One recent infant milk commercial shows a one-year old child who is learning to parrot her mom.Three houses away, another mother prides her 10-month old girl who can tell her facial parts by pointing. Somewhere along a certain sphere of space, a poet writes to his nephew about federalism and diarrhea, the way every writer tries hard to sound scholarly serious and comic at the same time. His nephew, who is yet to learn language, will stare curiously at the letters, and will eventually crumple the paper to his mouth. But the writer is clever enough to save soft copies of everything he writes.

This is a soft copy of what I won’t say. For words, when spoken, dissolve into shadows and shadows never return the words and the shapes of their meanings.

Five more years, you will be able to read this but with little understanding. You will see the words individually, that each is spelled differently from one another. Your father will be there to help you pronounce the word diarrhea, which was featured earlier in this effort.I do not despair that you trail other one-year-olds in a stupid lexical race cheered by overexcited parents. There is more to being a baby than to baby talk and wink. There is more to being a baby than to become entertainment. Let the babies of the neighborhood sing and dance the earliest symptoms of their mediocrities.

Ten years from now, you will write me a birthday song to the tune of Hey Jude. Hey Bum, it will say, don’t make it bad… You will refer to this letter, that I shouldn’t make bad remarks about babies. ‘Won’t you have one?’ You will begin to get intrigued about my fertility, or about my sexuality. You won’t understand boy, you won’t understand. They are scattered about everywhere.

Two more years and you will seek the pleasure of learning to even greater heights; you will borrow my arguments to counter those of your dad’s. Let not school interfere with my education. You will later realize that I also borrow from other people’s opinion. And there will come a point that I will borrow money from you.

Along the way you will find yourself struck with an inexplicable attraction to a girl. You will knock at my door in the dead of dawn with a pen and a scented paper. You will call me Neruda, Tito Lito or simply Bum, depending on what you need from me.And I will let you watch movies about poetry and murder, and porn too.

I can see that you will inherit the prudence and the temper of your father, but the other half is from mom. And that is your explosive potential. Like a dormant volcano, you are a critic in the making. You will rage against everything I raged against: political partisanship, censorship and astrology. But we will separate in views with astrology when I reach sixty, when I have retired from being a skeptic and started to listen to horoscopes and feng shui. I will tell you, in one of our beer sessions:

Listen, both of us were born in the year of the Ox. That’s a one-in-twelve chance. And you will have to ride the same rollercoaster love I rode.

You will secretly believe me, but not without being vocally opposite.

Oh, boy. I already have gone to lengths when all I wanted to do is write you a birthday letter. Let me stop from here before I say everything. I still have years to improve my prose. Next year, I’ll write better. Next year, I will write things that I will miss from you. Because next year, I will never see your toothless smile no more. Next year, your cry will slide half note from C to B flat. Next year, you will no longer enjoy peek-a-boo.

So next year, next decade I should say, I will invent a more mature amusement for us. Something that involves language, language that only poets like us can get a hold of.

My second favorite game is to watch you sleep. Any minute you will wake up again with the same toothless smile and we will play another peek-a-boo, my favorite game. You don’t know how lucky you are now lying peacefully in a soft, sterile sheet of cloth inside your crib, inside a home, inside a democratic country. Millions of babies now are having a hard time with the inconveniences of poverty and political instability; from insect bites to unnamable pains only the pitches of their crying can describe. More unfortunately for other infants, they are deprived of shelters to protect them from the punishing sun and the biting cold of night. Each second, a child your size will never wake again. You are so lucky to be here. You are so lucky, I am beside you. Any minute from now, the warmth of our laughter will neutralize the temperature of this air-conditioned room. Moments from now, you will open your eyes and I will take pictures of your face swollen from the nap, your lips pinker. How many children has their faces printed on tarpaulins hanging tall in the wall? How many children has their days monitored by the lenses, their every actions caught on tape? Only a single copy of my baby picture ever survived, and I wasn’t smiling there. When I look at it, I see a bright future for myself, when I face the mirror I only see the opposite. I don’t know if there exists a video recording of my infancy, or my early childhood. I’ll ask my godparents. They say I spoke too early, began to sing at the age of two, displayed a diabolical gift in mathematics and broke one too many furniture. But sometimes, you just cannot convince the world with word-of-mouths. You need documentations. You cannot trust your mother when she tells you how goddamn cute you were. But what more can you ask? You were born in the age of Friendster and Youtube, preserving the memory of your innocence is not a problem. The only concern is: will you turn out to be a wonder boy just like me? I wonder not. Success doesn’t end with talents, your father knows that very well. The only thing that is so wonderful about me is the length of my hair. There is nothing more to marvel about your uncle. While I worry about what to eat tomorrow, your insurance savings rest assured of growing far more rapid than your bones. By the time you are my age, you are already a millionaire and I already have thousands of shiny grey hairs touching the ground. But for the meantime, all you have to do now is wake up and laugh at the invisible joke that I am.

We expect those we love to show us, by their actions, the depth and complexity of their inner world, not the broad practicalities of their material situation.

—Love in the Time of Migration, Randy David

An hour before we leave, I still have my things unpacked. I don’t know what to write, how to bid adieu to Olongapo. Mama is biting her nails now, worrying that I might have gone somewhere so as to miss the trip. I don’t want to miss the trip, what I don’t want is to miss the opportunity to reveal my secrets to a friend. I never had the courage to do that but now. Some kind of courage a migrant can depend on, as when it knows it can get away with the probability of an unwanted child after a good, irresponsible fuck. So I am here in my favorite internet shop, to tell her everything in a hurry. After all, I’ll be gone for some time, away from the claws of responsibility to such a bold action, away from her further scrutiny, away from a backlash of words. I though it will feel better, but after a while, I just realized how coward I was all along, how coward I am up to now. I opt to fly against the rush of the wind. But I guess I can’t tell you why at this juncture. Time is not my friend today, I better tender my valediction.

There is nothing in Olongapo I will miss but a handful of friends, and this particular seat at this particular internet shop. Needless to say, I will miss chatting. They say, technology has yet to reach our province, that in order to connect with the world, I have to take a one-hour ride to the city, which I won’t do anyways. I need to miss it, and be missed. Mushy is at stake, there is no contact whatsoever, we will rely with spiritual communication.

