Where to after MassKara? Where else?
Link
9.30.2008
StreetLUXE
This Masskara season, the hippest coolest and most exclusive party in the city is StreetLuxe, featuring DJ Erwin Edralin.Be at Breizh on the 15th of October and experience the biggest red-carpet event.
Dress code: Street sexy
Hosted by It Magazine and Rhipstop Soul Clothing
itpinoymag.multiply.com
5.02.2008
All over places, but not in bits and pieces
What is it about me and moving around? For someone who likes to isolate himself inside his room (for film marathons and whatever), I somehow always find myself moving from one place to another.
Ronnel said maybe I am just that adventurous, but I beg to differ. Maybe it’s all but circumstance why I’ve changed addresses more than 6 times in five months. Heck! The address I have on my resume says that I live at the Lacons’ Yulo Apartments in
A couple of months back, I was under the tree at Eroreco Subdivision in
Now, after five months in
Currently, I’m planning to move to
Living along Bacoor-Imus border has its disadvantages though. No more surprise trips to Tagaytay to watch sunrise with Mark and Betchay. No more unexpected trips to
But then again, when you close Door #1, there’s always Door #2.
Experience tells me that this is gonna keep on going until I’ve found the place which I can really call home. Hell and to think this all began when I lost my house last November. It’s funny how things have transpired for me in the last 5 months. I wish—oh and I’m wishing for it badly—that I’d stay happy for the rest of my life—surrounded by all things that define a good life—friends, art, travel, places, music, food, and all things unexpected!
4.18.2008
Kastanyas Santissima in Her Own Musicale
There’s something about the songs I’ve chosen for Kimee that makes me think twice about my very impression of her. You see, for me, Kimee has two sides—she’s no Gemini but her presence, her aura appears to have these magical undertones which I can never quite place. (It’s like it’s almost at the tip of my tongue yet I can’t find anything more absolute an adjective.)
The songs are all done by women, spanning from the French legend Edith Piaf to the less popular The Long Blondes. It’s an interesting mix for me because truthfully I found it hard to think of which songs fit her persona so they seem to be incoherent in terms of genre.
Naturally I’d go for Broadway songs such as As If We Never Said Goodbye among others. But it’s just going to be boring. She (we) like it too much it’s the most obvious selection for her. I needed to make something which is new yet still defines her character. This girl has her own language, bordering on queer. And like Tori Amos, she may not “be like the girls that you’ve known, but I believe she is worth coming home to.” Meaning? She’s not ordinary, but supernatural, paranormal, extraterrestrial!
In La Vie en Rose, she’s that crisp, stuttering, grainy, melodious background song playing on the AM frequency on a humid Thursday afternoon during the ‘50s, listened to by grandmothers while wondering why breasts sag a centimeter more each day. In Nature Boy, though she may creep into you like a subtle voice in the wind, a mute girl in a crowd of pleasers, she can startle you with sudden bursts of depth traced in colorful and appetizing words as if indeed saying that “the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is to love and be loved in return.”
Yet the love in her is not one that’s Shakespearean. Hers may be romantic but it isn’t one that needs an intimate relationship to validate itself. Instead, her romance with the world is characterized by an image that walks by night, wearing a ballet outfit (complete with the shoes, tutu, and all), carrying an awesome 80’s jukebox on the shoulder, playing Karen’s “Close to You” on an empty street, dancing, tip-toeing—at first people don’t notice her, but when she reaches the chorus, everybody joins her in such prolific choreography like that one in Leslie’s video of “1 2 3 4.” Everybody joins her in song, but when it ends—everything turns back to normal. But you know deep down inside of you (uck such a clichéd phrase), you actually experienced something more than what’s there. She’s totally an amalgam of experience!
There’s a lot of character swaying in Kimee, from one character shift to the other. She’s completely unaware of her own eccentricity, which makes “Smile” such a great tribute to her oh-look-I’m-singing/talking-to-myself-again moments, and “I’ll Kill Her” to her sorry-if-I-sometimes-accidentally-blurt-out-my-thoughts-in-various-European-accents instances.
For the shape I like to define of her, it’s the circle. I can say much of that in the song “Windmills of the Mind,” originally by Michel LeGrand. The music is very hypnotic, even the lyrics move about in circles. That’s Kimee. Purely an obsession beyond reason.
4.10.2008
4.07.2008
I am 7:46pm
If there's something interesting about Dave's blog is that it has loads of links to quizzes LOL! Yep, I took one. The results weren't a bit surprising--it's actually very accurate. And it's the kind of lifestyle I've adjusted myself to lately.
Furthermore, the results of my test:
You are 7:46 p.m. You are the time of day when everyone is making plans for the night, but there's still an element of mystery about what exactly will happen. You are the moment when your hair looks just right and you're calling or texting friends to make last-minute arrangements about where and when you'll get together. Your time of day is full of possibilities. You're still not sure who might show up, and the night is full of electricity and hope. You are ready for anything, and excited about making the most of whatever (or whoever) crosses your path.
Furthermore, the results of my test:
You are 7:46 p.m. You are the time of day when everyone is making plans for the night, but there's still an element of mystery about what exactly will happen. You are the moment when your hair looks just right and you're calling or texting friends to make last-minute arrangements about where and when you'll get together. Your time of day is full of possibilities. You're still not sure who might show up, and the night is full of electricity and hope. You are ready for anything, and excited about making the most of whatever (or whoever) crosses your path.
When You Were Young
The Killers. Always thought they were Brit. But nevertheless, regardless if they are or not, I still love them. Mr. Brightside first got into me, surely their first hit record. Two years ago, never stepped out of the bar without hearing it first. If the DJ did not have any plans on playing it, sometimes I'd really go up the bar and make a request. Personal reasons? None.
But I've never been so hyped by any of their songs as what When You Were Young does. Mr. Brightside is kinda passe. When You Were too, but there's something about the song that still makes my bones shake.
They say the devil's water, it ain't so sweet
You don't have to drink right now
But you can dip your feet
Every once in a little while
You sit there in your heartache
Waiting on some beautiful boy to
To save you from your old ways
You play forgiveness
Watch it now here he comes
He doesn't look a thing like Jesus
But he talks like a gentleman
Like you imagined when you were young
(He talks like a gentlemen, like you imagined when)
When you were young
But I've never been so hyped by any of their songs as what When You Were Young does. Mr. Brightside is kinda passe. When You Were too, but there's something about the song that still makes my bones shake.
They say the devil's water, it ain't so sweet
You don't have to drink right now
But you can dip your feet
Every once in a little while
You sit there in your heartache
Waiting on some beautiful boy to
To save you from your old ways
You play forgiveness
Watch it now here he comes
He doesn't look a thing like Jesus
But he talks like a gentleman
Like you imagined when you were young
(He talks like a gentlemen, like you imagined when)
When you were young
4.06.2008
Boyce Avenue
 Added: 3 days ago Views: 72,777 |  Added: 1 week ago Views: 739,493 |  Added: 2 weeks ago Views: 370,027 |
 Added: 3 weeks ago Views: 580,961 |  Added: 1 month ago Views: 742,613 |  Added: 1 month ago Views: 476,868 |
 Added: 1 month ago Views: 1,182,200 |  Added: 2 months ago Views: 1,221,438 |  Added: 2 months ago Views: 923,491 |
| See All 21 Videos | ||
Boyce Avenue
| Added: 3 days ago Views: 72,777 | Added: 1 week ago Views: 739,493 | Added: 2 weeks ago Views: 370,027 |
| Added: 3 weeks ago Views: 580,961 | Added: 1 month ago Views: 742,613 | Added: 1 month ago Views: 476,868 |
| Added: 1 month ago Views: 1,182,200 | Added: 2 months ago Views: 1,221,438 | Added: 2 months ago Views: 923,491 |
| See All 21 Videos | ||
Boyce Avenue
| Added: 3 days ago Views: 72,777 | Added: 1 week ago Views: 739,493 | Added: 2 weeks ago Views: 370,027 |
| Added: 3 weeks ago Views: 580,961 | Added: 1 month ago Views: 742,613 | Added: 1 month ago Views: 476,868 |
| Added: 1 month ago Views: 1,182,200 | Added: 2 months ago Views: 1,221,438 | Added: 2 months ago Views: 923,491 |
| See All 21 Videos | ||
4.02.2008
A Non-Lyrical Interpretation of the Wakefulness of dave aL deLusionaL
Definitely, it's an hour after midnight. I should be asleep by now. But what am I doing? Except for chatting with Hannah, I'm scouring for songs--ever since, I've always been fond of making playlists/mixes for friends, even people I've just met. That's me drawing a Mona Lisa, or interpreting such encounter through sound--often I base song selection on the personality of the person I am going to give it to.
Tonight, I am doing something for Dave. Quite a guy. I am actually happy I'm doing this, because when I thought about songs that would fit him (I'm just assuming that he'd like it, given that I don't know anyone else who listens to such songs!) I thought about the songs I used to listen to two years ago. I don't know how to classify them because for me they are a mix of everything; although they are considerably of the rock genre.
