Tomorrow

Tell me, did you look for me?
Your eyes move; they are slow and tired, but they say you did.
I smile and summon a whisper.
There is, however, no sound; there are just no words.
We are both weary.
The days have been long, and the nights have been longer.
I hold your hand. It's trembling.
Calm down, calm down, you say to yourself.
You rub my palm, and you realize it is dry and warm. And real.
You can stop now; it's over, I say.
Because I also did look for you.

Finish Lines

Finally, after over a year, I'm finally updating my dormant account! For good old times' sake, I re-read and re-reviewed my previous posts and -- surprise, surprise -- I have been entertained. So, maybe, in a week or two, I'll write again with the same enthusiasm and randomness as I did when my "creative" (as opposed to "legal") juices were still, well, in my glass.

Oh, I also checked the logging activity of my recuperating blog, and -- surprise, surprise again -- I have readers and comment-ers. Shockingpalooza there. Though all of the comments were posted in only one of my old movie reviews, the remarks are very much appreciated. Most of them agreed that the movie's ending initially puzzled them, but, upon closer scrutiny, decided that it was unwaveringly clear. Yes, people, that movie's ending wasn't as bad as some critics put it. Well, at least, on our side.

When watching movies, I always tell myself that even when the credits are rolling -- despite the last scenes being seemingly conclusive -- the story subsists. Evidently, one may construe a narrative differently; however, it is ultimately the viewer who decides what really happens. After all, nothing's plain black and white nowadays.

Speaking of movies and endings, one of the trending topics in Twitter weeks ago was "favorite movie quotes". I would have easily tweeted that line from the ending of American Beauty when Kevin Spacey's character was shot and his life flashed back seconds before he died. There was a mention of a balloon bursting and of life being too beautiful. Unfortunately, the entirety of that quote did not go well with Twitter's character limit, so I bailed out of the trending caravan. Nonetheless, it was an exemplary ending: visually crimson, emotionally raw, and plainly real.

Anyhow, so much for that. I'll be going back to my weekend corner. And, oh, Peter Pan still has the best ending 'cause it really has none.

A.

I want us to leave this place.
Not now, though.
Not yet, not yet.
I want us to wait.

The silence hides.
When it comes, we will.I want you to hear this.How it beats, how it beats for you.

Of Office Hours and Of Life

Okay, so here I am sitting on my creaking office chair, clueless of what to do for the next two hours. Unless a matter requiring urgency suddenly crops up, I have no more pending work to be done today. According to my soon-to-be-retired planner, the position paper has to wait until tomorrow – or Wednesday next week. 

Anyhow, my brain cells got fried too early today because of a conversation I had with one of the employees of the company. He was claiming a massive amount (this is an understatement) in order to have his case settled with the labor arbiter. Maybe, if had not given etiquette and sensibility the slightest of gravity, I could have shoved his demands to the very innards of that former-first-son-turned-alleged-marginalized-sector-representative whose face is as incredibly wide as that employee's money claims.

Conversely, I am not in the proper state to get things done with propriety if office work is concerned. So, here I am, finally “updating” my “nearing-dormancy” blog site.

So, what to write? What to write?

My work… No. I wouldn’t even dare mention any adjective or what-have-you relative to my employment apart from those provided above for fear that one of my bosses or one co-employee (who may have been convicted of espionage if only the elements in the Revised Penal Code included the term “workplace”) may inadvertently discover and – good grief – subscribe to my BlogSpot account that already boasts itself of 8 followers. (Yey? Haha.)

So… what else?

Hmm. How about my renewed (or resurrected) lease on life in this polluted city?

Well, let me see. Aside from staying and gorging my expenses in another rented space in yet another city within this metropolis (I used to stay somewhere in Manila before going back to the province after law school and the bar exams, only to be back again here after almost 2 years), there really are no substantial changes screaming recognition in this part of the world.

Oh, wait, there are: 1) instead of being a 24/6 student, I am now a 12/6 parcel of the workforce and 2) yes, the satiating of my physiological cravings no longer depend on the financial sanity of my parents. In other words, I am now my own teacher and spender.