Yesterday while my mom is packing her things, I saw a bayong beside her traveling bag. You know what kind of bayong I’m talking about, just imagine Caridad Sanches and her movies. We are not going to drag that with us, I told her. If you think it looks funny then I won’t ask you to carry it, she replied with a neutral voice. When I think of it now, I see her as a shining example of humility. She can afford to get better, fancier things, but she stick to her nature. Simple and practical, a mark of a genuine probinsyana. Tantamount to that of Ka-Bel, he can afford to hire a carpenter to fix the roof but…

I love my mom, I love her probinsyana tendency. Apart from the serenity of Leyte, I hope to find friendships there from people of the same frugal nature. Leyte will serve a break from the clichés and monotony of the city, it will serve me a boundless inspiration to write. To meditate about life.

Ciao. Catch you all soon. I will tell you my stories as soon as I get back to cyber life.

Dear Mushy,

Eleven days after I’ve lost Ann to a white vulture, you came. Actually, you came way back long. It is our love that followed through just recently. People shrug it off, the idea that I am able to perfect another love so easily. That is not very Lolito Go, they say. Yes, that is very mushy, I say. Somehow, mushy is a self-critical term of endearment, beside the fact that it is a derivative shortcut for mushroom. Our love like a mushroom, materialized from nowhere.

My friendster profile has never been viewed this often. In a span of two weeks, it already has more than 200 hits. Phenomenal indeed. How about you, are you selling well? Contrary to what many would like to believe, we didn’t want any hullabaloo. Tired hearts need not the public eye; we can make better use of the gloomy hours can’t we? You concentrate on photo editing, I’ll write poems, and songs. I understand should they cast doubts to our romance, for they themselves are guilty of some cheap friendster tricks every once in a while. Just look at the bulletin board. Look at how they title their inanities. If there is anything we are really guilty of, it lies on the fact that we are both proud of each other. We are both enough for each other, which helped us eliminate the troubles of picking six featured friends and arranging them either according to importance or feng shui. We only have each other for now, and we choose to proclaim that mutual exclusivity, which stirs some minor chain effect. As we expected, closer friends responded first. Some even went as far as rubbing their noses on the mushroom, inspected it closely, whether it is edible or not, natural or cultured. Inadvertently, this has come to test the sensibilities of our friends, especially in my case. Is it too much for them to ask me what ever happened to Ann? How did it go for us? Did we meet? Why not? Will I be okay? Is mushy just a coping mechanism? To fill an emotional cavity? It could have felt better for me if they let their concerns heard. I wouldn’t mind if they accuse me of making you up, at least they are concerned. For those who cared less, I will never be the same for them again. Never.

You have been what they failed to become as a friend. A human diary. You keep one of the most climactic chapters of my biography. Conversely, you let me inside your world where no one else had ever been before. A hostage then, a captive of your own doubts, you let me in to be an accidental negotiator, when all I wanted originally is just a solace in the jungle of your despair.

Our story is not unusual anymore. Especially when technology is now capable of bridging two bored, bitter or battered individuals in Paris and Timbuktu, in Samar and Kiribati. Nothing is out of reach. More especially when technology has made it possible for a kiss or a hug to be virtually felt through emoticons. Most especially when technology has given us the power to concoct as many personalities as we can for ourselves with a little help from Adobe magic seasoning.

A cyber romance is never guaranteed to last. Never mind lasting, just mind being realized. This love we have, only time can test. If after some years, when we are both professionals, and our paths will cross somewhere, and we still feel the same intensity of connection, then we probably should make a home: plants surrounding the perimeter, butterflies flutter in perfect cadence, our children marching to Mozart symphonies, their laughter thinning out into elemental hopes, dissolving into the air. Otherwise we stay friends.

Still, a lot of things can happen. Your seatmate in biology class could become your future love. I could still work some miracles to win my ideal girl, you know who she is. That separates us from other cyberlovers; we are not under the illusion that this love is invincible. What’s important is I can promise to take care of your heart, as much as you take care of mine.

1. I went to Air Supply Subic concert. Not one of my favorite bands, but still they are The Air Supply. We grew up with their music. They gave us classic singles such as All Out of Love, Chances, I Want To Give It All, Here I am etc.—songs that made me wish I wrote them, songs from which I borrow some messages of a failed romance, no matter how mushy they may seem. My general admission ticket cost P500, but as always, I managed to breach security measures and went to secure one of the most convenient seats that cost P3,000; unfortunately, I missed a digicam. Luckily, there is nothing so spectacular throughout the event a digicam could have practically missed. Surely they still sound good, but the price isn’t right. Bad stage direction (I experienced the show closely being almost at the backstage), loose security (I made it to the backstage), free drinks could have rescued it from being a total lackluster.

2. Daboy is finally laid to rest in Heritage Park, Taguig. Primetime news showed some dissatisfied fans that crowded outside the gate. They complained being muscled away from the scene. If Daboy is alive, someone commented, he wouldn’t like this, he likes us all beside him especially this day. Seriously, I thought of getting there. Four hours from Olongapo, showbiz and political personalities will flock there for sure, and they did. One would only need a digicam (which I have) and some extra guts (which I ooze with) to score some elbow-to-elbow, friendster-worthy-poses with the stars. Next time, I will grab the chance. When and who’s next? I think of Cory, not very late this year. (knock on wood)

3. Along with nationwide celebrations for the 110^th anniversary of Philippine Independence are nationwide street protests fronted by labor union leaders, party-list leaders and the youth. Days earlier, forwarded e-mails from co-writers came, inviting me to join poetry readings in Manila. One is aimed to indict the fact that we are still under the bondage of despotism, a quite tiresome idea; the other is purely for the purpose of gathering in celebration of a certain e-group’s foundation day.

4. Now for the meat of the issue. This should have been the fifth month with Ann, my ex-girlfriend. We could have been both there in Taguig, in Manila, and in Subic afterwards. Twelve is a special day, for so many reasons. But nothing is more noteworthy of twelve than what I had with her. Twelve may never signify freedom for me. Because it was on a twelfth when I let her ruled over me. With her, I needed to reinvent myself according to what she wished. Twelve will never remind me of independence neither; for it was only during with her that I felt so secured, attached to promises of holistic alleviation. But we are over before our fifth twelve. And I am coping now very well with a new love. I didn’t expect that to come, least come as quick as a whip.

Tomei: What if a robber suddenly barges inside our room and makes you choose between me and everything we’ve got. What will you choose?

Keaton: You of course. (pause)  But that’s not going to happen.

Tomei: That’s the whole point. The choice won’t happen that way. The choice happens everyday, in small things.