While making the playlist, I try to imagine Dave in rotoscope animation--in all his glorious wakefulness (ehem) on a Tuesday morning, yet timidly walking towards the door, out onto the sidestreet, jeans too long: dragging on the pavement, wearing that devil-may-care attitude, bonnet cap on, bicycles, people, and cars moving the other way, birds pissing, cats hissing, dogs vomiting, sunrise reaching for shadows.
There are two songs that shouldn't be on the list because they seem like some such songs you listen to at 4 in the morning. My story happens at 6 in the morning with just enough sunshine for Dave not to step on dog poop or used condom. Other than Polyphonic Spree's Light and Day (yes, the soundtrack of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) and Straylight Run's Existentialism on a Prom Night, all the other songs have strong percussion/beats and guitar elements. There are also electronica bordering on the rock genre. The beats are also fast, the kind of speed you'd need if you're walking as if you're the only man on earth.
(Okay, I'm lost in my thoughts na naman LOL.)
AHA! Gaduroy! LOL I don't know what on earth that is in English right now (my brain's numbing), but yeah! He's like just passing through amidst chaos. Just a soul, an old one at that. A ghost? Well. Haha! The hell, I'm sleepy na. I'll dig up my thoughts tomorrow. I can't think more intelligently than a worm right now. So Dave! Hope I do justice to your image LOL.
(Listen to the first lines of Who Cares? by Gnarls Barkley. Yeah. That defines you, a bit.)
Tonight, I am doing something for Dave. Quite a guy. I am actually happy I'm doing this, because when I thought about songs that would fit him (I'm just assuming that he'd like it, given that I don't know anyone else who listens to such songs!) I thought about the songs I used to listen to two years ago. I don't know how to classify them because for me they are a mix of everything; although they are considerably of the rock genre.
While making the playlist, I try to imagine Dave in rotoscope animation--in all his glorious wakefulness (ehem) on a Tuesday morning, yet timidly walking towards the door, out onto the sidestreet, jeans too long: dragging on the pavement, wearing that devil-may-care attitude, bonnet cap on, bicycles, people, and cars moving the other way, birds pissing, cats hissing, dogs vomiting, sunrise reaching for shadows.
There are two songs that shouldn't be on the list because they seem like some such songs you listen to at 4 in the morning. My story happens at 6 in the morning with just enough sunshine for Dave not to step on dog poop or used condom. Other than Polyphonic Spree's Light and Day (yes, the soundtrack of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) and Straylight Run's Existentialism on a Prom Night, all the other songs have strong percussion/beats and guitar elements. There are also electronica bordering on the rock genre. The beats are also fast, the kind of speed you'd need if you're walking as if you're the only man on earth.
(Okay, I'm lost in my thoughts na naman LOL.)
AHA! Gaduroy! LOL I don't know what on earth that is in English right now (my brain's numbing), but yeah! He's like just passing through amidst chaos. Just a soul, an old one at that. A ghost? Well. Haha! The hell, I'm sleepy na. I'll dig up my thoughts tomorrow. I can't think more intelligently than a worm right now. So Dave! Hope I do justice to your image LOL.
(Listen to the first lines of Who Cares? by Gnarls Barkley. Yeah. That defines you, a bit.)
Tracklist:
1. Light and Day / Reach for the Sun by Polyphonic Spree
2. Existentialism on a Prom Night by Straylight Run
3. This Could Be Beautiful by Metronomy
4. Who Cares? by Gnarls Barkley
5. El Mañana (Metronomy Remix) by Gorillaz
6. My Heart Rate Rapid (Remix) by Metronomy
7. Let's Make Love and Listen to Death From Above by Cansei de Ser Sexy
8. Destroy Everything You Touch by Ladytron
9. 4.35 in the Morning by Saint Etienne
10. D.A.N.C.E. (Extended) by Justice
11. Air War by Crystal Castles
12. Future by Cut Copy
13. Romantic Rights by Death From Above 1979
14. Art Bitch by Cansei de Ser Sexy
15. Paris by MSTRKRFT
16. Music Is My Hot Sex by Cansei de Ser Sexy
17. Little Girl (MSTRKRFT Remix) by Death From Above 1979
18. Sugar by Ladytron
Sound Tripping (with European Girls) Pt. 1
I've lately been into one of my listening/ear-killing sprees. I am naturally selective of the type of songs to like. Often I go for a kind of sound which is somewhat new to me. There was the Canadian Leslie Feist, yes, but her iTune stint shot her to popularity--even a Grammy nomination. So does that mean I abhor pop music? Not necessarily. I love music. But I prefer to listen to songs that not all people sing to. Funny thing is, I always end up listening to these musical jewels that nobody can relate to my--interests, in general. Yep, that's why I'm learning how to share right now LOL.
SOKO
The first playlist that I'm going to feature includes songs from SoKo, a French singer and actress. She somehow gives me an impression of my way in doing a French kiss. Pop up the volume and try her once.
These songs compel me to imagine her as a shy fire ant holding this microscopic guitar, strumming the strings on top of ant hill--singing to herself, with only the wind listening. In short, an ignored little girl almost in tears because somebody bullied his way to steal her lollipop. Damsel in distress, anyone?
Included on the playlist is: It's Raining Outside, I'll Kill Her, The Dandy Cowboys, and Take My Heart. Listen well to the lyrics. Actually, you'll find SoKo as a very direct and outspoken kind of woman. The kind of woman who despite getting hurt would still look for another man and propose sex or marriage to him.
Lucky Soul
Lucky Soul reminds me a of Mika. If they have something in common, it is that they are based in UK. Another secret of mine is--I grew up listening to European music, such as The Beatles among others. Anyway, Lucky Soul is a group of six, bringing a fresh tunes with both power and fragility.
I tried really hard googling for their songs. I'm really happy I found my fave, Lips Are Unhappy. I tried Imeem, but Blogger can't accommodate their player. Anyway, listening to this makes me feel my feet are about an inch off the ground, walking on the sidestreet on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Ha! That's me filled with so much hope and optimism.
Camera Obscura
This is one of two bands with the same name. They're an indie Scottish band who became quite known half a decade ago. Well, they may not look like it, but they seriously can make your head bob up and down, sidewards: left to right.
Camera Obscura sounds a bit like Cat Power. I fell in love with them upon hearing If Looks Could Kill (as I thought it would make an awesome runway song: filled with vibe and attitude // click here to listen) and their cover of ABBA's hit song, Super Trouper (click here to listen). It sucks talaga I wasn't able to find some of the best songs, especially Lloyd, I'm Ready to be Heartbroken (click here to listen) and include them in the following playlist. Well, you have the links. So no biggie, right?
SOKO
The first playlist that I'm going to feature includes songs from SoKo, a French singer and actress. She somehow gives me an impression of my way in doing a French kiss. Pop up the volume and try her once.
These songs compel me to imagine her as a shy fire ant holding this microscopic guitar, strumming the strings on top of ant hill--singing to herself, with only the wind listening. In short, an ignored little girl almost in tears because somebody bullied his way to steal her lollipop. Damsel in distress, anyone?
Included on the playlist is: It's Raining Outside, I'll Kill Her, The Dandy Cowboys, and Take My Heart. Listen well to the lyrics. Actually, you'll find SoKo as a very direct and outspoken kind of woman. The kind of woman who despite getting hurt would still look for another man and propose sex or marriage to him.
Lucky Soul
Lucky Soul reminds me a of Mika. If they have something in common, it is that they are based in UK. Another secret of mine is--I grew up listening to European music, such as The Beatles among others. Anyway, Lucky Soul is a group of six, bringing a fresh tunes with both power and fragility.
I tried really hard googling for their songs. I'm really happy I found my fave, Lips Are Unhappy. I tried Imeem, but Blogger can't accommodate their player. Anyway, listening to this makes me feel my feet are about an inch off the ground, walking on the sidestreet on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Ha! That's me filled with so much hope and optimism.Camera Obscura
This is one of two bands with the same name. They're an indie Scottish band who became quite known half a decade ago. Well, they may not look like it, but they seriously can make your head bob up and down, sidewards: left to right.
Camera Obscura sounds a bit like Cat Power. I fell in love with them upon hearing If Looks Could Kill (as I thought it would make an awesome runway song: filled with vibe and attitude // click here to listen) and their cover of ABBA's hit song, Super Trouper (click here to listen). It sucks talaga I wasn't able to find some of the best songs, especially Lloyd, I'm Ready to be Heartbroken (click here to listen) and include them in the following playlist. Well, you have the links. So no biggie, right?
