Sam’s Blogspot

After Art's Fragmented Memory

2011-08-17T10:32:00.000+08:00

[VII2311]

Dead bird, bare tree.
Skull, ashtray, and gun to head.
White flower, wooden chair.
Empty landscape, color-bled.

6:40 P.M.

2011-07-14T21:52:00.000+08:00

[14VII11]

The late afternoon moon is a faded mark
on an already faded watercolor sky

Punta Fuego vs. Tropical Storm Falcon

2011-06-26T18:08:00.001+08:00

[24VI11]

I have heard the world speak.
Its voice is the bellowing of the waves.

Ferrous moon

2011-05-27T21:42:00.002+08:00

[V11]

Who shot at god and left heaven
bleeding from a rust-colored bullet hole?

My eyes aren't on the road when I'm driving

2011-05-25T21:10:00.001+08:00

[V11]

A sky split open by lightning
Unleashes the warm wetness of a nimbus cry
And sends bone-feather birds fleeing into
Grey umbrella-trees for the night

2011-05-06T10:05:00.004+08:00

[02V11]

Cells slowed by summer.
Sluggish.
Sedated.
Somnolent.

Sagging flesh, smelling of sweat, stinking in the sun.

Draft

2011-04-01T22:03:00.000+08:00

[IV012011]

This is an all-white page, blank and waiting for me and for my words. The cursor blinks. A wavy, green line informs me that my second sentence is ungrammatical. I move back, erase the period after “page,” insert a comma, and change the “B” in “Blank” to “b.” Microsoft Word no longer thinks I am violating the rules of language.

Tweets that belong here

2011-03-20T21:39:00.003+08:00

The moon is Willendorfian tonight. Weighed down and made huge by yellow light.

___

Heat speeds up molecules. Why then the lethargy of summer, slow-motion sweat, and the temptation to remain immobile in bed?

a thought while driving towards dusk

2010-10-24T13:25:00.001+08:00

[24X10]
let me burn in the afternoon fire of the saffron sky beyond billboards and electrical wire.

hands

2010-10-14T20:54:00.002+08:00

[14X10]

the hand on my thigh is different from
the hand on her head is different from
the hand on my lips is the same as
the hand on her lips is different from
the hand on my heart is the same as
the hand at her side

it rained in boracay

2010-08-03T20:56:00.002+08:00

[18VII10]

the ocean slicks over the
backs of unseen beasts

an invisible horde
returning to shore

driven by stippling rain
and roaring thunder

38 degrees

2010-05-06T21:29:00.004+08:00

[06V10]
we congregate on the streets,
trying to escape from sheets
drenched in sweat and dreams

shirtless beggars
whistling for a breeze

last night, it almost rained

2010-04-30T18:50:00.001+08:00

[29IV10]

you were so close,
i could smell you.

but you never came.

old ideas

2010-04-01T17:24:00.002+08:00

cruel beauty
[01IV10]

the desert loathes not the barrenness that defines it nor does it pity its self-inflicted solitude.

but cruel beauty dreams, sometimes, on its bed of sand roses, of a fecundity that shatters the diamond-sharp silence blowing over its dunes.

like a nubian queen, it drinks from an oasis
whose illusory abundance soon grows tiring.

and so the desert wakes with sated lips dry and cracked, embracing its own arrogance like a lover.
___

somnolent seas
[01IV10]

i want to see you when your somnolent seas
are roused by the habagat wind,
and roiling thunderclouds hide a sand-scratched sun

enough of your placid submission,
give me your undisonant violence at its loudest
then let me have the pleasure of taming your tempest

sauteing in the sun

2010-01-09T18:23:00.002+08:00

[09I10]

we spend afternoons sauteing in the sun:
marinating in human juices, skin crisping until golden brown

under a salmon-pink sky, violet-gilled and veined with light,
we breathe in dreams and await the rising of blue moons

tethered moon

2009-12-20T18:12:00.007+08:00

[20XII09]

the moon, tethered to earth by its light,
floats on clouds meandering
in night's incandescent sea

Boodle feast

2009-12-04T20:47:00.003+08:00

My father's stories start when the flames die down. He sits, orange-lit by embers and the heat brings him back to the time when he played with knives and guns.