Above is a dialogue from Ron Howard’s film Paper. In that particular scene, Marisa Tomei gives Michael Keaton a point to ponder for the latter’s constant unavailability whenever she needs him. I am personally touched by this simple thought, which I encountered for the first time in Conrado de Quiros’ Tongues on Fire, p. 45. Although De Quiros uses the dialogue to emphasize his take on Heroism—which finds its relevance nowadays in an onset of a Jun Lozada—it resounds with an afterthought: there’s so much truth to it when applied instead to the choices we make through the course of loving. Shortly after reading the aforementioned, I unlocked myself out of my room to let her know thru this writing that I am still alive, that my heart still beats for her, that I would choose her over some other things or even the sum of those things, that I am a factory of clichés whenever I am infused with a love bug and that I always tend to inhibit myself for the mean time just to determine some verities. (Check out this older entry to understand it better.)

So in the middle of the day there’s the alarm clock from within, announcing: hey, it’s the 12^th of the month Bum, get yourself together. My one week of absence for sure makes my girlfriend feel, the way the character of Tomei feels, like she is being given away to the bandits of time. I have to prove her feeling wrong. Today is the second month since we hastily signed a commitment. Sort of like that. Well, before I forget, I must admit that I made a conceited claim last time that needs correction: she did not court me. All she did was count the ways of how she loves me. Naturally, I was skeptic upon hearing that from her in YM. It really helped that Leslie Pearl was around then to sing an advice: If the love fits wear it, if it feels good put it on. And so our story continues. All I can hope for now is that she hasn’t stopped counting the days that has gone by without me.

***

Special Thanks to Don for supplying me with Oscar-winning titles to secure a movie-marathon I am still running up to now. One of these days, I will write a longer critique for each film. As of now, I just have to say: Diving Bell and the Butterfly is pure genius that it becomes an instant favorite. Cotillard is riveting in La Vie en Rose. Sweeny Todd fails to amuse my taste for macabre. This is out of the same category but I have to let you know that, as far as I can see, Gondry’s Science of Sleep is a pretentious attempt. I hate to pontificate but it misses the Lynchian effect I was expecting, and messes a lot with dream psychology. We’ll talk about that later, you may ready your defenses.

Special thanks also to Kel Juan for his little, mushy poem (I made some revisions) I would like to dedicate to my whammy for our second monthsary:

Mahal Ko

Naho-homesick ako.

Ha? Pa’no nangyari ‘yon, nandiyan ka sa inyo?

Ang puso mo ay bahay ko, kaya’t naho-homesick ako.

Isang mahabang expressway ang pagitan natin,

sa ngayon.

Nami-miss na kita.

Mahal ko, ako’y pauwi na

Sa puso mong mapag-ampon.

1. You won’t believe this. Yesterday while I labored in front of a rented PC, I suddenly could not remember. I shook my head and thought of amnesia. I stared at the monitor; I wrote my name in a blank MS word document and ruled out amnesia. I could still remember several things like: I am in love. I want to write something. I am in an internet shop. It sucks here. But I could not remember what it was I want to write about, it seemed like time has stopped for half an eternity. I looked around and saw several empty seats. Beside me, the man with the headset was nodding, eyes wide shut. It felt so freaky. Until someone buzzed. I did not forget what to do with an instant messenger turning orange. I clicked on it and learned that it was a girl who buzzed. Her name, oh her name. I felt her name like a heartburn. How strange, we have had a talk before the phenomenon, I learned further. I scrolled up to read our entire dialogue and was astounded by the revelation. Something inside my mind whispered: forget again. But I couldn’t.

2. Just this afternoon, I found myself amid a loud pack of college students who were having fun out of everything they can think of inside the jeep. The heavy traffic provided them extra time to exhibit their pedestrian humor. I know they are cheating with happiness. One of them, a dentally challenged homosexual, eyed the sign which says: No Smoking. He then argued why there is no city ordinance that prohibits farting inside public vehicles. As I expected, each of them laughed in various pitches. I frowned to the best of my ability. Because I was alone.

3.   I really want to testify before the senate. To tell the   

     whole world that it was the First Gentleman Mike Enriquez   

     who tried to bribe me to influence the nationwide results of   

     TV ratings. ABS-CBN channel 2 deserves fair competition from

     ZTE-7.

4. I bought myself a car key. It is a versatile key. It could be a car key, a house key, a keepsake box key, a keychain. The best thing it can do is to pretend.

5. Finally, the truths are trapped between the fingers of my comb.

6. I don’t want to explain. It is one of the laziest activities. But since I explained why I don’t like to explain, I’ll explain things. Someone advised me to shave. She said I will look better without the beard. I asked her if she know about the law of the excluded middle. She simpered: you are naughty. “OK, I guess you haven’t heard about the argument of the beard,” I said. She giggled: you really think I am naïve?

7. First of all, I hate chronology. Chronology is like a girl who takes so much time in the mirror but still looks ugly. Chronology does not like me very much as well.

      8.   Kurosawa thru Rahomon edifies: We cannot be honest with

            ourselves about ourselves. We cannot talk aboutourselves

            without embellishing.

9. The truth is: I love my girl, my whammy. To explain the phenomenon of truth is impossible. To explain is pointless.

10. Variations on the word Truth by Bum.

I remember a FedEx commercial which shows breath-taking scenes of how they bait a potential recruit. It’s funny, but I cannot quite be sure about certain details since they stopped airing it some years ago. But if my memory serves me right, it stars an everyman who, oblivious of the scheme, manages to outsmart every difficult situation prearranged for him by FedEx. He finally ends up being snatched by men from inside the company’s truck. What a great catch. He deserves a job inarguably. But we are left forever unsure of whether that man needs a job, whether he likes the suddenness of it. Nevertheless, it is one of my all-time favorite 30-seconders.

Earlier today, while I’m in my locked-up isolation contemplating solitude itself, I chanced upon an old paperback that begs to be salvaged. Because my mother likes to trash kilograms of papers my five years in youth council had amassed, and because she does not distinguish between the disposable and reusable documents, I decided to scavenge the plastic bag to which she stacks all the potential candidates for the trash bin and hoped I could pick-up something of value. There I found the book along with some science journals, office documents, assorted billings, subpoenas from Smartbro’s smart-ass law partners, personal notes, etc. Thouless’ Straight and Crooked Thinking outshines the rest. Something in its cover told me I would need it and it paid to trust that instinct. The book discusses how to get rid or to counter sophisms and other intellectual dishonesties. Interesting, I thought. And after reading the first half of it, I realized how I suck at analogies; that my analogies are forced, forceless and fuzzy; that my last entry contains such, and therefore is utterly nonsensical. By the way, I haven’t given up on analogies.