3.28.2008
Friendster Pics
Music:
Okay. This is one of the last pictures I had with friends. That's Solrac on the left-most. He may not look it but he's learning to become a Lasallian Brother (gasp!). If you need some tutoring on the history of Bacolod and all its scandals, Sol is the best man for the job. Next to him is Hannah, of course--currently a Trainer for Expedia (okay, why do I have to say that, ano? LOL). Then there's Darlene and Jessie. No, that's not their kid. That's Bianca, Claire and Rob's darling baby girl--and our goddaughter! :D And how can I forget Raphie. Congratulations to Raphie for having graduated from college. PS I wasn't able to attend the baptism of Bianca. Haiz. Sleepless nights and stress got me again. Heart conditions are really stupid. If Hannah did not pick me up, I wouldn't be in this pic drinking wine.
It surprised me a great deal when she told me she's leaving me. I mean, after three months and now she's going back to Bacolod? Damn. I'll miss my sister. Although I do miss my family a lot--well not really--just enough missing to actually think about them all the time before going to sleep. This pic was taken some weeks ago during West Point's cheerleading competition.
Say, We're all drunk here. (I look flushed!) This was taken two years ago, i think. When everyone from Cebu and Manila would visit and spend each night drinking and laughing without disregard to personal health and whatnot. Haha. In short, we really enjoyed. That's Kama, Jessie, and Lucky. Second row starts with Armi, Hannah, Pammy, and then Jed.
Ha! My former minions (LOL). Naaah. This was my last year in the student publication. Yes, I slept here for more than five years doing all those work that left me unwanted and socially inept. LOL. The staff is not complete in this pic. This was like taken three years ago.
This was Macy's birthday and I failed to come over. Yes, I got sick that day. These are the beautiful people who compose the Bacolod Association of Models.
Okay. This is one of the last pictures I had with friends. That's Solrac on the left-most. He may not look it but he's learning to become a Lasallian Brother (gasp!). If you need some tutoring on the history of Bacolod and all its scandals, Sol is the best man for the job. Next to him is Hannah, of course--currently a Trainer for Expedia (okay, why do I have to say that, ano? LOL). Then there's Darlene and Jessie. No, that's not their kid. That's Bianca, Claire and Rob's darling baby girl--and our goddaughter! :D And how can I forget Raphie. Congratulations to Raphie for having graduated from college. PS I wasn't able to attend the baptism of Bianca. Haiz. Sleepless nights and stress got me again. Heart conditions are really stupid. If Hannah did not pick me up, I wouldn't be in this pic drinking wine.
It surprised me a great deal when she told me she's leaving me. I mean, after three months and now she's going back to Bacolod? Damn. I'll miss my sister. Although I do miss my family a lot--well not really--just enough missing to actually think about them all the time before going to sleep. This pic was taken some weeks ago during West Point's cheerleading competition.
Say, We're all drunk here. (I look flushed!) This was taken two years ago, i think. When everyone from Cebu and Manila would visit and spend each night drinking and laughing without disregard to personal health and whatnot. Haha. In short, we really enjoyed. That's Kama, Jessie, and Lucky. Second row starts with Armi, Hannah, Pammy, and then Jed.
Ha! My former minions (LOL). Naaah. This was my last year in the student publication. Yes, I slept here for more than five years doing all those work that left me unwanted and socially inept. LOL. The staff is not complete in this pic. This was like taken three years ago.
This was Macy's birthday and I failed to come over. Yes, I got sick that day. These are the beautiful people who compose the Bacolod Association of Models.
Results of Boredom
Music:
To date, I've pro'ly seen tens and thousands of film already. Not that I'm exaggerating, since the age of two I was already watching every goddamn film my father and my uncles were watching. By the age of four, I already had my name registered in video shops within the city. When I turned seven, I was watching five to eight films every day after school hours. I do not know why I did that, pro'ly because I fear boredom?
Boredom is one of the existentialist theories, in fact. It is defined as “an unpleasant, transient affective state in which the individual feels a pervasive lack of interest in and difficulty concentrating on the current activity.” It is not merely feeling discomforted because you have nothing to do, but because you do not know which specific activity you can latch on.
Through the years, I've done a lot to keep myself out of boredom. I've engaged myself into a list of activities which to my relief has always kept me going.
This then may be the reason why my preferences come off in a rather huge range--I can basically say that I don't limit myself with previous experiences, but continue to try new things, if possible.
Take my interest in music. It ranges from pop to blues to jazz to aria to classical to world beat to hip-hop to rock to whatever sounds good.
I can probably say that I'm living a thousand lives. It's like applying the theories of quantum physics: that each one of us can be whatever we want to be--whatever, however we choose to become.
To date, I've pro'ly seen tens and thousands of film already. Not that I'm exaggerating, since the age of two I was already watching every goddamn film my father and my uncles were watching. By the age of four, I already had my name registered in video shops within the city. When I turned seven, I was watching five to eight films every day after school hours. I do not know why I did that, pro'ly because I fear boredom?
Boredom is one of the existentialist theories, in fact. It is defined as “an unpleasant, transient affective state in which the individual feels a pervasive lack of interest in and difficulty concentrating on the current activity.” It is not merely feeling discomforted because you have nothing to do, but because you do not know which specific activity you can latch on.
Through the years, I've done a lot to keep myself out of boredom. I've engaged myself into a list of activities which to my relief has always kept me going.
This then may be the reason why my preferences come off in a rather huge range--I can basically say that I don't limit myself with previous experiences, but continue to try new things, if possible.
Take my interest in music. It ranges from pop to blues to jazz to aria to classical to world beat to hip-hop to rock to whatever sounds good.
I can probably say that I'm living a thousand lives. It's like applying the theories of quantum physics: that each one of us can be whatever we want to be--whatever, however we choose to become.
3.27.2008
Friends
Music:
There are some things that I cannot live without. One of them is music.
For as long as I can remember, my life has been defined by music--from the earliest lullabies my mother or my yaya used to sing to me, to the film scores, to the classic tales of love from my Lolo's vinyl records, to almost anything that pleases me.
I tried a string of musical instruments, but like any attempt which is done half-heartedly I ended up failing. My first was the harmonica. I then did the keyboard/organ, the guitar, the trumpet, the xylophone, the flute, among others until such time I found myself playing the piano.
But I grew impatient. Not listening to mentors. settled with no instrument and begged my ears won't stop appreciating music instead since I myself can't pluck a tune or push a key.
When I realized that I am not as good as Mozart nor Beethoven (yes, I used to listen to classical music before 1995), I continued compiling records as in cassette tapes which I started way back when I was just 6. You would have imagined how huge my library would be right now if I still have them. Sadly, on that fateful day in 1995, everything in our home got washed out because of the flash flood. It was sudden. And several hours later, my photos, my books, my PC--all my belongings were pulled out of the house by the firemen who came and shoved out all the dirt, silt, grime, whatever-you-call-it out of the house, off the wall, into the veranda.
Soon after that, I realized how much I've lost. Starting that day, every piece of me was taken away one by one. It was not until during my third year in high school that I realized that I was losing myself. I no longer loved music as much as I did. I tried, but I learned how to be a conformist. My preference was already dictated by popular music. From being an aggressive little twit, I grew up to be a shadow, an invisible ghost.
But it was also that time when I started gaining friends. Funny, I used to think people are like pawns--they are dispensable; that their existence is nothing more but to supplement mine. Yes, I was a bit egotistical, but like every villain who learns how to love--my friends became my weakness. It was then that I realized that the milestones in my life is marked by the people I am with, and not by my achievements.
Yes, I miss my friends. I miss those afternoons with ourselves scattered about in the sala, or in my bedroom, or at my house in Eroreco. I miss the nights when all we did was talk till the wee hours while gulping a bottle of beer. Those early morning wakefulness to buy some pieces of pan de sal, have coffee with Andy, wait for Jessie to come by, stop Sonny's cell phone from screaming, wait for Meko's return home, Pani's occasional visits.
Then the afternoon would come and Hannah would call up, driving by with Sol and Raph to go to Claire's and visit Bianca. There were times when Pammy and Jed and Armi would pick me up to go some place else.
Of course, there were my never-before-seen friends. Nicole tops the list, there's Edison, Ai, Moi, and Ryan. And how can I forget? Jong and Dave, my rather Bohemian slash goth friends.
I don't have any more time to blog off, so I'll stop here.
There are some things that I cannot live without. One of them is music.
For as long as I can remember, my life has been defined by music--from the earliest lullabies my mother or my yaya used to sing to me, to the film scores, to the classic tales of love from my Lolo's vinyl records, to almost anything that pleases me.
I tried a string of musical instruments, but like any attempt which is done half-heartedly I ended up failing. My first was the harmonica. I then did the keyboard/organ, the guitar, the trumpet, the xylophone, the flute, among others until such time I found myself playing the piano.
But I grew impatient. Not listening to mentors. settled with no instrument and begged my ears won't stop appreciating music instead since I myself can't pluck a tune or push a key.