Gone are the law school years when on a regular weekday, I would do the following things that were worse (or better?) than routine: wake up, drink coffee, study for four hours, eat lunch, study again, bathe, get dressed, get a jeep, go to school, get anxiety attacks, forcibly recite and/or (more) forcibly answer exam questions, get frustrated, ask myself what I was doing with my life, whine, go home, eat dinner, talk/rant with my sister, watch tv, whine again (louder this time), prepare to sleep, sleep and wake up… and repeat all the preceding verbal words/phrases over and over... and over again. Oh, whining may be inserted in any of those verbs.

Also goners are the days when I would ask from my parents those bills with faces, which I always hoped would carry that of Benigno Aquino, at the very least.

However, these past months, there had been times when I wished that those days could have stayed longer.

After all, the things I had to worry about then were limited to my tenure in law school, the bar exams, and how to get the then-hot iPod Video for less. Now, my worries no longer are confined within the realms of the academic and the technological; work and making it out of life successfully have been added. And, holy piece of cornfield, they are humongous additions!

As time passes, I realize that life really requires much from every living thing that has it (yes, I'm referring to life itself). Humans (unfortunately, that includes me) have always been expected to live life to the fullest, to exceed expectations, to beat the odds, and to outlast almost everything, even to the extent of defying the bounds of normal life (mortality may come to mind but that is already way beyond the matter). Success, or happiness, must be a continuous and ceaseless ambition; it has to be sustained for it is as sulky as the absence of failure, or misery.

I, for one, tell myself every day that I can always be better; that I can finish all the tasks scheduled; that I can win all the cases I am handling; that I can pay the bills on time; that I can buy myself a high-end DSLR or a MacBook Air, or that condo unit and that car; that I can make my parents and my sibs proud; that I can make my relationship with my partner last as long as this lifetime; and, that I can do just about anything I can think of. But, sometimes, everything just gets quiet... and stops.

Just so suddenly, I have no dreams, hopes, or even prayers. And, just like in moments of despair as depicted in the movies, the place darkens and ultimately fades.

Oh well, there really are days that are plain downers; they just surprisingly surface and throw a party while you're turning into buckets of pure inanity.

Not too long ago, when I passed the bar exams (which I perceived was the hardest trial I ever had to conquer in life), I thought everything would be like a breeze of Shakespearean summer, or a walk amidst the Canterbury grasses. Akala ko, kung abogado na ako, madali na ang lahat. But, no, there had been subsequent trials worthy of overthrowing even the very bane of the bar exams (though some were just setbacks and losses not worth keeping).

It just never gets easy. There are the expectations, the frustrations and the never-ending quest for the evasive self-actualization (what really is it, anyway?). As they say, every day is a battle.

Indeed, every effin' day keeps you watching, keeps you wanting, and keeps you alive. Every effin' day keeps you keeping up. But, really, sometimes, you just have to breathe.

I just have to breathe.

So, now, here I am, taking a breather and trying to do what I've always loved but forsaken: random writing and trying to make sense. (Do I? Haha.)

Erm, it's almost 7 na pala. I should have left minutes ago. So much for that. I'm off.

Oh, I'm happier now. I have finally managed to get rid of the cobwebs in my blog and I'll be seeing the best part of my every day in a few minutes. Did I ever mention that I love life (especially the hours after 7)? :D

Identity Crisis

Last night, I read the now famous -- wait, now infamous -- column by Mr. James Soriano, courtesy of one of my friends' linked post. After reading it, maybe for the sheer disbelief, I read it again. Lo and behold, I read every word of Mr. Soriano right the first time: yes, Victoria, the Filipino language, as Mr. Soriano puts it, is for the street people, for the "masa," and for the uneducated. I even thought that Mr. Soriano had a better term for the "streetwise" Filipinos: the unlearned.

For a few minutes, I turned red (well, I didn't really because I am not mestizo; I am very Filipino -- no pun intended). I swear, if only I had mutant powers, I could have transformed myself into the likes of Incredible Hulk or Wolverine (one person could attest to that) and clobbered this arrogant, pathetic creature (by the way, I looked at his Facebook account, and if indeed he IS the same Soriano, I have this to say: Tsong, you neither look “learned” nor “privileged”; you look more like Rowan Atkinson).