There’s something in that ambush-hiring extravaganza I mentioned in the beginning that resembles my current affairs of the heart. One and probably foremost is that, I did not seek this love I have right now. It sought me. It lurked from a distance and grabbed me with a force of a black hole the moment it had the slightest of chances. The man in the ad did not fill up a form, neither did he fall in a long queue of sweating applicants, nor did he wait for his turn to impress an employer. He did not seek a job, it is the other way around. The man writing now did not schedule a plan, did not wear any guise, did not put up a trick towards winning her girl.

Now a question: Do I place an instant job and my instant girlfriend in the same level of significance?

My answer is yes.

Because landing a spot at an express delivery company, one of the biggest in the world if not the biggest; one of the most trusted if not the most trusted; is only, and will remain only, a dream for many other hard-working, meager-earning proletarians. Likewise a beautiful lady landing into your hands, a lady whose family owns a big fraction of an entire province, whose family with its equals dictates the political climate of this country, whose material worth is matched with her exemplary virtues (and exemplary bosoms), proof to it is her choice to become independent, to secure several jobs outside the country just so she can sustain the various charity works she had been doing so quietly, is only, and will remain only, a fantasy for many hard-wanking mediocrities of this earth. The man in the ad is skilled with solving the physical riddles of everyday encounters, I don’t know if I am as impressive enough in solving whatever riddled her. At least in her eyes, I delivered well.

But there’s the rub. In the ad we are left clueless about the readiness of the man to accept the very challenging job. Or does he really need a job? Granting that he was scouted and found to be an honest, skillful gentleman who seems in need of a livelihood; still, no one can be sure what goes around inside his head. He maybe in a financial low, but who knows if he adheres to his ascetic nature and does not want anything more than a simple living like that of, let’s say, a plumber? There are maybes. Of course they cannot tell the whole story in 30 seconds. And if ever there is a story behind that, they should have made a film instead, which would be soppy and stupid nonetheless. I know I am beginning to sound hilariously speculative. The purpose of the ad is focused solely with showing that they employ only the best, it is not inclined with pandering to the great many possibilities of human nature. It is pointless to broaden its meaning. But then we really love to think that the man in the ad took the offer, did well in the training course, gradually coped with the new working environment and finally learned to price and love the job which he now believes to have come to him thru the grace of heaven.

For analogy’s sake, I have to say that no one can be sure what goes around inside my head too. I am in a financial low, but I tend to adhere to my hermetic nature. Do I really want more than a simple lifestyle like that of, let’s say a writer? Am I ready for a steady, serious relationship? Do I like the suddenness of things? Can I survive the demands of time?

Two weeks ago, I wrote about something like: give me this break that I want. With break I meant I have to gather myself up first, to adapt with the new template caused by her sudden omnipresence. She gave me a break and waited with utmost fidelity. Now I slowly recover from thick surprises. I should then consider that all the everyday squabbles we have is just a part of my training course, designed for a novice lover. As novice pilots too undergo drills to master the unpredictables of the altitude.

By accepting the love, her love, I am bound to accept the terms and agreements attached therewith. That first, I will undergo a training, to prepare me for a plunge into the realms of emotional commitments. Them I will do my best to carry out the duties of love with pride, honesty and loyalty. And finally, despite great distance and great obstacles, I will live to deliver that love, complete and exact.

Slow boiling rather than microwave heat, Prof. Randy David ended his article succinctly. He was talking about the people’s outrage against misrule and why the church is not to be blamed with its less than explicit call for the people to once again mount another uprising in EDSA. I do not agree with him completely, but it will bore you if I attempt to give a critique on a socio-political theory. I have to admit that I am yet to have the mental faculties to expound on that subject. Instead, I will just borrow the professor’s analogy for another topic I love to discuss today: love.

Sociologists speak of people power fatigue, that the boiling point of the masses has increased with time; the noise of street protests and the heat of critical clamor will fail short in bringing the public into the, well, boiling point. It is also believed that a heart that has already experienced several tragedies would require a longer period of rest before it can love again. (Right?) Because the two EDSA revolts proved no reward other than another tyrant, the people has grown cynical about such political surgery; the removal of malignant rulers who eat the flesh and the bones of this country. Same thing can be observed with people who have loved again and again only to end up sorry, they grow cynical about the process of love, and they will never rush again. I don’t know. Such is not my case.

Last week, 12th of this month, marked the first month of my boyfriendhood. I confess, I have never been a boyfriend before. Not with any girls that came my way and shared my orbit. When it comes to romance, I was a conservative. I always demanded that friendship must first be a springboard to whatever depths the relationship wishes to delve into. Although it proved counter-effective, I am not utterly dismissing it. My girlfriend and I agreed not to hasten the ripening of our long-distance affair. With friendship as the prologue, we believe that our story of love promises to be a long, great read. Back to sociology. I do not believe in people power fatigue. I mean, I do not believe we should ever get tired of getting actively involved with such a democratic exercise that aims to remedy the ills of government. When we feel like taking a shit, we do not delay it until it boils inside; we dump it asap in abidance with natural orders. We do not think twice whether the last trips to the toilet made us objectively better. We delay justice, we deny it. By choosing to stay apathetic, we are only feeding the beasts that will devour us. And so with love, however drastic our history with falling in and out of it, we should never get tired and resign. Whenever it knocks, we shouldn’t think twice whether or not the last visitors to grace our hearts made us objectively better. This is not to say that rushing in is fine, a little calculation in everything is always better. I just warn against the cold cynicism that could prevent us from experiencing the magical feeling of love, a love that inspire us to live optimistically, to always change for the better.

Change is evident with me since Ann came. I feel taller. No, I am taller. Not that I gained several inches, but because the heaven feels so much closer now to my reach. How phenomenal it is to love and be loved. This, I guess, is the true people power. The capacity of people to oust the agonies that misgovern their hearts and to rally their spirits into chasing the sentinels of grief away so that they may wallow from the wellspring of love at last. And those who do not have the courage to stand against the evils of state and of the heart, deserve not the blessings of justice, and love.

Happy 2nd birthday to my nephew, Bonbon.