When I realized that I am not as good as Mozart nor Beethoven (yes, I used to listen to classical music before 1995), I continued compiling records as in cassette tapes which I started way back when I was just 6. You would have imagined how huge my library would be right now if I still have them. Sadly, on that fateful day in 1995, everything in our home got washed out because of the flash flood. It was sudden. And several hours later, my photos, my books, my PC--all my belongings were pulled out of the house by the firemen who came and shoved out all the dirt, silt, grime, whatever-you-call-it out of the house, off the wall, into the veranda.
Soon after that, I realized how much I've lost. Starting that day, every piece of me was taken away one by one. It was not until during my third year in high school that I realized that I was losing myself. I no longer loved music as much as I did. I tried, but I learned how to be a conformist. My preference was already dictated by popular music. From being an aggressive little twit, I grew up to be a shadow, an invisible ghost.
But it was also that time when I started gaining friends. Funny, I used to think people are like pawns--they are dispensable; that their existence is nothing more but to supplement mine. Yes, I was a bit egotistical, but like every villain who learns how to love--my friends became my weakness. It was then that I realized that the milestones in my life is marked by the people I am with, and not by my achievements.
Yes, I miss my friends. I miss those afternoons with ourselves scattered about in the sala, or in my bedroom, or at my house in Eroreco. I miss the nights when all we did was talk till the wee hours while gulping a bottle of beer. Those early morning wakefulness to buy some pieces of pan de sal, have coffee with Andy, wait for Jessie to come by, stop Sonny's cell phone from screaming, wait for Meko's return home, Pani's occasional visits.
Then the afternoon would come and Hannah would call up, driving by with Sol and Raph to go to Claire's and visit Bianca. There were times when Pammy and Jed and Armi would pick me up to go some place else.
Of course, there were my never-before-seen friends. Nicole tops the list, there's Edison, Ai, Moi, and Ryan. And how can I forget? Jong and Dave, my rather Bohemian slash goth friends.
I don't have any more time to blog off, so I'll stop here.
3.22.2008
The Day the World Went Mad
Gloria might have declared it (through her diminutive voice);
or some hapless citizen from colorful Binalbagan might have
written a letter to Congress: a plea, or some sort of 4-paged
letter, written in red ink with hard, edgy strokes. But both
would not suffice to give clarity to what has been brought up,
resolved, or whatever. Did everyone really want space and time
made public? Was it some economic ploy to save a lot of shit to
pay our debts to the World Bank (if that really ever existed)?
I woke up one morning and saw my glass of orange juice
foaming with toothpaste at the rim. I would have asked yaya
but she was busy texting the boy next door using Dad’s N93.
I was so pissed, so much that I would anytime soon vomit hard
like a bitch of a mongrel after a meal out of our bermuda grass.
As I walked to the gate, I saw from beyond the picket fences
that our neighbor had taken the subdivision road for his bedroom:
a four-poster in pink trappings with ruffles and laces lying on the
pavement. And there he was snoring to his death, a sort of schmuck
for a bond trader beneath a pile of pink pillows, with possibly pink
cotton stuffing.
The world had gone mad! Or so had it only happened in Eroreco?
Not when I saw the kindergartens in Le’Cole standing by the
gate waiting for their charges’ dismissal. Same goes in La Salle.
The IM students were learning how to juggle fiberglass versions of
Cuervos and Inglenooks, if there were such sorts. The Accountancy
bunch sat on the Coliseum floor reading Sidney Sheldon and Danielle
Steele, teary-eyed for the heck of it.
On my way out, the creek beside the USLS bookstore had been
cemented: no water flowed ‘derneath that old bridge. In fact (that is,
if I can call it fact) houses were built beneath it and across what used
to be a dump of garbage and other sorts of trash: dead cats maybe,
injected with formalin by those Bio students; or those stupid snakes
that went up the Amphitheater (or the so called Matre dei Grove)
each time the "defunct" creek or river or fuck-it overflows.
Damn it! Now La Salle Ave was used for jogging at a peak hour
for traffic. The Koreans were the culprit. But sheesk, they were
teaching everyone to speak Nihonggo or that thing, you know
that thing. Err… TasteStation was closed at noon. That seemed
utterly amazing! Ruben was nowhere to be found. The players
at Battle Station was nowhere to be found. Ugh!
Have they gone to school?!
Had the world gone mad? Was this some existentialist bull?
I ran my way towards home, not minding the house that was
putting up Christmas lights on a February, not minding the St. Scho
ballet class practicing their moves on the empty parking lot, not
minding the AirPhil plane landing beside me, not minding that
couple having sex on the side street, not minding the good-for-
nothings happening around, and that gay bond trader of a neighbor
choked up in his sleep by a burglar in a black suit.
I ran my way towards home and saw my git of a sister brushing
her teeth.
"Had lunch?" asking me, her mouth frothing in bubbles.
or some hapless citizen from colorful Binalbagan might have
written a letter to Congress: a plea, or some sort of 4-paged
letter, written in red ink with hard, edgy strokes. But both
would not suffice to give clarity to what has been brought up,
resolved, or whatever. Did everyone really want space and time
made public? Was it some economic ploy to save a lot of shit to
pay our debts to the World Bank (if that really ever existed)?
I woke up one morning and saw my glass of orange juice
foaming with toothpaste at the rim. I would have asked yaya
but she was busy texting the boy next door using Dad’s N93.
I was so pissed, so much that I would anytime soon vomit hard
like a bitch of a mongrel after a meal out of our bermuda grass.
As I walked to the gate, I saw from beyond the picket fences
that our neighbor had taken the subdivision road for his bedroom:
a four-poster in pink trappings with ruffles and laces lying on the
pavement. And there he was snoring to his death, a sort of schmuck
for a bond trader beneath a pile of pink pillows, with possibly pink
cotton stuffing.
The world had gone mad! Or so had it only happened in Eroreco?
Not when I saw the kindergartens in Le’Cole standing by the
gate waiting for their charges’ dismissal. Same goes in La Salle.
The IM students were learning how to juggle fiberglass versions of
Cuervos and Inglenooks, if there were such sorts. The Accountancy
bunch sat on the Coliseum floor reading Sidney Sheldon and Danielle
Steele, teary-eyed for the heck of it.
On my way out, the creek beside the USLS bookstore had been
cemented: no water flowed ‘derneath that old bridge. In fact (that is,
if I can call it fact) houses were built beneath it and across what used
to be a dump of garbage and other sorts of trash: dead cats maybe,
injected with formalin by those Bio students; or those stupid snakes
that went up the Amphitheater (or the so called Matre dei Grove)
each time the "defunct" creek or river or fuck-it overflows.
Damn it! Now La Salle Ave was used for jogging at a peak hour
for traffic. The Koreans were the culprit. But sheesk, they were
teaching everyone to speak Nihonggo or that thing, you know
that thing. Err… TasteStation was closed at noon. That seemed
utterly amazing! Ruben was nowhere to be found. The players
at Battle Station was nowhere to be found. Ugh!
Have they gone to school?!
Had the world gone mad? Was this some existentialist bull?
I ran my way towards home, not minding the house that was
putting up Christmas lights on a February, not minding the St. Scho
ballet class practicing their moves on the empty parking lot, not
minding the AirPhil plane landing beside me, not minding that
couple having sex on the side street, not minding the good-for-
nothings happening around, and that gay bond trader of a neighbor
choked up in his sleep by a burglar in a black suit.
I ran my way towards home and saw my git of a sister brushing
her teeth.
"Had lunch?" asking me, her mouth frothing in bubbles.
Gods and Monsters
Perhaps it was the rumor that we ate soil for food that drove husband and wife, Orton and Munay, to venture out to the mountains. We were a tribe of elderly women, whose traditions and culture had been sealed in books hidden beneath wooden floors. There were a string of rituals that we had to abandon. Although we hid ourselves away from civilization, we were most aware that others would not understand. We, women, thrive from magic and the uncanny beliefs of gods and monsters that rule everything underneath the stars. For that reason then, we shun away from people of the modern world. However, we had grown old and weary, sickness and disease had gotten the most of us. We were nearing our end. It was so that we opened our doors to accept all the help we needed.
Between them, Munay was most eager to resolve our plight. The first time we laid eyes upon her, we were certain that she was brought to us by the gods, a savior—we, however, had at first forgotten the prophecy told by the once shrewdest of us, Radekka the Wise. It was through her that the gods voiced their intentions. It was said that a child will be born within the borders of our tiny village. But it will not be an ordinary child birth. It involved a complex process of magic, of the occult. All we had to do was observe for signs.
The first sign occurred on Munay’s untimely demise. On the eve of her birthday, Orton found her lying on the floor, breathless. Her eyes bulging from their sockets, mouth gaping as if moments ago she was screaming for her life. Her eyes glared at something before she died. When Orton looked at where she was looking, he found someone amidst the dark corner of the room, crouching, showing its yellow, sharp teeth. The Necromancer, a monster in the form of a naked man with unusually long limbs, leathery pale skin, long white hair thinning on the scalp, every bone in its body protruding as if he had no muscle: only bones covered in tight skin. It stank like the odor of scythed stalks of weed after rain. Before Orton moved, it got up and ran out of the window, up the roof, and was never again seen.