He took my brothers hunting when they were adolescents. My eldest brother felled combed blackbirds and herons when others hit nothing. Unable to wait for the next trip to the wild, my second brother would sit by the window in his room and lure Asian tree sparrows into traps made of thread. Dots of sweat would form on his nose as he sat like a statue for hours, moving only when a bird, tempted by a mountain of rice, would hop into the invisible circle of death he made in our garden.

My father is the kind of man he is -- one that holds bonfires and boodle feasts on his lawn -- because as a child, he sat in a hut with a slingshot while his older cousins went hunting for wild boar in the foothills of Mount Apo.

With the Aetas as guides, they chased a boar towards the creek and killed it with a single bullet. They threw the carcass in a pit, roasted it, and wiped its blood off their faces. My father partook of the feast, and he remembers how the cold mountain air solidified the boar fat in his mouth. The next morning, they looked at the leftover meat, bloody under the sun. Boars were serious; for fun, they would shoot bats or make arrogant doctors dance to the music of bullets.

And because of that, my father is the kind of man he is. He watched a spider weave its web and counted the number of insects it ensnared. He spat into a river and blew a crowd of needlefish to pieces with his rifle as they fed on his saliva.

Tonight, as I ate grilled pork belly by the light of a bonfire, my father told me stories. He did not eat meat. Instead, he feasted on a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of red wine, with ice.

Male train

2009-11-23T21:09:00.003+08:00

On the stairs, pedicure-pink nails. To my right, a shirt with cigarette-smoke accents. In front, a jaw ferociously chewing gum. Two seats away, crossed arms resting on a belly that juts out like a fleshy peninsula.

exploded silence and kantian astigmatism

2009-11-21T19:17:00.001+08:00

standing in the train after an exploded silence
[21XI09]

the crowd cannot touch me
but i am close enough
to read its thoughts,
breathe its yawns,
and avoid its exhausted eyes
___

in which the moon and astigmatism prompt a detour into kantian philosophy
[02XI09]

we were looking at the moon, my brother and i, and amid comparisons of astigmatic eyesight, conversation drifted into the realm of kantian philosophy. “bees can see a different kind of light,” he said.

“ultraviolet,” i answered.

he ignored my display of apian scholarliness and pursued his own train of thought: “the moon we see, it will always be dependent on our senses — even if you take a photograph or a video of it, it will always be different from person to person.”

(or species to species, if we consider the bee he brought up)

“i can see a blue ring around the moon,” i said, while thinking about the bee. “can you?”

“no,” he answered as he blew cigarette smoke from the side of his mouth. “but it’s almost like there are two moons.”

“will we ever know the moon — the thing-in-itself — or is what we know of it limited by our senses? does the moon — the-thing-in-itself — even exist outside of our understanding?,” i asked.

he remained silent and we both looked at the night sky, thinking about bees and noumena.

i briefly turned my attention away from the moon — a white disk ringed by blue flame — and wished on a star that my brother be given the chance to discover kant as i had: in college, sitting on an armchair, my mind open and waiting to learn.

(passe, i know, but on nights where an imaginary bee casts a shadow by the light of a gibbous moon, all is forgiven)

//originally a tumblr post

the sound of me

2009-11-10T16:29:00.001+08:00

[10XI09]

this is the sound of me thinking of you
i inhale a thought, exhale a verb
because breathing is insufficient
and only words will do

this is the sound of me missing you
the echo of a tear that only i will hear
as it falls in the night
and evaporates from my palm

this is the sound of me wanting you
a rustle of sheets, an intake of air
the contortions of my body on a bed
that feels empty and untrue

hastily written on mobile phone and ephemeral memory

2009-11-07T19:22:00.003+08:00

nlex
[05XI09]
shadow upon shadow
dark upon dark
black upon black

paniman
[23X09]
angry that i've been away for so long, love?
white-lipped and frothing at the mouth, you come at me, ready to devour
urgent fingers creep, claw, and grab at my ankles
don't be timid: cling and suck me in. take me away.