It took me half an hour to find something that resembles a pen since I’ve given up the hope to find a real one. I write now using my mother’s eyeliner. Hell, I do not intend to write such an introduction. I wanted to begin outright with: Whammy, I’m sorry. We’re nearing our monthsary but I seem to have shut all the possible entry for our contact. But half an hour wasted on an effort to find a pen already has frustrated me. I have not only a ruffled house; I also have a ruffled mind right now. In the absence of a PC, I have no choice but to resort to the primitiveness of pen and paper, without backspace, without shift + F7—notice how I lacked another word for ruffled. I am sorry. My house seems to have learned how to get even with me, as what happens in a certain children’s story where the young boy reaps the vengeance of the things he didn’t take good care of. Everything here eludes me, everything I need would suddenly vanish. A book by Patrick Suskind for instance, when I decided to finish it, disappeared. As if the book knows too much about the ZTE-NBN scandal. The SIM card on my wallet, the wallet on my pants, my pants on the laundry, they all disappeared as if they are deemed by the government to be collaborative witnesses that will testify before the senate. Even the TV has gradually lost reception. Worst of all, my cat has lost control to defecate outside. What a sorry life indeed inside a house where a family is missing, things are missing, pens are missing. The original sweetness of thoughts I mean for this letter is missing. Now I have to find that too, my dear. In a matter of minutes, I’ll find the words. Or I’ll just take a long pause and close my eyes to feel this room, which is filled with emptiness you can never know. It misses familiar sounds and shadows. It misses your call, the distinct sound of your voice over the loudspeaker of whoever’s phone I could borrow, your soul emerging from the background of live hospital actions: the shrieks and songs of the patients, the clatter of medicine bottles, the staccato of your footsteps while doing the rounds. There is great distance between us, beyond geographical distance, that can never be denied. Our age, our culture, our family values, our worth according to the universal currency—no wonder everyone objects to our love. Everyone tends to complain when one is being too lucky; yet you stood steadily for me all the while. But then finally, I’m sorry that I have to be sorry for a while. I’m afraid that in this mess of a life I have right now, I could also but misplace my heart. My love will stay I swear; just give me this break that I want.

Was it Tanya Garcia I saw ambling, looking around across the literary section of a bookstore, picking a Murakami and putting it back after ten seconds, turning her head on me in a jiffy before picking another Murakami, some lazy afternoon? I don’t know, I should have asked. Why was she wearing thick sunglasses? I suppose she continues to languish after Mark Lapid failed to defend his post in Pampanga against a vitiligoed priest, and, failed further to become a father to her newborn child. That makes her cry every night, that makes her eyes swell every morning. That makes her wear sunglasses. Along with that, depression makes her anew; it introduced to her, no, not booze and joint– she already knew those–books; the solace of fiction, the taste for art. And I really hope I was not mistaken. It was Tanya Garcia on a skimpy pink satin dress. She better not become another broken angel; like Farina’s Carlson or Kenndy’s Monroe, just to name a few. I think of her, I think of this now: people in power get the girl(s) they like, get the guy(s) they want, for a fuck, that’s a fact. But for love, so seldom. And in my glooming life comes Ann, she comes from a political clan, not in Aklan. She said mariage to her family is but a business; an integration of assets, never merely a union of souls. Every dynasty wants to grow, that sometime it prohibits the heart to choose. I know, at first she just wanted to defy such custom. But as we moved on, so suddenly she became the lightning that stroke a fierce protest, then followed the thunder that sounded like: BUM!

It is sad, Bobby, that you died without having to play with me the game, which I believe was not invented for enemies to quash each others’ brains, rather, it was invented for friends so they may stare at one other during critical mental moments. When they stare at you, while you prepare to batter, to conquer, to kill; while you refuse to surrender, to be conquered, to be killed, all they can see is a face, or a hand supporting the weight of your head, a resolute warrior reduced to sweat. I see more, I see more. It is sad, Bobby, that you died without having to talk with me. While you were in Baguio discussing with pine trees how you pine for another life, confiding with the moon the origin of your madness, inviting the passersby to drink from the bottomless well of your dismays, the world wondered: where the hell is Bobby? You answered silently to yourself: Bobby is in a haven, in heaven, in Baguio, home to Ben Cab, the national artist who was once either a caterpillar or a cauliflower. And I wanted to be there, not because of the geography or the strawberry, but because I wanted to encounter a deity in disguise; a poetry in the flesh. But I was young then and Bagiuo is eight hours away. Now I am old enough to know how far is Reykjavic and how sad that my stories never reached you: Marx and Engels were playing tic-tac-toe during the conception of the manifesto, Mozart was a Jew, Lincoln was a girl, my cat is a masochist. What makes you laugh remains a mystery to me. Spassky? Coffee? I’ll ask Torre. But what for is to know what makes a dead man laugh. Maybe you don’t laugh at all. You just sneer at people falling so readily for the many gambits of life. You just smirk at the thought that this world is teeming with blunders of all kind: the rain when it pauses is blunder, a pair of smelly feet is blunder, your neighbor’s pregnant daughter is blunder, TV is blunder, religion is blunder, America is blunder and this list as it extends, gets blander. Life, as it extends, gets tougher an opponent—that the will to live becomes as desperate as an attempt to draw a match with perpetual checks. But for someone as great as you are, death doesn’t come. Life has just ended with a stalemate, therefore not done.

Of course the governor is enraged with the idea that his youngest, his unica hija fell for a bum just like that. "How pathetic, you child of a God!" he sreamed. "A farmer could have been better!" He repeated sermons and some tedious platitudes over the phone. "But I love him papa, I’m willing to starve!" she retorted crying. You need not be a fan of melodrama to know that the more they try to sway the girl who is at the height of her frenzy, the more she will stick to her love, no matter how much it would cost her. The governor is not alone resenting it. His former colleagues in congress mourn the monumental mismatch. Even the supreme court is quick to cast a verdict: "it’s a crime for a bum to be loved by the governor’s lass." But long before that, the president has issued an executive order to hunt down and persecute any unemployed, underheight, underground bard who is capable of fishing girls of importance. Yet the bum, quite skilled an escapologist, decided to submit himself before the court and pleaded guilty. Maybe all he ever waited is the love, for him to cut his hair, to cut his freedom. All he ever wanted is some changes, he wished to stay in jail. A thousand miles away from him, the girl gave up her lavish lifestyle, her basketball players and one-night-stands. Determined to prove her love, she went home to free the bum and marry him in La Union, where her father is not a Godfather but a God. There, the governor has all the means to kill the bum: he can slice him in half, lengthwise, or even cut him into microscopic bits, whichever pleases better. But then the governor, though still a little troubled, softened, he played a trick instead; a trick so trite it is predictable, the bum for sure had smelled. One cold november night, his daughter is away, he asked the bum to have a walk somewhere. Out they went into the woods and in an hour they reached a dead-end. "What now?" asked the bum. Both of them panting, the governor stopped to catch his breath. Then all of a sudden, he spoke demanding: "Kill me here and now so you can have my daughter; let me live and she’ll be gone forever." Not a moment of silence the bum replied: "That’s it? Just be sure you are unarmed and please do not resist." He started him by kicking in the groin. Another one in the groin. And another one. But before he could pull a fourth, the governor yelled, writhing in pain: "Enough of this stupidity, you won!" Since then the governor, a mighty aging lord, gave the two all the comfort and solace, all the money they would need, all the freedom they deserve and they all died happy.