Apparently, I was helpless. All I could maneuver was a minute act of simultaneously liking and commenting on the linked post. I even expressed that I would be re-posting the link. I did but my comments were not fully published because of their length so I decided to write a note instead; hence, this.

Okay. So, if you're one of those "street" people who aren't comfy with conversational English (stuttering and pausing for 3 seconds to think of supplicating words) or who had "Tagalog-ized" cartoons for afternoon delights during their pubescent years ("Cedie, Ang Munting Prinsipe" or "Princess Sarah," anyone?), sorry na lang, but Mr. James Soriano thinks you're not "privileged" and "learned" enough.

Well, if being "privileged" and "learned" requires adulating a "foreign" language whose "congenital" usage and "perceived" mastery are whimsically passed off as staples of status (although some of these "privileged" and "learned" people -- gods and goddesses of self-conceit -- look more garish than their "kanto-loving" counterparts), I'd rather be less fortunate and uneducated.

The actuality is, contrary to Soriano’s delusions, we, Filipinos, have an identity. Yes, we do have that; the problem is it's just not made of fortress walls, but of Christmas lights with buttons rivaling that guy named Jack of a place called "All Trades." Our identity as a Filipino people has been sold, resold, haggled, retailed and subjected to all sorts of exchange that at the end of every marketing day, we either turn out as unripe or slightly burnt (racist tirade!) Americans, rough-heeled Europeans or pseudo-romanticized Latinos. Our very identity as Filipinos is either overpowered or marred by our inferiorities or insecurities that we are sometimes – or usually – paragons of identity crises (yes, they are not limited to sexuality). Is this due to history, media or what-have-you? You choose.

The funny thing is, the supposed “privileged” and “learned” people – those who were allegedly born with silver spoons carved from the plains of Mount Olympus or Mount Apo or the clubhouse in Ayah-lah, Alah-bhang (intonation, please) and those who had no idea of who, for the sake of hors d’oeuvres, Panchito is – also have the same infraction that their un-“privileged” and un-“learned” co-citizens possess: they also try painstakingly to belong. Some of them (this is not faulty generalization) choose to be identified with people, things, culture, and, yes, language commonly identified with the first world countries of North America and of Europe (just not Filipino, puh-lease) just because they are, well, subjectively better in every sense of the word: better looking, economically better, culturally better, and historically better. Better, better, better, and just better.

These supposed “privileged” and “learned” people detest, if not abhor, being recognized with the so-called majority of the confused and beggared denizens of the third world that is the Philippines. As a result, the use of the "foreign" language has been crafted by these people (who are wholly Filipinos, save for their discriminate tongues) as an unwavering announcement of perceived elitism and an affront to anything considered of lesser lineage.

Come to think of it, a considerable number of Filipinos – the ones using Tagalog or any other local dialect, the non-English – try hard to be "sosyal," while the "learned" Filipinos try hard to be "social." The former try to sound more well-off than the rest of the third world while the latter try to sound at par with the posh that is of the first world. Common denominator: both try TOO hard. So, we (a big number of Filipinos) are all "second-rate, trying hard copycats" in one way or another.

Anyhow, so much for my raging piece of ranting pie. Uuwi na ako kasi alas-s’yete na at may naghihintay sa’kin. Tatawid ako sa kalye at maghihintay sa kanto ng dyip; magsasabi sa drayber ng “bayad po”; at magbabanggit ng “para po” ‘pag bababa na. Abogado ako at galing sa pamilya na masasabi ko namang hindi pinagkaitan. Sa tingin ko, edukado at nakakaangat naman ako kahit papaano pero, ginagamit ko pa rin ang Filipino.