parma

2009-10-03T17:47:00.003+08:00

[02X09]

this fragile city —
already drenched —
would disappear in
a sparrow's spit

when the water-claimed
are returned to earth
and allowed to rest in
anonymous graves

bodies will decompose
into memories and
flowers will bloom
on bones and sorrow

ketsana

2009-09-26T23:32:00.002+08:00

[26IX09]

above a floating funeral procession of stranded cars,
flesh and blood gargoyles shiver on roofs

the moans of their starving stomachs
are drowned by the rain

and they wonder if they die tonight
while waiting for dawn

white lab coats vs. pink leotards and tights

2009-09-07T16:50:00.005+08:00

Scientific hegemony and the death of art

It's right around college application time that dreams of becoming artists or ballerinas are traded in for more practical pursuits like science and engineering. It cannot be denied that society and the current educational system lead children into thinking that they will earn more in white lab coats than in pink leotards and tights.

//an old intro that stayed an intro. i was going through my files looking for another unused hook and found this. i think it's rather inaccurate since the dream is traded in much, much earlier.

why can't my body just bleed and let me be?

2009-08-27T19:51:00.004+08:00

[27VIII09]

my eyes are dry
even if it's raining
inside my body

thoughts have turned to muck
threatening to drown
the rational me

i cough till i can't breathe
and spit blood on the world
my tears refuse to see

a sentence.

2009-08-16T19:29:00.002+08:00

melancholy is my pavlovian response to grey-weather days.

dishwashing thoughts

2009-08-15T12:59:00.004+08:00

[15VIII09]

bathed in a lovely languid melancholy, i teeter on the cusp of an idea. thoughts that i can see only in the periphery, and in shades of shadow grey. my moment of discovery scored by a slow and heavy funereal legato. understanding is here, in the last closing of my eyes, in the final falling into dream.

... ... ...

2009-08-14T17:02:00.006+08:00

after the Japan exhibition
[10VII09]

i fill my canvas
with the view from my window
as i lie in bed

unwashed Weltanschauung
nonchalant observation
paint, dirt wed as one
___
a dance from tweet to tumble
[14VII09]

i saw her white hair through a window
and she made me see the paper through the paint

what if, like white watercolorists,
we had to write the spaces in between words and
make silence instead of noise?
___
eclipse
[23VII09]

the moon ate the sun
who blacked out in ecstasy
while we watched in awe

___
hawt, dawg
[25VII09]

hot and humid/ slick and thick/ smother fucker, pillow murderer/
___
[VIII09]

the weather feels like Rilke's Loneliness
and yet we must brave the blitzkrieg rain
that leaves the world wet
under a smiling schizophrenic sky
___
cellist transmogrified
[12VIII09]

i witnessed the transmogrification
of a snaggletoothed man into a demigod

body bending like a bow,
straining under the voice of a stone angel

his cello timed by the inhale
and exhale of his divine breath

puka beach (old boracay thoughts scribbled in a notebook)

2009-06-29T17:28:00.004+08:00

[30X08]

i remember tempestuous afternoon delights,
her openness and how she let me slip, sweat-laced, into her embrace

she kissed my feet, lulled me to sleep, then carried me away on the crest of her wave

watched a movi, asked sort-of rhyming questions

2009-06-29T17:02:00.005+08:00

[21VI09]

do you have eyes on the back of your head,
you with the yoga pants and don't-fuck-with-me walk?
do you have an enlightened mind, a prana-filled behind
that won't take any bullshit from people like me?

in our past lives, did we explode our base chakras
and make love downward-facing doggy style?
did we meditate on the mysteries of the universe,
munch on veggies, and fly on an astral high?

//i don't know what this is. it wrote itself.

a reconstruction of a hypothetical conversation with no one in particular that was originally written on a rumpled piece of paper that i can't find.