I hate Olongapo because Lolito Go, who is still

on the loose impersonating me, was born and

raised there. I hate Olongapo because it claims a

Wowie de Guzman and a reggaeist named Blakdyak.

I hate Olongapo because the legend of "Ulo ng Apo"

sucks. I hate Olongapo because it is four hours from

Manila, eight hours from Baguio and a lightyear from

Jeddah. I hate Olongapo because they have a mall

the size of a urinal; beside that mall sits a statue

of Freddie Aguilar that looks like a squirrel (raccoon?)

I hate Olongapo because their city library, I guess,

updates only every after a century or two. I hate

Olongapo because beach and bitch are homonyms.

I hate Olongapo because just last Friday I bumped

into a tree and aloud the people laughed. I hate

Olongapo because videokes operate there per one

hundred square meters but it’s not the machine I hate

it’s the singers, I mean, the stingers who won’t let me

sleep. I hate Olongapo because, honestly, I was having

a hard time thinking what else I could hate about it.

Just before the countdown could begin, the fireworks’ smoke

already had the city choking. There in his room upstairs, I saw

my nephew thumbing through the pages of a poetry book. He is

quite geekish at eight; the book, half-wrecked, is two years old.

"Uncle, uncle," he exclaimed, "don’t you have a New Year poem?"

"I have of course, it isn’t there," I quipped.

The year has turned, he insisted:  "Uncle, uncle, show me one!"

As if a New Year poem is something like a coke-cum-mentos bomb,

or something as spectacular as anti-gravity. But still, any poem

is better than levitation. And so on his palm I wrote the URL of

an old, abandoned blog of mine. "Do a rummage on the archive,

little boy." I tapped his shoulder gently. Atlast, after some thundery,

trumpety minutes he came back to show me a poem he has just

printed, entitled: ‘Listen to the King’s Dying Words’. "I like this one

uncle, you have such a New Year poem," he yelled smiling.

I smiled back thinking how in the hell he did get to discern it

and how he learned, at an early age, that a New Year poem

doesn’t necessarily have to be written late December, nor January.

You are 20-inch short of being a basketball superstar.

Had you been so, you wouldn’t be wanking a lot over

a Scarlett Johansson; you could easily pick one pirated

version of her plus a kinky schoolgirl with her twin sister

altogether scewered in the male’s shower room, your pals

are cheering, you are their envy, the local Rocco Siffredi,

the patron saint in that regard. How about filming a video

scandal with some fans all over your cock? I have an idea

how to make it more than the usual youporn treat: give it

a classical music for background while some sonnets marquee

up the screen. But since you are a basketball superstar with

the golden cock, you can’t afford to have the time for such

sentimentality. Control+z. Concentrate on being a testicular God,

a coital divinity. Art sucks, right, art sucks. Only beautiful women

who suck don’t suck. Holy fuck! Artists do art because they are

bored and imagination only works for their daily masturbation.

Cum on. Learn that wisdom while you are young, you can do better

than to write a poem about your fucking, literally fucking frustrations.

A dry Christmas awaits me. Not that I care too much about the yuletide season, I just said it simply because I am anxious about not having enough money to revisit the mystery girl in a brothel three towns away. It was on a Christmas eve, but that’s not going to be the topic for today. The thing that really troubles me nowadays is leaving my office in SK.
And with leaving means I will be deprived of all the privileges I once have like this personal computer I took home some years ago. Yes, this personal computer isn’t at all personal. This thing belongs to the youth I failed to serve with compassion. I will miss the cheers, the adventures and the spectacles of being the lord of a depressed community of young people. I will miss signing stacks of paper, doctoring them sometimes, most of the times I mean. I will miss the incalculable idiocy of the people I was working with. I will miss the letters from the federation asking for an explanation why I haven’t been on regular meetings successively, why I didn’t attend the city-fiesta parade, the Milo marathon, the Alay-lakad, the jogging inspection with the Mayor and the long etceteras of futile activities. I will miss, above all, the honoraria, the kickbacks, the commissions and other financial benefits I used to have. I am not sure if I can ever find a job as unproblematic as being an SK Chairman. Take Dindin Llarena for example. Dindin is a child singing sensation discovered in Eat Bulaga, in case you aren’t familiar with her. She must have realized that show business is too complicated, too risky, too controversial, too tiring especially for someone of her age. And on the other hand, chairing the youth council in an average-sized Barangay is as easy as blowjob, except that in blowjob you have to please the people you are serving. In SK, you are not obliged to please anyone.
The only thing you have to keep in mind is not to get caught with your pants down.
It is now observable, I know, that while I keep on bashing fraudulent public officials like Gloria, my confessions here reveal that my deeds are absolutely in contrast with the advocacies I have been mouthing and blogging all the time. And whoever messes up in small political affairs cannot be trusted with bigger political responsibilities, I understand. But there are things you need to know first before you can conclude that I am all the same Trapo I hate. There are deeper reasons I am not sure I can tell you; just hang around and wait for other revelations. In the meantime, I have to surrender this PC back to the SK office, part of the scheduled clearance before I can collect my meager terminal pay.