Orton was devastated. Poor dear. So were we. Never had we felt such compassion. For we treated Munay as our own, our daughter. But she had been taken away. And we knew, there was more to her death than grief. And so we prepared ourselves for the second sign—her resurrection.
In case anyone of us died, Orton had already prepared a makeshift butterbox. He never imagined his wife would one day be put in it. He laid her coffin in a place where we could all gather and pay our respects. The women danced in a song that bid farewell to the “other” that lived in each of us. The separation of body and soul. The soul’s ascendance to the stars.
It was a solemn ceremony until Orton burst in anger, blaming us for his wife’s death. “You knew it would happen yet you didn’t say a fucking word!”
We kept our piece until I was pushed to answer him. “We have a way to bring your wife back to life.”
His eyes grew large in disbelief. “Witches! You’re all freaking witches!” He sobbed, he cried, he wailed. Shortness of breath had lead him to faint and fall to the ground.
When he awoke the next day, I told him the truth, about the past that we continued to deny. When I was finished, he looked at me, his face told me he was a bit confused and hurt at the same time. It was then that he began to ask me questions that had never been answered for a long time. He was particularly curious about what I had told him the night before.
“Radekka the Wise, she is not completely gone; she guides us by entering our dreams from her dwelling at the top of the mountain.”
“A hermit. What has she for me and my wife?”
“Answers.”
I left him that morning to uncover the books. The others were hesitant, even felt betrayed by my decisions. But I told them that this was what the stars had instructed. The gods had foretold of this event. We were merely instruments, shepherds in a grand scheme. It was so that they gave support.
The books were hidden beneath the floors of a dilapidated shack away from the village. But I only had interest in one book: the one that dealt with Gods and Monsters. The floors had turned grey with the thick layer of dust. Rats, spiders and other wretched fiends occupied the place; but I knew, once I stepped inside, that the souls of the past lingered about. My body broke out in gooseflesh. Ghosts ran about, a presence felt, not seen. One step forward and a cold, invisible hand stretched and held me by the neck.
“What odds brought you to desecrate my home?” it whispered in a throaty voice, its hand an invisible force, neither hot nor cold on the skin of my neck.
“It is time.” Then it shrieked in an unearthly tone, a sound of both anger and amusement.
“Be gone!” It let got of my neck and threw my frail body out of the shack, breaking my leg amidst the fall. The shack went alive, a thundering sound emanating from the inside. The souls were feasting. Then a book darted out of its doors, dust tailing behind it. It landed by my feet. I tried to stand up, but the bone in my left leg had pierced open the skin. I had no choice but to crawl my way up to the village, hoping I would survive the night from the loss of blood and the creatures that crept on the forest floor. I was an old woman, nearing her death. We pay with our lives so that we may continue to live somehow.
Once I reached my house, I had to cast a glamour upon my leg, the simplest of magic but it required souls—to cast such spell, I stole the souls of weeds. It was not a healing spell; I only meant to hide my wound from Orton; it may appear normal but it bled all through.
He was at the edge of his bed when I came to see him, bearing an expectant look on his face. “At last you came. What have you to say, woman?”
I showed him the book, an old memory of paper bound by a spiral of hard twine. It was in our ancient text. I had to read it for him. As I did, guilt slowly crept into me, like an eel swimming under my skin. It was in that moment that I began to realize what I had been doing. I was bringing him and his wife to a web of deceit. I, the people owed them yet here I was devious, playing them like mice in the palm of my hands. Tears were welling in my eyes as I read the book. But he never saw me.
The book detailed our scriptures. It was written by Radekka the Wise, guided by the wisdom of the gods. It was written in red ink, blood—Radekka’s blood. Part of its contents discussed the titles of gods; that everything we see, hear, smell, feel were pantheons of the gods. The trees, the rivers, the soil, the very air we breathe in. No god was higher than the other, for there is only one god with different names. A god that extended itself to all things living or dead, with or without souls.
A part of the book also talked much about the creatures either seen or only felt. The Necromancer was one to have great significance among the pages. It was involved in the death and the rise of our savior. In its pages, Radekka had written:
“… that in the order of greater things to come, the Necromancer shall make itself seen to those who are part of the grand scheme. It shall steal the life from the vessel by giving it its deathly kiss, that which purges the body of the soul: a white light flowing out of the vessel’s mouth, the door from all wisdom comes through.
“In light of the vessel’s resurrection, the monster shall bestow on the vessel its second death. It shall eat the vessel, after it is chopped, boiled, and deboned. And in its bowels shall the vessel’s body and soul once more meet; thereafter, be vomited in the form of water—”
“What does that mean!” Orton cried out, struck in horror by the thought of his wife’s body defiled, eaten. I stopped reading and explained to him what I have learned from before. He had to find the Necromancer at the top of the mountains and leave the body there. He must also offer a rib, the one closest to his heart. The rib shall give Munay the memories she lost upon her death, the memories of her humanity.
Orton was at first uncertain of what I had just said, what he must do. But desperation grew stronger on his face, creasing in deep thought. “For the sake of my wife, I shall do what must be done.”
He left the next morning, before the sun laid its hands on the land. He carried her rotting corpse on his back; she was wrapped in an old rug. I was the only one to bid him farewell. I prayed for his safe return.
I imagined him trekking up the mountain, a perilous journey for someone who carried so much weight on his back, much more in his heart. But I was pacified by the determination I saw in his face. It glowed from within.
The mountain top was hidden behind the clouds. Misty and not a shaft of sunlight seeped through to touch the shrubs that merely peopled the place. Across him should be a cave with a narrow opening. By then, however, he had fainted. The mountain grew so tall the air at its top was thin; the opening of his throat feeling like it shrank into the size of a pebble.
But in time I had become anxious. I had to perform another spell. I took a basin of water and threw the stone I hid beneath Orton’s bed—the stone gathered his essence while he sleeps. The water rippled and once it became still I saw the image of Orton kneeling in front of a woman in a flowing black robe. They seemed to be talking but I did not hear anything, did not see a lip move. Then it struck me: she had entered his mind. And it was then that I realized that she was Radekka the Wise. Only she was powerful enough. At the mouth of the cave crouched the Necromancer. It was done with Munay.
Orton was still on his knees for several more minutes till the clouds parted and a sliver of light exposed Radekka. She was not wearing a robe; rather, she was not wearing anything at all—her entire body was covered in thick black hair that flowed and touched the ground. I was about to plunge my hand in the basin when, suddenly, I froze. Radekka had reached inside my mind.
“You of all your kind shall do the task. However shall things begin and end shall now be in your power. I will diminish. I have already fulfilled mine.”
And before I could make a reprise, I regained my consciousness. I was covered in mud, as if my pores had opened and released the filth inside my body. Before me the water inside the basin rose in a pillar of vapor, the stone red hot as a molten rock. I wiped off the mud covering my face and I peered inside the basin. I no longer saw the reflection of a gangly, old witch but of a woman with skin so tight, hair so black and voluminous, breasts so supple, the broken bone in my leg healed—I was restored, once again, young.
It did not take long for me to convince the others what had become of me. They had seen it in my eyes. Some marveled, others knelt in great fidelity to magic. Most, if not all, felt as if they became young as well. I became their source of power, of hope. I became as much a savior as Munay will ever become. I only fear it will bring about my own demise.
Soon Orton arrived with a huge jar on his back; she was in it. I explained to him the magic that was cast upon me; that he must never be bothered with my new form. He then recounted what Radekka had instructed him. He was to bury the jar containing Munay’s remains beneath the staircase of his home and wait for the fullness of the moon. For in time shall Munay dig her way upwards—breaking the very soil with which she was buried in—crawl her way inside the house, and sleep beside the man she loved. During which time, no eyes must witness her rise from death. But before the full moon, all we could do was wait.
Time moved so slow, but with Orton beside me it never seemed to pass. I had to admit to myself that the new body I have reacted to Orton’s presence. I felt the tempest of emotions rise inside me, like a storm brewing inside my chest, every time Orton was near. My body felt hot like never before and in my sleep I would dream about him. My mornings would never be complete if I wake up dry between my legs.
I was wiser than any of them. But the feelings I had made me foolish. I had forgotten my task, my role in the grand scheme that was to come. I grew jealous of Munay. Envy was about to bring my end.
It was so that I took matters upon myself. I had never loved a man nor felt love from someone so sturdy. I was to take away the things that was meant for Munay—the worship of the people, the love of her husband. I worked hard to please the others. I worked like a horse, day in and day out so that when the time Munay comes to life they would choose me to inspire them and not that wretched dead woman. But the biggest challenge was Orton. His love for Munay was too strong even for the most desperate of my attempts to woo him. On one night, however, I did what I should have done before: I drugged him and brought him to bed with me. I had cast a glamour on myself while I was on top of him. “Munay,” he called out for me. But then I knew I was not fair. And so I ran out, left him frustrated by his loins. I ran out and saw the moon nearly in its fullness. And then the thought gripped me: If I destroy Munay before she comes out, there will be no Munay to concern myself with.
