer as olenska.

"took you long enough," she says. her back is still turned.
"get in the tub," i say. i'm crazed.
"you don't waste any words," she twists to her left, a half-smile plays on her lips when she sees that i'm already standing in the tub, looking at her.

next scene.
camera sees through my eyes.

the muse is underneath me. there is no talking. the only sound is the sloshing of water, breathing. the tension is thick. i'm practically on top of her, but i'm holding myself up by my arms, which are bent at the elbows. i lower myself and slowly, excruciatingly make my way to her left nipple.

my attention is devoted to it. i look up once in a while to see how i'm doing. the door opens, we both look up. it's a french maid bringing in fresh towels. no one speaks and she disappears. i continue. the dream ends when the nipple falls off and turns into a kwek-kwek/tukneneng/quail egg.

november 2007
bathroom thoughts.

if neil gaiman can dream of weird shit like bezoars while he's awake, i wonder what he dreams of when he's asleep. he either has the most boring or the most interesting dreams ever. or maybe, he doesn't dream at all.

november 29, 2007
another day, another coup.

i feel so soulless -- a husk of a human being with no convictions.
maybe the entire country is like this.
we're so used to instability that armed soldiers
on the streets are seen as a nuisance.
"oh, another coup attempt. pooh-pooh."

december 16, 2007
happiness is a choice.

i resign.

december 2007
sam is raya bodoni.

surfing in surigao. thanks, jo.

december 25, 2007
christmas.

this xmas will go down in history as the one with the stinky ham.

best gifts ever: tabasco for moe, wasabi for me. (we've gotten underwear, an earcleaner + nailcutter showcase, credit, but this wins the prize).

moe drinks half a bottle of emperador and coke, and passes out on the couch. he wakes up to the smell of rotten ham being microwaved. i must say, the ham saved this christmas from oblivion. it must be noted that even the cats refused to go near it. well, not entirely true since they got close enough to smell the tainted meat before fleeing from the stench.

pa stays at the computer as midnight approaches, similar to the time we were addicted to MUD.

quotes of the night go to moe ("naf-TAH-li and ze-BOO-lon") and pa ("your nipples are embarrassing").

december 26, 2007
sniff. cough.

i'm sick.
the fever hides behind my eyeballs, making them expand.
i can feel them growing too large for my sockets.
i tightly shut my eyelids to keep them from popping out.
i'm crying without tears, the heat vaporizes my sadness and i make crying sounds.
this is why the sick moan, groan, and mewl -- the fever hiding behind their eyeballs steals their tears.

december 28, 2007
no need to redargue.

unlike others, i have no desire to be right all the time. there is no need to redargue -- be proven wrong -- before accepting an alternative point of view.
it's enough for me to be allowed to speak my mind at length, to grope and indulge in my "buts" and "on the other hands," and most of all, to be understood. you know what i mean, you know what i'm saying? i have a point, you have yours. we condemn linear thinking and one-track minds, why should we tolerate one-point thinking?

january 1, 2008
the garden is a happy place again.

pa: "when i was in mindoro, i'd sit by the river and look at the clouds. they looked like prawns flying across the sky and i thought i'd have a good harvest."

my turn:

sitting in the garden, underneath the eucalyptus tree
[01I08]

as afternoon approaches sunset
a butterfly with ghost-petal wings
plays amongst long shadows and
fallen white flowers

(backstory: "ghost-petal" or "petal-ghost"? i woke up in the middle of the night and had an internal debate over which phrase meant "pakpak na gawa sa multo ng bulaklak")
___

[02I08]

in these words
and broken thoughts
lie my modest bid
for immortality

january 2007
notes from bicol, raya bodoni redux

[24I08]
in a garden of vivid color
petals of candle flame
decorate adjacent blooms of
sunrise and sunset

___
ma's a city girl. proof follows.
ma: "look at them harvest!"
everyone: "those are weedcutters."
___
how to travel:
rent a "tora-tora." if you smell something burning, that means your "tora-tora" is about to become a "torak-torak" (you know, like "push?"). rent a jeep for two grand. be amazed that diesel comes in bottles of soda pop, that kids walk miles just to go to school, that jeeps are top-loaded. be sure to smell the green in the air. when taking ninja pictures of other people, think about who's looking at whom.

places visited:
1. pagol beach, bacon - you see rapu-rapu island in the distance, and a carabao shitting in the immediate vicinity. water is clear and still. it's quiet. sand fleas, lone fisherman, trees right up to the shore.

2. paguriran island - you can walk to the island. you don't need a boat. there's a lake (i don't know what it's called), think of a huge tub of water fed by the ocean. a natural tub with white sand, rocks, greenery, and the sky as a ceiling. for ambient sound, you've got rock music. the music of the rocks, of water rushing in through channels, of waves bouncing off the rock face.

passed by rizal beach

3. dangkalan - better than boracay because we were alone. the waves were huge. we tried walking to the little mermaid rock, but sand gave way to prickly plants that cut our feet. found out later that a lot of people died at that particular spot because the current is strong and there's a sudden drop. better to go in the afternoon, high tide, water is nicer, you don't have to walk far to get to decent soak-and-float depth.

3. bulusan church

4. bulusan lake - green is the color of quiet.

what to look for:
fisherprice playhouse in front of a nipa hut. prieto diaz wildflowers that come in orange, pink, and yellow. a bent lola harvesting string beans. quidolong's wide sand streets and kawayan fences with flowers wrapped around them. dream satellite dishes sitting atop unpainted corrugated steel roofs.

highly recommended:
shout at the top of your lungs. so what if unexpected outbursts of exuberance are considered strange?
___
mayon is a tease and i am a suckling babe given a breast but denied the nipple.

obviously

i'm not very good at "writing for myself" either.