I am broke but I managed to treat her to a classy resto where people are snob and they always pretend to overlook the magnificence of my hair. I’ll tell you first about my hair. The last time I have it cut, I was in 3rd year high school. Count. I must be taking masteral studies or, who knows, maybe law, should I went on with political science. Instead I took the road to misery, pursued a lifelong career in professional bumism. I guess that helped you picture where my hair reaches now. One final clue: it has grown more than half my height. No, don’t ask about my height. That’ll be too much. Did you know that I can solve the rubik’s cube faster than you can tie your shoes? You bet. I date girls who believe that height isn’t so much a factor, and basketball, along with other sports is but a stupid invention. But I do not deny the fact that basketball players get laid the most and poets, well, among the least. Having only three free-throw points in my entire sex life where others dunk their ways in, I am a living testimony to that. What I mean with free-throw points is some unchallenged goals, some paid lays. But I paid the bills in a classy resto does not mean I paid the girl so I can have her banged after the date. That’s exactly the justification from Malacanang about the controversial cashgifts handed out to local politicians: it wasn’t any bribe, it was all charity. Similarly, I wasn’t after a piece of her ass, I just find it fitting to thank her for being patient with me. And it was her birthday too. Okay, let me be honest about this. I am dying to have someone beside me. Preferably a girl who doesn’t smoke, who doesn’t drink more than occasionally, who appreciates art, who can endure Ginsberg, Hitchcock and Prokofiev, who shares my disgust with Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, who is not afraid of growing old and getting uglier each day, who is not aware of her own beauty, who can love me even though I am not that loveable. The good news is, she seems to be all that. And she likes my works, she even pointed out, “the careful balancing of the scents and stenches of social realism in your verses makes them hypnotic, and more often explosive” as we finished our plates and some of the people suddenly turned their heads when we started our lengthy conversation about America’s Got Talent. Oh, she was such a joy. The next time I’ll take her out for a date it’ll be under the naked sky, beneath the fullness of the moon. I will read to her some of my erotic works and she will love me, and she will kiss me, and she will bring back the humanity I have lost in the streets in my continuing crusade against the institutions. Dreaming, you can say I am dreaming. When I think about something beautiful as her on a wedding gown or in the nude lying on my bed, I can’t help but reflect on my hair. How far have I gone? I realize that all I have become is a glittering failure undeserving a shared life with a cultured, accomplished, artistic, beautiful human being like her. But whenever I read poetry, I always see some hope.

So nasa tabulas na ako. Kung gusto mo pa rin akong mabasa, bisita ka lang dito.

Good: Happiness can nowadays be bought. Bad: For one-night-stands, with you your own pimp imposing the price. Good: Friends can nowadays be bought. Bad: They can buy you too when you go broke and they go lonely. Good: Money can’t buy me love said the Beatles. Bad: What’s the opposite of money? Shit? Can it buy me love? Good: All your money won’t another minute buy, sang Kansas. Bad: All your minute won’t another peso bring, sang the bum.

If I have the money, I am eating a chocolate cake now beside the keyboard. If I have the money, I am phoning Julie in Dubai . Or  I’ll fly to Dubai. Then  I’ll take her to Greece. We will fly by the hot-air balloon. See, only money and vehicular
accidents make people fly. Oh, catapults too. But then again, you also
pay for vehicle and catapult rides. Money is not happiness itself;
instead, it is a potent vehicle towards achieving happiness. You know
what? If I have the money, I’ll pay you for reading this.

I haven’t got any money right now. But I am expecting a shower of it next week. Well, I have to make good use of it since I am now counting down to the last few months of my stay in office. I am not always an SK Chairman who receives honoraria without burning calories. Someday I’d be a prince or a pauper, depending on how I make use of my life. I can’t tell what kind of life awaits me in the future. But I am sure it would be less happy without friends, without money, without somebody.

Good: I am happy being a bum. Bad: I am a bum.

Finally, here are the things that made me happy early this year without money’s help:

10. Ronato Alcano following his 9-ball world title with another championship in world        8-ball open.

9. Wowowee beating Eat Bulaga in noontime ratings game.

8. The Leyva kids.

7. Mike Defensor’s self-incriminating campaign advertisement.

6. Kim learning Beatles’ Blakbird

5. The mockumentary film Borat.

4. Democrats finally taking over the  US legislature.

3. My nephew Bonbon’s first year.

2. Rep. Alan Peter Cayetano’s consistent good standing in 2007 senatorial surveys.

1. The sugarfree experience.

If I will pursue filmmaking, I cannot think of any better
partner than Kim. We do not always concur on concepts, but we always arrive at common
conclusions, after each friendly battle. Kim is naturally a humorist, if not an
absurdist; she excels in the art of ridicule—far better than the celebrated
Zafra. Her alphabet consists of fresh paradoxes, and she juggles them with
precision, creating a string of jaw-dropping flair.

This entry proudly introduces the first part of the ambitious
project Kim and I agreed upon to pen. A product of a brainstorm in YM, this is
not the first of the many bizarre products brought by our combined witticism. (The
single-scene marathon of nose-picking-turned-self-mutilation, arrested by Liszt’s
Mephisto Waltz behind a great white canvass, remains to be my favorite.)

Below is not a shared concept, I expect that Kim has a better
(I mean wittier by better) idea of how to stir the interests of the audience within
the first few rolls. Anyway, here’s a piece of my contribution for the said
project:

(Full cast in chorus, looking straight up to the camera,
thirty degrees angled to the west)  “Our dear viewers, we would like to stress
three things first before we could go on amuse you with our brand of entertainment.
First, this is an art film, unless you know what is meant by art I recommend
that you do not finish this. Art is not always entertaining, Jim Carey is.
True. It is not accidental that this sounds like a Lemony Snicket warning, we
are really concerned that the sheer oddity of this film may lead you into a
suicidal state of mind. But worry less since a recent scientific research
suggests that a dose of Adam Sandler can remedy neurotic disturbances films
like this one cause. Two, unbeknownst to you dear folks, we are unpaid
non-actors here in a non-commercial effort, so we are less obliged to act
convincingly; after all, this film is not made to convince you for nothing. Our
purpose is just to disturb you; we are not here to tell any story, we are not
here to make any relevance. This is pure Dadaism put into motion picture; we
promise, shortly after this, we can all be happy again. And finally, we give
you enough time to reflect and reconsider watching this, despite our cautions, and
see for yourself what we may accidentally mean, or what you may accidentally
find in this obscure little charade.

“Back to your posts!” from somewhere shouts the writer. (reading
their scripts, each of them will hurry to their respective places) (after all
is set—freeze frame) (eleven seconds of cosmos murmur then the background
music plays, preferably an unfamiliar tune or an original composition, while
the camera takes snapshots of each of the cast raising flashcards that bear their
names for the opening credits) (everyone smiles).

-This is originally written in Filipino-.

I won’t discuss the entire plot here for the sake of
business. But let me remind you that our business is not of capitalistic
nature. We do this primarily because we seek attention. If I speak about the
plot this early, you might as well give up on us this early. Your attention, or
better still, your appreciation is our business. We are postmodern artists in
search of mature audience. See you in YOUTUBE, back us up on this.