I went beneath the stairs where her jar was buried, dug it up, and pulled it out of the dirt. In the looming darkness of the night, the jar stood on the ground in a strange, eerie manner. I did not save time to wait for the others to notice. I grabbed the shovel and struck the jar. The jar burst open from the crack revealing a mound of dirt the shape of the jar. Slowly I moved closer and pushed the shovel inside the mound. The mound broke and uncovered a monstrous thing beneath it. It sat before me with its arms over its head propped on its knees. But what made me fear it was not its position, rather its inhuman appearance. Some parts of its body was covered in flesh, some parts was bare with the bones exposed. Its mane covered in a thick fluid that flowed all over its body. It was a monster. And I had to kill it.
But before I raised the shovel to strike it, it opened its eyes. The right eye, lidless and hideous, staring at me. It opened its lipless mouth to scream in what I could only understand as a scream of agony. It writhed across the ground like a beheaded snake. And between its legs, I saw a gush of blood, of red filth. It lay on its back and I saw how it gave birth to a malignant, frightful thing. It was bathed it globules of thick blood. The thing shrieked. It shrieked maybe because it could not set itself free from the cord that connects it to its foul mother. Or maybe because it was yet so small and powerless to lunge at me and kill me. However, before things took its turn, someone struck me at the back. I fell unconscious on the ground.
I was waken when one of the women threw cold water at me. I was tied at a pillar surrounded by wood and hay. They were about to burn me alive. Amidst the audience stood Orton holding a piece of cloth within his embrace. I tried to say my piece but no one seemed to listen. I was deemed a heretic, a traitor for someone so wise. Orton did not say a word. The women stood behind him, with faces so cold I could only predict they wanted me dead.
And then he finally spoke, “You killed my wife. I shall then have yours for the taking.”
He was handed out a torch and moved towards the pile of wood and hay. It was in that distance that I saw it squirming in its wrappings. The thing the monster gave birth to was still alive. But I was alone to see such things. I became witness to the birth of evil. It poked out its face among the wrappings. It appeared like a hairless rat with an unusually large pair of temples. Horns! And then it moved its fingers as if it were bidding me farewell. It knew! I, however, did not show fear nor grief for its satisfaction. I stood there tied against the pillar as adamant as I could become. I laughed. I laughed for only I understood the true meaning of things. The grand scheme was to bring about death, not salvation.
But before I was finished reveling in my own triumph, Orton threw the torch away from the pile, went up to me, parted my legs, and pushed the evil rat up inside my crevasse.
It was, so I had thought, the end of all.
The Boy
I wrote this some time ago. It shall be published in this year's Scribe. This is not my best (defensive haha). It's crap. But some people this it's okay. That's enough reason for me to celebrate.
Philip never had headaches. It was a trait from a scrupulous father whose sole obsession was penalizing his only son for a limped wrist; whose homophobic tendencies due to Baptist beliefs had driven Philip to become the loser that he is now: a gay Physics teacher in his mid-40s with no sexual exploits whatsoever, whose existence became the example of a perfectly wasted life space.
That he never had headaches however wasn’t what even made him a bit special or extraordinary. As a kid, he stared at the sun till his eyes hurt (always hoping he would develop some special powers to strike down his father every time he sacks and beats him up); but his head never hurt. Bah! He read books in poor lighting till his eyes hurt (he read Nancy Drew); but his head never did. Baaaaahh! He dared coursing through Applied Physics in the Academy and studied the most mind-boggling of math problems. But it was always to no avail. It was as if his headaches were somewhat connected to his sexual preference, a strange and unusual occurrence.
He lived a life of boredom, in utter mediocrity, until one day, he gave up his ventures with headaches (and his gay-hood) and had completely forgotten about them—until that day he showed up.
His name was Jonas. Quite a shy boy at nineteen, Philip thought. Messy hair, tearful eyes, pale skin, poor posture, cute nonetheless. He knew the boy wasn’t from around.
Jonas unfolded a crumpled paper from his backpack and gave it to Philip. “Still have the room?” he asked him. Philip gave it a thought. He was supposed to ask him if he had work to pay the rent, if he was schooling; but he didn’t. The boy seemed harmless. “Five hundred just for this month. I don’t accept payments in advance.”
Philip was anxious of letting anyone enter his house (probably because he did not have friends or refused to have some or that to him bringing someone, especially a boy, to his home felt like going inside a motel with a callboy—probably because the gay community denied him for being an ultra-fag in the closet. Everyone including his students knew he was gay, but they never dared ask or even implied they knew).
The house was a small one with two bedrooms, a sala and a dining area; barely enough for a decent home. He was not particular with furniture and other fixtures, so much that the house looked as bland and boring as Goldilock’s porridge. If he was unsure of his desires, he was pretty sure his house was an anti-thesis to the word “gay.”
His study table was pushed to the wall near the sofa. On top of it were books and exam papers, cream-colored Post-Its that labeled every stack of paper, a white mug with a red cartoon hero known as “Super Dad!” printed on the side. The boy was amazed on how organized he was, to which he replied with a faint smile.
He showed Jonas the room where he should stay. The boy thought the room was just enough for him: a bed just about his size, a lamp, and a side table. (Philip was saving the room to be his love nest. But he abandoned the thought ages ago.) He lent him an electric fan for fifty pesos a month. Everything was a bargain for Philip’s first boarder. He wasn’t quite sure though why he sent out flyers for “Available bed space” a week ago. Anyway, he thought, someone had come (come, hmmm…), so he never again gave it a thought.
The first week was particularly awkward for Philip. He sometimes forgot he had a boarder and would freak out to find a stranger sitting on the sofa, staring at him. The boy did not talk much, Philip did not ask much himself despite the urges to know everything about the boy. But that was going to be the least of his problems.
On one night, while he was entranced in taking notes for his class the next day, he heard something grumbling behind him. A slobbering breath. He thought it came from a large animal with padded feet, running around behind him. When he turned his back, he saw nothing but the main door slowly closing and what seemed to be a bushy grey tail disappearing in a blip. He went back to note-taking and dismissed the thought.
The next day after class, he went to the library to check on some titles and read the periodicals. A book with a wolf for a cover illustration grabbed his attention. It lay alone on the table beside him. “My Roommate, the Werewolf” was written by some unpopular Italian author. The blurbs on the back cover did not say much of the book. He checked it out anyway.
When he got home, the boy was standing at the dining area boiling water. He was shirtless. Philip was completely dumbfounded to have seen the body of a god—that one he only saw in underwear models and construction workers; that his IQ dropped to abysmal feats; that he threw his things to the floor, rushed for the boy, drove him on top of the dining table, and kissed—more like licked—his well-contoured body until—“Phil?” The boy was staring across him from the dining area, with a confused look. “Anything wrong? You look flushed.” He told him he was sick and then quickly went inside his room, locked the door, and continued his newly-found fantasies while touching himself.
Weeks passed. Philip had mustered the strength to actually start a conversation with the boy. He learned he was not as dim-witted as he used to think. The boy was an old soul, a deep, mysterious presence in front of him; a Dalai Lama trapped in Victor Basa’s body. At times he would wear short shorts and would “accidentally” drop something in front of the boy while showing off his pear-shaped (hideous) ass, all in the name of seduction. The boy though did not even budge, much to his dismay.
One night, he planned a dinner-for-two, disguised as his birthday party with heart-shaped balloons and candles all over. It was past midnight and the boy had not yet come home. Giving up on his attempts, he retired to bed and found the newspaper for that day. He read the headlines: “Boy dies unusual death.” It was a news item detailing the bizarre incidence of a four-year-old’s death. His head was found a few meters away from his body, chest ravaged, internal organs missing, thigh muscles scraped to the bone. The report said the kid was attacked by a large animal the size of an adult carabao. Err… Philip dropped the newspaper. Eww… Disgusting. He found a book on the bedside table. It was the wolf book he borrowed weeks ago. He did not remember placing it there, however, he browsed through it. He was looking for the “good parts” as he was not that interested to finishing the novel anyway. One particular paragraph caught his eye though.
Philip threw the book and fumbled to close the curtains when the same hungry eyes met his. He didn’t move, not a muscle, for fear the beast might lunge towards him. And the thing came out of the shadowy bushes, coming at him face to face with only the thin sheet of glass between them. The devil. It opened its huge mouth with its yellow, sharp teeth; stuck out its tongue, and licked the glass. But Philip knew it was he the beast wanted to lick. The devil has come to eat me.
That morning, Philip woke up from the glaring sun’s rays that entered his room. He did not remember what happened last night. Every time he tried, all he could gather were dark, blurry images of him reading a book and looking outside the window. He felt tight and wanting to pee. It was a Saturday.