(Postscript: I should have used Filipino for me to be more convincing. Well, I guess, Mr. Soriano is right after all. Where’s my identity? :p)

The Day I Stopped Stopping

The day I stopped was the day I stood against the wall.
The day I stopped was the day I had neither ladders nor ropes.
The day I stopped was the day I carried nothing but spaces.
The day I stopped was the day I looked above and called on the skies.
The day I stopped was the day I felt steel raindrops, pouring and pouring.
The day I stopped was the day I bowed my head, loosely and vulnerably.
The day I stopped was the day I saw nothing but the faceless: the stones on the ground.
The day I stopped was the day I bore finally the bruises on my feet.
The day I stopped was the day I conceded the scars etched on my skin.
The day I stopped was the day I thought I had given everything up.
The day I stopped was the day I turned around it: the darkened and the ruin.
The day I stopped was the day I closed my palm, creases and creases, and held only to air.
The day I stopped was the day I did not look back.
The day I stopped was the day I ran for meters.
The day I stopped was the day I ran for miles.
The day I stopped was the day I ran for nowhere.

~ ~ ~

The day I stopped was the day I stood beside a wall.
The day I stopped was the day I had again neither ladders nor ropes.
The day I stopped was the day I carried nothing but the olden spaces.
The day I stopped was the day I looked above and called on the skies anew.
The day I stopped was the day I felt brazen raindrops, drizzling and drizzling.
The day I stopped was the day I bowed my head, imagining and hoping.
The day I stopped was the day I saw nothing but the perennial: the grasses on the earth.
The day I stopped was the day I had borne not bruises on my feet, but traces of one's face. Yours.
The day I stopped was the day I surrendered the scars but not the skins in between.
The day I stopped was the day I thought I had given everything up.
The day I stopped was the day I turned towards you: the illuminated and the dream.
The day I stopped was the day I opened my palm, creases and all, and held yours. Tightly.
The day I stopped was the day I did not look back.
The day I stopped was the day I stopped running for meters.
The day I stopped was the day I stopped running for miles.
The day I stopped was the day I stopped running for nowhere.

~ ~ ~

The day I stopped was the day I was.
The day I stopped was the day I began.
The day I stopped was the day I stopped stopping.

~ ~ ~

Today is the day I am.
Today, I will not look back.
Today, I will not run but, I will walk for meters.
Today, I will not run but, I will walk for miles.
Today, we will not run but, we will walk for somewhere.
Today, I have stopped for you have made me begin and never ever stop. :]

Alcohol and Thereafter

Tonight, I've finally managed to resurrect my craving for writing. I'd always wanted to do so but the time didn't allow such (well, actually, my social networks, torrent-ed movies and PC games just got too demanding).

Or maybe, time did permit such.

Below is a "supposed" post "supposedly" published approximately a week ago. I was just a sissy then for not having it published and keeping it in the drafts folder because I feared that it was too "alcoholic" and "wasted" for one's taste. I was too drunk -- and undeniably beyond the safe perimeter of my lucid interval -- that I even entitled it "I am drunk and I don't care."

Yes, Virginia, I do drink and once in a while, I do that thing people call "insanity." I've got organs, too, you know. (Sometimes though, I wish they were made of stone or of dead material. Haha.)

Anyhow, for laughs, here's that post (pardon the language, the bitter gourd-feel and the disorganization):

For quite sometime, I've been posting entries in the form of poems. I don't even know if you can call them such. I have no "learned" education when it comes to poem composition, anyhow; all I know is I have been publishing my thoughts in such form because they should be firstly understood differently. After all, poems -- again, if you can call them such -- are to be comprehended always in different lights. Further, I like it better if people don't get an idea by just merely reading it but, by grasping it -- tightly.

Well, enough about that. Oh yes, the title. Again, my entries usually are titled vaguely. I like them that way -- again. Unfortunately, I am not in my proper state of mind at this very moment so, I might as well be more transparent; be more honest; be more direct; and be more erroneous. So, pardon me if I may be a little -- or very -- disorganized. I just don't want to sleep yet. I want to savor the beauty that is the misery of intoxication. (Quite scary, I know.)

I'm aware that I'd be laughing the very moment I regain my sanity later -- or ironically, I'd take pride in this foolishness. People are too dishonest nowadays, anyway; thus, it is worthier to shed a little truthfulness -- and embarrassment -- once in a rare while.

My best friend is leaving soon. In fact, she's at the airport now. She'll be gone in a month. Thereafter, she'll be somewhere else farther and she'll be missing longer. Friends have already gone ahead of her, in search of places far richer and far greener than this place whose leaders -- mostly, at least -- don't give a piece of damn about their desperate co-citizens.

x x x

Oh well. That's that. Frankly, I also don't quite understand it that well (I am presuming the reader doesn't either). It's too full of ideas -- or plain rants. Apparently, it's also unfinished.