2009-06-08T14:32:00.008+08:00

"i miss writing to you. rather, i miss writing you — making you as i write because of you."
"i don't understand. say what you mean for once. stop fucking 'bloviating.'"
"it's a game that you know how to play, too. if i want to say that your ignescence frightens me —"
"'ignescence?' i'm too hot to handle, is that what you're saying?"
"if you want. but doesn't it seem, well, crude when you put it that way?"
"but it's what you want to say, right?"
"in a manner of speaking."
"you could just say 'yes,' you know."

//this was longer. i think our cleaning lady threw the piece of paper i wrote it on *again*. the first time she did it, i managed to fish it out of the garbage. maybe the universe is trying to tell me something.

worship of the faithless

2009-06-02T23:25:00.000+08:00

[28V09]

outside his house,
God blooms for the faithless —

we who kneel in front of flowers,
whispering spontaneous prayers

amen.

rut's nest

2009-05-21T16:59:00.006+08:00

[21V09]

hiding in my head
is a clandestine rutting nest
for humans in heat

— where thoughts evaporate
before they can become sentences —

rutting, rutting with the force of a decapitating wind
until they are suffocated by a lovely bone-deep feeling
of being so exhausted that they just can't

(a piece cobbled together from fragments)

i saw some ants at the dining table.

2009-03-25T12:36:00.005+08:00

[25III09]

ants crawl up a teacup, lost among painted fruits
faded but unshriveled by the brunt of several summers.

chapi-chapi

2009-03-23T17:51:00.004+08:00

[23III09]

dead kites hang from electrical wires:
a row of entangled corpses and
jellyfish tentacles swimming in the wind
in garbage-bag black and polyethylene green

this is me getting rid of the random notes saved on my phone.

2009-02-25T19:16:00.007+08:00

"Hallow blocks" : sign in Isabela. Does this mean they're to be used only in the construction of holy buildings?

Libag Norte, Tugegarao: where bathing isn't so popular.

Smart Kapigsaan: it all boils down to...?

IPs (Indigenous People) do not want to be called as such because they read "IPs" as "ip-is" [cockroach].

Ang pagbayad sa jeep ay isang laro ng sungka: Pasa-pasa ng barya, palit-kamay sabay kwenta, hanggang makarating sa palad ng nagmamaneho — ang hinihintuang bahay ng sigay mong piso.

scalding sun, razed face, glimmering asphalt, gas-fume shimmer.

"Kita po sa body formation n'yo na nagjo-jogging kayo tuwing umaga." - Kuya Sherinel the guide (gee, thanks, kuya, I think)

Hand gesture for "diretso": poke your hand out straight, then let it veer to the right reflecting the curve of the road. confusing but funny. by the way, "malapit" is a relative term.

There are swastikas in Santa Fe.

God is a Brit

2009-02-21T10:29:00.003+08:00

[18II09]

A tea-stained sky
spills over the rusted rooftops
of our neighborhood.
I walk, dreamlike, in a dim sepia photograph
lit by incandescent streetlamps
and the yellow-eyed glare
of passing cars.

the eternal waltz, or, while walking in UP, i look up and see a canopy of leaves.

2009-02-10T19:10:00.006+08:00

The arboreal embrace of tangled branches began a hundred years ago when a row of acacias looked at each other from across a boulevard of unbroken dreams. They felt the rising sap dance through their fragile trunks and the breathing wind shake their leaved limbs. Over time, these tentative fingertips reached over asphalt, boughs bowing and pulling close, finally twining together in an eternal waltz.

(original thought as saved in my phone: Branches tangled in an arboreal embrace/ Waltzing eternal to the wind)

yesterday

2009-02-10T19:02:00.003+08:00

[10II09]

yesterday, the clouds ate up
the penumbral eclipse
the same way a thick blanket
swallows your white fetal form

I have a sentence that never developed into anything more because it's perfect as it is:

2009-01-18T22:00:00.003+08:00

Boracay is as familiar as an ex-lover's fuck.

the moon through a windshield

2009-01-12T09:20:00.000+08:00

[11I09]

night's ignescent eye
dilatedly stares
against a background of black
and white noise

sitting on the roof deck, waiting for breakfast in bora

2008-12-01T20:11:00.003+08:00

[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.