Moving listlessly towards the bathroom door, he noticed Jonas’ door was open. He slowly opened it to take a peek if he was inside sleeping—wishing he was in his boxers, that sort that covered almost nothing. He stuck his face inside and was appalled by the reeking smell. A dead rat lay on the floor. Immediately he closed the door. When he turned around, Jonas was there looking at him intently as if he wanted to eat Philip with his sinister eyes. He was paler than usual, an eerie lightness in skin color that nearly resembled a vampire’s.
He gathered every bit of himself and told Jonas about the stinking rat. But the boy seemed as if he was not listening. Slowly Jonas took small steps towards Philip who in shock of Jonas’ sudden change in attitude walked backwards, to find himself cornered near the door. The boy stood inches from him, his face far enough from his. Then, without him suspecting Jonas kissed him, torridly—sucking the air from lungs, pushing his tongue inside his. Philip pushed him away only to tell him that “I’m still a virgin.”
But Jonas did not seem to mind. Rather, like what Philip saw in his face, he seemed to be glad about it. Jonas’s hand snaked down Philip’s trembling body, down to his waist, and went for the door to open. Philip had completely forgotten about the stinking rat. He quickly rolled down his underpants and kneeled beside the bed. “Not too fast. It might hurt.” Jonas remained silent behind him.
Philip was too proud of what he was going to do. Rather, what was going to be done to him. He pictured the face of his father in his mind, cursing him, calling him an envious faggot—that he envied him because he could not accept his son was more beautiful than him. He was laughing so loud in his thoughts. He laughed like a girl.
And as Jonas towered over his body, Philip felt his head hurt as if a power drill was driving through his temple. It was for the first time his head hurt. Does it mean I have finally embraced my true nature? I’m gay! I’m out! Bah!
He turned his head to look at Jonas, congratulating himself for getting such a prized trophy. But what he saw struck him down with fear. He shouted. Father was right all along. He screamed like a girl, but it was not really for very long.
Philip never had headaches. It was a trait from a scrupulous father whose sole obsession was penalizing his only son for a limped wrist; whose homophobic tendencies due to Baptist beliefs had driven Philip to become the loser that he is now: a gay Physics teacher in his mid-40s with no sexual exploits whatsoever, whose existence became the example of a perfectly wasted life space.
That he never had headaches however wasn’t what even made him a bit special or extraordinary. As a kid, he stared at the sun till his eyes hurt (always hoping he would develop some special powers to strike down his father every time he sacks and beats him up); but his head never hurt. Bah! He read books in poor lighting till his eyes hurt (he read Nancy Drew); but his head never did. Baaaaahh! He dared coursing through Applied Physics in the Academy and studied the most mind-boggling of math problems. But it was always to no avail. It was as if his headaches were somewhat connected to his sexual preference, a strange and unusual occurrence.
He lived a life of boredom, in utter mediocrity, until one day, he gave up his ventures with headaches (and his gay-hood) and had completely forgotten about them—until that day he showed up.
His name was Jonas. Quite a shy boy at nineteen, Philip thought. Messy hair, tearful eyes, pale skin, poor posture, cute nonetheless. He knew the boy wasn’t from around.
Jonas unfolded a crumpled paper from his backpack and gave it to Philip. “Still have the room?” he asked him. Philip gave it a thought. He was supposed to ask him if he had work to pay the rent, if he was schooling; but he didn’t. The boy seemed harmless. “Five hundred just for this month. I don’t accept payments in advance.”
Philip was anxious of letting anyone enter his house (probably because he did not have friends or refused to have some or that to him bringing someone, especially a boy, to his home felt like going inside a motel with a callboy—probably because the gay community denied him for being an ultra-fag in the closet. Everyone including his students knew he was gay, but they never dared ask or even implied they knew).
The house was a small one with two bedrooms, a sala and a dining area; barely enough for a decent home. He was not particular with furniture and other fixtures, so much that the house looked as bland and boring as Goldilock’s porridge. If he was unsure of his desires, he was pretty sure his house was an anti-thesis to the word “gay.”
His study table was pushed to the wall near the sofa. On top of it were books and exam papers, cream-colored Post-Its that labeled every stack of paper, a white mug with a red cartoon hero known as “Super Dad!” printed on the side. The boy was amazed on how organized he was, to which he replied with a faint smile.
He showed Jonas the room where he should stay. The boy thought the room was just enough for him: a bed just about his size, a lamp, and a side table. (Philip was saving the room to be his love nest. But he abandoned the thought ages ago.) He lent him an electric fan for fifty pesos a month. Everything was a bargain for Philip’s first boarder. He wasn’t quite sure though why he sent out flyers for “Available bed space” a week ago. Anyway, he thought, someone had come (come, hmmm…), so he never again gave it a thought.
The first week was particularly awkward for Philip. He sometimes forgot he had a boarder and would freak out to find a stranger sitting on the sofa, staring at him. The boy did not talk much, Philip did not ask much himself despite the urges to know everything about the boy. But that was going to be the least of his problems.
On one night, while he was entranced in taking notes for his class the next day, he heard something grumbling behind him. A slobbering breath. He thought it came from a large animal with padded feet, running around behind him. When he turned his back, he saw nothing but the main door slowly closing and what seemed to be a bushy grey tail disappearing in a blip. He went back to note-taking and dismissed the thought.
The next day after class, he went to the library to check on some titles and read the periodicals. A book with a wolf for a cover illustration grabbed his attention. It lay alone on the table beside him. “My Roommate, the Werewolf” was written by some unpopular Italian author. The blurbs on the back cover did not say much of the book. He checked it out anyway.
When he got home, the boy was standing at the dining area boiling water. He was shirtless. Philip was completely dumbfounded to have seen the body of a god—that one he only saw in underwear models and construction workers; that his IQ dropped to abysmal feats; that he threw his things to the floor, rushed for the boy, drove him on top of the dining table, and kissed—more like licked—his well-contoured body until—“Phil?” The boy was staring across him from the dining area, with a confused look. “Anything wrong? You look flushed.” He told him he was sick and then quickly went inside his room, locked the door, and continued his newly-found fantasies while touching himself.
Weeks passed. Philip had mustered the strength to actually start a conversation with the boy. He learned he was not as dim-witted as he used to think. The boy was an old soul, a deep, mysterious presence in front of him; a Dalai Lama trapped in Victor Basa’s body. At times he would wear short shorts and would “accidentally” drop something in front of the boy while showing off his pear-shaped (hideous) ass, all in the name of seduction. The boy though did not even budge, much to his dismay.
One night, he planned a dinner-for-two, disguised as his birthday party with heart-shaped balloons and candles all over. It was past midnight and the boy had not yet come home. Giving up on his attempts, he retired to bed and found the newspaper for that day. He read the headlines: “Boy dies unusual death.” It was a news item detailing the bizarre incidence of a four-year-old’s death. His head was found a few meters away from his body, chest ravaged, internal organs missing, thigh muscles scraped to the bone. The report said the kid was attacked by a large animal the size of an adult carabao. Err… Philip dropped the newspaper. Eww… Disgusting. He found a book on the bedside table. It was the wolf book he borrowed weeks ago. He did not remember placing it there, however, he browsed through it. He was looking for the “good parts” as he was not that interested to finishing the novel anyway. One particular paragraph caught his eye though.
“Jose lay in bed reading a book Amarula lent him. She bet him it was the ‘scariest shit’ she’s ever read. But Jose was someone who couldn’t get frightened so easily. And so he read on without minding the empty bed across his—Ryan must have roamed the streets to find himself a good fuck. Horny bastard!Philip opened the curtains, surprised to see the moon had waxed to its fullness.
“Time passed by so slow. Jose paused for awhile to look at the night sky. It was a full moon, orange and odd, with rings of light—”
“—He turned to the side table adjacent to his bed to check what time it was—”Two o’clock in the morning, Philip had checked. Funny book, he mused.
“—Jose was about to stand up when he heard a rustling noise outside his window.He peered outside. Nothing. Relieved, he continued reading and actually told himself that he was beginning to enjoy the book. On the next page, there was an illustration of Jose reading a book in his bed. Beside him was a window, the moon could be seen in it. However, one part of the illustration had struck Philip dead in terror. Outside the window near Jose, among the bushes, was a familiar pair of horrors one could only discern as monstrous. They were a pair of yellow eyes watching eagerly on Jose.
Someone or something was moving among the bushes—”
Philip threw the book and fumbled to close the curtains when the same hungry eyes met his. He didn’t move, not a muscle, for fear the beast might lunge towards him. And the thing came out of the shadowy bushes, coming at him face to face with only the thin sheet of glass between them. The devil. It opened its huge mouth with its yellow, sharp teeth; stuck out its tongue, and licked the glass. But Philip knew it was he the beast wanted to lick. The devil has come to eat me.
That morning, Philip woke up from the glaring sun’s rays that entered his room. He did not remember what happened last night. Every time he tried, all he could gather were dark, blurry images of him reading a book and looking outside the window. He felt tight and wanting to pee. It was a Saturday.