Too bad, I'm not drunk now.

The Itch

What's the difference between a worm and a caterpillar?

Both of them are restless, wriggly and seemingly ugly in their ways; yet, the distinction is this: the worm -- with its body intently philandering almost every surface it passes -- stays wrinkled and devours the filth of the earth throughout its lifetime while the caterpillar has to be imprisoned in pitch black just long enough for it to lose its wrinkles and to sip the sweetness of the flowers.

Come to think of it, people are either of the two.

Climate

The rain has stopped but the leaves drop its tears as the wind continues to sway
The clouds are crawling in threads, pale and faded with their nimbus rags
The sky no longer scratches to see for the pitch has loosened its black
Below, I stand still, my skin shivering as its hairs dance slowly with a rhythm unknown


The worst is over, the spirits whisper without words of thunder
The silence turns into howling, pleading and persisting, but the plague lingers
The leaves continue to shed as I hear their cries, covert yet bursting
I look up and as my gaze singles out a tiny ball of cloud, a leaf decides to let go


The water once on the leaf's palm drops and finds my eye, precisely and painfully
I blink -- once, twice and more than thrice -- and I blink again
Yet and yet, the water stays unmoved as my head remains tilting against the void
Then, I bow. The water slowly leaves as it rubs my cheeks, hesitantly and fearfully


The water stops on my chin as if dropping will be the end of it
After all, though it has come from above -- from anything but me -- its entirety has been mine
It has entered my eye and has left it as if it is a tear I have succumbed
Then, drop, drop, drop. Drop. The water lays on the ground: spilled and scattered


The spirits shriek
And the howling grows
I feel my mouth twitching
And my eyes wailing

Hide & Seek

Close your tired eyes
Rub your cheeks with your cold palms
Face the darkness behind me
Deafen me with your voice of numbers

I shall scamper away
With the sprain you caused
I shall, I shall

Stand beside your deceitful tree
Those branches, wider and wider
Those leaves, thousands and thousands
Won't you ever cease counting?

I shall scamper away
With the sprain I caused
I shall, I shall

Where are we? The hearts beat but the mouths are stifled
Our fingers pierce the wind but the void is sultry
In the gray, I know you have shown up again
Find me for I, too, am seeking for you

I shall not scamper away
With the sprain we caused
I shall not, I shall not
And that you know, you know.

1.1.11

The waiting was short-lived.
The longing was incessant.
The feeling was undeniable.
Further and further, we went down.
Panting and panting.
Then, release.

Pitch black turned red.
Then, red to green. And green to yellow.
Melancholy, rage, desire and then, illumination.
The glare was blinding.
Further and further, the irises withered.
Falling and falling.
Then, drop.

New sight.
New pair.

New day.
New year.

New nothing.
New everything.

New you.
New me.

New us.

Freight

Late dusk. Time of departure was undisclosed.
The train's hiss declined as the fog came closer down.
As I looked at the few passengers, I bowed.
My luggage was as diffident as their looks.

And heavy.

The letters.
The post-its.
The paper bags.
The movie tickets.
The receipts.
The bus coupons.
The books.
The pictures.
The small boxes.
Even the torn papers.

Dismal, static and unresponsive.

...And the memory.
And the nostalgia.
And the word.

Heavy. Heavy. Heavy...

Retreating, yielding and courting...
The battle. The love. The daughter of demise.

The train's hiss halted.

The burden.
The heft.
The monster.
The monster.
The monster.

Heavy.

Hours passed. As I handed over my luggage, I stared at it.
Its threads were loose and the wrinkles of its bygone bulk were dreary.
The fogs had finally settled over the station. Dawn was coming.
The once unerring void was now too full for any, for any more.
It was time to go. Time of departure.

The train hissed loudly.

It was morning.
Light, finally.

Light.

Fall

Like a leaf on an autumn day, I drop helplessly.
The branch is sturdy but, its hold is weak.
Pale yellow, thirsty and withered, the leaf floats with no sound.
Only the wind -- so gentle yet so determined -- carries it downwards... whispering, whispering muteness that deafens me.
Summer is over.