2008-11-19T18:09:00.004+08:00

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

2008-10-14T08:53:00.003+08:00

[08X08]

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

nueva vizcaya

2008-10-07T21:56:00.002+08:00

[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

2008-09-26T17:04:00.002+08:00

[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:

2008-09-26T17:03:00.001+08:00

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

sitting in the swing, i see a butterfly

2008-09-13T11:31:00.004+08:00

[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

2008-09-05T07:50:00.004+08:00

[04IX08]

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

crying wolf

2008-08-09T20:40:00.005+08:00

[08VIII08]

these lupine
ululations of sadness
are coherent
only to the moon

wet socks = worst feeling in the world

2008-08-01T09:01:00.004+08:00

[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.

2008-07-23T17:32:00.005+08:00

[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.

2008-07-16T23:05:00.005+08:00

[16VII08]

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

--

2008-07-14T08:19:00.000+08:00

[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...

2008-07-14T08:13:00.002+08:00

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

2008-07-14T07:26:00.003+08:00

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?

2008-06-21T19:48:00.002+08:00

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

2008-05-27T10:45:00.003+08:00

[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?

2008-05-25T18:46:00.002+08:00

[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.

2008-05-14T13:59:00.001+08:00

[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

2008-03-19T21:53:00.005+08:00

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.

2008-03-18T23:26:00.005+08:00

road kill
[18III08]

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

cab thoughts (again)

2008-03-18T23:21:00.001+08:00

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

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

2008-03-06T23:47:00.003+08:00

...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...

2008-03-06T23:46:00.002+08:00

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"

2008-02-15T12:45:00.004+08:00

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.

2008-02-14T21:04:00.002+08:00

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.

2008-02-14T20:47:00.003+08:00

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.

2008-02-14T20:34:00.002+08:00

[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.

2008-02-14T19:57:00.002+08:00

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

2008-02-14T19:03:00.006+08:00

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

2008-02-14T12:51:00.025+08:00

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

2008-02-14T12:48:00.000+08:00

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

no pressure.

2007-02-04T10:14:00.000+08:00

i have a notebook by my bed. i like writing in it with a pen. it feels more real. maybe that's why i haven't posted anything here in such a long time--

and in that emptiness, you find license to say things like this: "the sky looks like a layer of epithelial cells smooshed against a glass slide."
thought is: when you write for others, a blank page can become the best form of self-expression.

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

2006-11-18T22:33:00.000+08:00

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.

2006-11-17T21:06:00.000+08:00

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.

2006-11-17T20:16:00.000+08:00

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.

2006-11-11T17:57:00.000+08:00

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.

2006-11-11T10:44:00.000+08:00

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!

2006-11-10T19:33:00.000+08:00

"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.

2006-11-10T08:50:00.000+08:00

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.

2006-11-05T21:04:00.000+08:00

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.

2006-11-05T20:24:00.000+08:00

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!

2006-11-04T11:23:00.000+08:00

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)

2006-11-01T18:20:00.001+08:00

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?

2006-10-27T22:12:00.000+08:00

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.

2006-10-27T08:24:00.000+08:00

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).

2006-09-30T17:23:00.000+08:00

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?")

2006-09-27T22:46:00.000+08:00

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!

2006-09-24T07:22:00.000+08:00

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?

2006-09-23T13:07:00.000+08:00

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.

2006-09-17T22:17:00.000+08:00

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

cheap thrills.

2006-09-10T20:22:00.000+08:00

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

2006-09-06T21:45:00.000+08:00

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...

2006-09-03T01:47:00.000+08:00

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.

2006-08-31T22:17:00.000+08:00

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.

2006-08-28T09:00:00.000+08:00

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.

2006-08-15T23:49:00.000+08:00

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.

2006-08-15T22:54:00.000+08:00

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?

2006-08-06T18:15:00.000+08:00

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.