Moving listlessly towards the bathroom door, he noticed Jonas’ door was open. He slowly opened it to take a peek if he was inside sleeping—wishing he was in his boxers, that sort that covered almost nothing. He stuck his face inside and was appalled by the reeking smell. A dead rat lay on the floor. Immediately he closed the door. When he turned around, Jonas was there looking at him intently as if he wanted to eat Philip with his sinister eyes. He was paler than usual, an eerie lightness in skin color that nearly resembled a vampire’s.
He gathered every bit of himself and told Jonas about the stinking rat. But the boy seemed as if he was not listening. Slowly Jonas took small steps towards Philip who in shock of Jonas’ sudden change in attitude walked backwards, to find himself cornered near the door. The boy stood inches from him, his face far enough from his. Then, without him suspecting Jonas kissed him, torridly—sucking the air from lungs, pushing his tongue inside his. Philip pushed him away only to tell him that “I’m still a virgin.”
But Jonas did not seem to mind. Rather, like what Philip saw in his face, he seemed to be glad about it. Jonas’s hand snaked down Philip’s trembling body, down to his waist, and went for the door to open. Philip had completely forgotten about the stinking rat. He quickly rolled down his underpants and kneeled beside the bed. “Not too fast. It might hurt.” Jonas remained silent behind him.
Philip was too proud of what he was going to do. Rather, what was going to be done to him. He pictured the face of his father in his mind, cursing him, calling him an envious faggot—that he envied him because he could not accept his son was more beautiful than him. He was laughing so loud in his thoughts. He laughed like a girl.
And as Jonas towered over his body, Philip felt his head hurt as if a power drill was driving through his temple. It was for the first time his head hurt. Does it mean I have finally embraced my true nature? I’m gay! I’m out! Bah!
He turned his head to look at Jonas, congratulating himself for getting such a prized trophy. But what he saw struck him down with fear. He shouted. Father was right all along. He screamed like a girl, but it was not really for very long.
3.13.2008
Janina Did It Again
Introducing--Janina San Miguel, the Philippines' representative to the Miss World 2008.
Haiz. Haha. Thanks to DJ Dense Modesto we can really laugh on the floor with awesome choreography. LOL
Haiz. Haha. Thanks to DJ Dense Modesto we can really laugh on the floor with awesome choreography. LOL
Anime Britney
Britney sang one, if not the most, horrible covers of all time. I heard it on the radio: a promotional ad for her first and most successful album to date. At first I kinda was a bit excited. Course she was gonna sing in a cappela. The world wanted to hear that. But when she started on the very first note of Journey's Open Arms (which was later on covered by the unstoppable Mariah Carey), I almost threw myself across the room, pricked my ears with unsharpened Mongol pencils, twisted my neck off my body and stuck it up my ass where all I'll ever hear is the muted sound of fecal movements and my guts regurgitating. I don't need to elaborate. You get the gist.
Decades later, she's still at it. Yet up until now her life isn't published in Marketing books or made as a prime example of one hella good marketing strategy. Yes, by all means, Britney is a product of the most brilliant promotional assholes--pro'ly far more better than the ones they have at the Pentagon. She's one global conspiracy that married thrice (was it?), birthed twice (?), and had the guts to expose the corruptions of General Vulva, Major Labia, and Pubis Amoure.
Despite everything unfortunate that had happened to her, it's then safe to say that cliched line "she's a force to be reckoned with"? Well, definitely. She's entertainment. Pro'ly the only real entertainer if George Clooney is the last real actor on earth.
The video for her third single "Break the Ice" premiered on BlackoutBall.com She's featured as an anime superheroine complete with all the tight-fitting, body-hugging overalls typical of a Britney video. Doesn't that make her even more two-dimensional than she already is?
But I think it's awesome. One thing that really impresses me about her is that despite her life getting fucked up so much, she can still stand up live onstage and do muscle contractions.
Children of Harajuku (and the Current Jap Fashion Trends)
First of all, I don't scatter myself along the sidewalks of the famous Harajuku Station in, well duh, Japan. Neither do I push myself in a parade of eccentricity called as Harajuku street style. If you don't know what that looks like, you can check out Gwen Stefani's Harajuku Girls or buy one of my fave mags (eew, the phrase is just too Cosmo, too gay to swallow [uhmm, gay-er! {you say that while flicking your wrist, pouting your lower lip like a male cheerleader exclaiming "You go girlfriend!"])--FRUiTS.
My real reason for adopting the title is--it just sounded cool, okay. Nothing to it. And it sounds pretty catchy, too. Oh. I think I'm being a bit too defensive. Yeah. Right.
Anyhow, it amazes me how Japan can hold onto their uniqueness in the Age of Homogeny, especially when shoppers the world over interpret luxury as a form of experience and not in terms of monetary value (as was the case during a time when Gianni Versace still had the chance to moan and tremble underneath the weight of Andrew Cunanan).There might have been some foreign influences (such as the obsession of Japanese women over Louis Vuitton bags), but recently Japanese aged 18 to 27 have gone for fashion houses with no "logos."
It became obvious with the success of Mastermind Japan with its designers Masaaki Homma
and Yohji Yamamoto and the prevalence of street style among the youth. The high-end Japanese label celebrated its 10th-year anniversary last year.
My real reason for adopting the title is--it just sounded cool, okay. Nothing to it. And it sounds pretty catchy, too. Oh. I think I'm being a bit too defensive. Yeah. Right.Anyhow, it amazes me how Japan can hold onto their uniqueness in the Age of Homogeny, especially when shoppers the world over interpret luxury as a form of experience and not in terms of monetary value (as was the case during a time when Gianni Versace still had the chance to moan and tremble underneath the weight of Andrew Cunanan).There might have been some foreign influences (such as the obsession of Japanese women over Louis Vuitton bags), but recently Japanese aged 18 to 27 have gone for fashion houses with no "logos."
It became obvious with the success of Mastermind Japan with its designers Masaaki Homma
and Yohji Yamamoto and the prevalence of street style among the youth. The high-end Japanese label celebrated its 10th-year anniversary last year.
Speak Japanese
I must admit: my obsession with anime has led me to learn Japanese all over again. After my stint trying to speak Japanese a decade ago (there were also failed attempts at French, German, Chinese, and Tagalog [?!]), I've gone back into twisting and swirling my tongue like what you'd do when giving a girl a nasty oral--or to uhh a guy, but then that'd mean sticking your face on (in?) his ass. It's fun (not the licking part [well, it is but that's not today's topic]), especially if you're into simple conversational phrases which you'd normally hear from anime characters.
It's a bit troubling though. Especially when you're doing it on your own, learning a language seems to be a difficult task for some such reasons as--
- you wouldn't know how you'd sound like talking in Japanese until you say it out loud. If you do, others might think you're a nerdy dim-wit. Hiding in the john, trying to speak softly so that people won't hear you and think that you're a crazed lunatic sitting on the toilet (with the toilet cover down [and possibly your pants, too]) brooding on his next attempt to x in public.
I don't know how long it would take me to master Japanese considering that I don't have the equipment and the right notes--and most importantly, someone to practice with. Well, I guess some things are meant to done alone, huh?
Spitting Koreans
Imagine a guy with eternally gaping fish lips kneeling before you, holding a diamond ring while looking like fish out of the water. His eyes are like those of a fish too: placed along the temples of the head, staring at you--with his fish mouth open, saying in the most romantic tone, "Ngo ngo ngongo ngo-ngo ngo, Ngo!"That how I see Koreans sometimes. Asians with flawless skin, fine hair, weird teeth, and humungous calves. That perspective is the same as how Americans see Filipinos as small, brown, English-speaking monkeys wearing a horde of bling-blings. But if Filipinos are monkeys, Koreans to me are fish (Spitting Koreans sounds like a name of a fish that looks like an archerfish). Yep, men and women with fish heads, invading the country in schools for our schools. The diaspora is inspired of course by the willingness to learn English, Chinese's arch-nemesis in the Tongue War. Koreans are cool, I can't deny that. But I don't like that spitting-anywhere-I-want habit of theirs. It really messes up the image I have of them as as one of the top producers of film and TV shows in Asia (naaaah, I'm just being an absolute turd). God knows how many times I've watched My Sassy Girl. But, seriously, Koreans and sputa aren't really a great combination. Shanghai, China as seen in the graphic dealt with public spitting. I wonder when will Koreans do the same. It's part of their culture, yes and I cannot incriminate them for that. But if you're on foreign soil, you try to adapt right?
Yes, Koreans and phlegm form the greatest love affair. But PDA for them is probably the most sickening scene of all time. Filipinos, like any normal human being, spit. We might be spitting more frequently than the Koreans, but their's is on a totally different level. They spit anywhere, anytime, anyhow. How they do it? Here's how:
Altogether now: curl up that tongue, channel all your energy at the back of your uvula (you know that bell thingie that kinda tickles everytime you get an oral), and in a full, resounding chorus that can kill God's eardrums--everybody now, "HHHUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKK!"
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