As I watch the sky -- once so light -- grow farther, I remember the warmth. The warmth that was summer. The warmth that was.
Pale brown, steady and stoic, the branch remains with no restraint.
Only the cold -- imminent and austere -- counters its apathy... bursting, bursting muteness that deafens me.
Summer is over.

To the heap of the heartless and the dead I come closer.
Silently, I join them. Still, silence knows not only assent.
Pale, pale and pale, I lay with neither sound nor restraint.
Only the crease of my skin -- sore and unrelenting -- looks up... crying, crying muteness that deafens him.
Summer is over.

The Weatherman

Tonight, I have shed rain -- inadvertently, incessantly and indifferently. It has flowed like torrents that my breathing has alternately cracked and faltered. I have never had an outpouring since that time too olden to be remembered.

Yet, with the shade that has sustained its hold and has then altered my perceived frailty, my ducts have slowly cleared.

Your presence -- undeniable and never really gone -- has tamed the nimbus.

The rain has stopped.

Finally, clear skies are upon us.
Once again....
Once again.

Stuck

I miss the apathy.
The chaos.
The speed.
The insomnia.

I miss you, Manila.

I miss your pain.

But, I need to miss you more.

Hemorrhage

My heart is great.
It beats drums.
It pumps crimson.
And it breathes elixir.

My heart is mighty.
It is skinned with metal.
It is nailed with steel.
And it is grounded with gold.

It is beauty.

It is mine and I have given it to you.
Wholeheartedly.

Yet, yet, this thing...
Its beat deafens.
Its pump overflows.
Its breathing halts.
Its skin rusts.
Its nails loosen.
Its ground mutilates.
Its beauty fades.

And it pains like crazy.

Secret Garden

Haze.
Smoke.
Dimness.
Darkness.
Pitch black.

Then, a beat.
A thump.
A whisper.
A spoken word.
A glimmer.

With every sound, the littlest of the light grows and glows.
The music illuminating stalls my withering.
My roots dig the ground farther and my leaves possess the air wider.
Keep me moist, keep me breathing, keep me alive.
Keep me loved. Keep me loving.

ONE.

It takes:
a second to look;
a minute to risk a second glance;
an hour to assess further;
a day to decide;
a week to say the three words;
a month to make sure you aren't joking; and
a YEAR to finally affirm that from the very first moment until indefiniteness, you're right -- and yes, I am right.

I'll say these words once again for there has never been time when I was ashamed to do so -- and there never will be: I love YOU, still and always.

Human

I am completely aware that some people don't like me.

And I am completely aware that some people don't like the other, either.

Almost a year ago, a bond I forged (and still dearly hold today) with the other resembled that of an opened Pandora's Box. Many from both sides elicited varied reactions that we were petrified for alternate moments, seemingly clueless of the gravity of our once "harmless" relationship.

Indeed, humans will be humans. There is no feasible way of pleasing anyone with any single or collective move -- no matter how we painstakingly try. There will always be pride and prejudice (Jane Austen, anyone?).

But, what could we do? We have stronger hearts. So, we moved on -- surrounded by whispers too loud to mock the disguised silence, and by stares that shame even the lingering smell of unwanted air in an enclosed room.

Now -- though the whispers have allied in part with the walls, and the stares have adapted with the sight they once were incredibly amazed with -- humanity and its imperfections remain open for exhibition and lashing.

I believe that no man is completely the same with another precisely because conflict is one inevitable earthly activity. Conflict brings life to life itself. Conflicts make us think, make us greater and make us better -- even if these conflicts be of silent wars and of unintentionally cold ones.

If I be allowed to, may I ask: must love -- that "simple four-letter word" be always made complicated and restrained when the only premise for social ranting is the fact that the parties composing it aren't the ones "we" are used to seeing -- and believing?

Borderline

No matter how blurry one's sight is and no matter how persistent his legs are rooted in someone's ground... either rain, storm or sanity may take down the smog and soften the soil. Another, another... another -- more illuminated and deserved -- may be its unintentional offspring.