Suppose we lived together in the same house Kim, I wouldn’t like
it. Not because I don’t like to live with you, it’s the concept of house that I
hate. If destiny will ever put us entwined somewhere, I wish it would be
outside the walls, outside confinement. But of course in such circumstance, you
might not even survive. You are a domesticated cat, while I am a nomadic bum.
You are reared with certain customs, while I am bound to fritter away with time
and space. If we live together, each of us will perhaps be deprived of livability. Must
we therefore be thankful that we live separately? Yes, unless we really care to
consider the word adaptation. If frogs estivate and squirrels hibernate, why
can’t we learn to adapt, given the strong motivation of love, which is more
than merely animal drive?

From biological reckoning I now move to a chemical one—
just think of a mayonnaise, and then you’ll remember that the vinegar and oil
are naturally immiscible. We are immiscible as we have suggested several times.
But maybe in our situation, love will emulsify us the way the egg yolk does in
the mayonnaise. 

Now from Chemistry I will proceed to Physics. (up next is Newtonian Infinitesimal Calculus)

I also like to talk about the universal law of “opposite
attracts” but, I learned from observation that it is only true in magnetism. Much
had been disproved in its relation to sociological nature of humans. Do you
always see geeks grooving with the gang, or feminists toasting with the pimps?
But we are not that extremely opposites, we are actually identical in so many
aspects. It is just that we are at odds in finding a crossroad where our
requirements for surviving together will meet. We always mention spiritual
union, of indestructible ties that bound us. Yet we never really struggled to reach
each other physically, we relied too much of the intangible.

Now I retract from an earlier presumption. Suppose we lived
together, we could have had loved each other better that it is useless for us
to sign on certain terms. I would have had my Dolby-Surround laughs; you would
have had your grumbles over crumbs of bread and misaligned rugs. We could have
had the longest pillow-fight in history. We could have had tussled for
remote-control ownership. We could have had invented the freakiest board game.
We could have had fathered another artistic and philosophical movement. We
could have had revolutionized music and cinema. We could have had killed a cat
for no reason, or experimented on tasting human meat and charged it to
experience. We could have had hated each other occasionally, or even threatened
to kill each other with a pointy gleaming knife. We could have had moments that
redefine friendship, if we lived together earlier.

Now if we live together, whether in a house, in a forest or
in the streets, we put to test our hypotheses. Will physical closeness deepen
our need of each other? Or will it make one or both of us bland and reduced?

Now is the time when I challenge you. You are legal now, you
deserve independence. You always had the key to free yourself, get out. I do
not say get out and abandon your world; I say get out and meet my world with a
closer look.

Meet me outside, where I can share with you the spectacles
of true friendship.

I write this in response to your blog entry, which made me
cry. I’m sorry if I failed to visit you yesterday, my migraine put me to sloth-like
sleep. I am very much excited to film our version of free hugs campaign, let us
schedule a meeting with Lee. Mwah.

Six years ago, Conrado de Quiros wrote what many critics
claim to be one of the cleverest articles written in the history of Philippine
journalism. He titled it: “Rich country, poor country”. It was just last
year that I stumbled upon that masterpiece, and it is just right now that I am
inspired enough to attempt to write my humble version of it, only with a
different title and with a totally different subject.

Yesterday I asked Pinkle to help me out on this. She just
gave me a no, saying she herself is confused having been caught for so long in
the ambiguity of love towards a friend. Then I remember a song where Sergio
Mendes asks: “What do we mean to each
other, am I friend, am I lover?” I asked that question, after
introspecting, to myself once more; and this is how I answered:

Lovers, Friends.

by Lolito R. Go Jr.

When we are lovers, we wake up and greet each other good
morning; the phone will bridge our distance for the rest of the day, that’s if
we cannot see each other and go places; we will talk until the sun sets,
exchanging glances, physically or thru avatars; then we will seal the day with a
kiss, either physically or thru emoticons. When we are friends, we wake up and
greet each other good morning; our souls guarantee that distance nor down servers won’t
separate us for the rest of the day; that’s even if we are not able to see each
other and wander across the earth; we will walk until the moon rises to the top,
either we are together or apart, believing that walking is worth more than talking,
and the moon is better than the sun; and then finally, we’ll seal the day with
an embrace, either physically or thru those cute little smileys, as the breeze caresses the
grass.

When we are lovers, we are a couple. When we are friends, we
are one. When we are lovers, there are no rooms for third parties. When we are
friends, there are plenty of seats for expansion. When we are lovers, we look
forward and forget. When we are friends, we remember and understand. When we
are lovers, there are regrets in the end. When we are friends, there are
memories behind. When we are lovers, we arrange game plans. When we are
friends, we just thrive over time. When we are lovers, we promise the moon and
the stars and the comets and the rings of Saturn. When we are friends, we promise
only loyalty. When we are lovers, the world is not enough. When we are friends,
the words are not enough. When we are lovers, we dream of Paris. When we are friends, we live in Paradise.

When we are lovers, to love somebody else is infidelity.
When we are friends, to love everyone else is hospitality. When we are lovers, we
are jealous. When we are friends, we are hopeful. When we are lovers, the tears
are brought by insecurity. When we are friends, the tears are shared in bliss.
When we are lovers, we complain and squabble. When we are friends, we laugh
over troubles.

When we are lovers, we lie and mask the fix. When we are
friends, we say the truth and face the glitch. When we are lovers, there are
ifs and buts. When we are friends there are only musts.

To be or not to be continued …

…you’re comments are needed.

He smiles at everyone; he has thirty-two pearly white
reasons to do so. I am not his dentist but I assume he has a complete set of teeth;
he had been the hygienic boy I knew from day one. From head down, he is clear
of any noticeable flaw. His physique promises a modeling career, if not a
showbiz career. And he will never be a pain in the neck in the business, he’s an
honest gentleman; humble and soft-spoken. He can easily get along with any
creature.

I knew the boy very well; we grew up in the same community. Living
two houses apart, we’ve had indelible moments shared. We are childhood friends,
to put it simply. I witnessed how he turned from an effeminate, mumbling lad
into a brusque, handsome teenager. He witnessed how I metamorphosed from a
singing, skinny child-prodigy into a longhaired potbellied bum. He played a
supporting role back in the mid-nineties when I was having a puppy love affair with
his sister. He was less involved, but he never complained about it. He trusted
me and respected me as he has trusted and respected the world around him.

Like any childhood friendships, we have invented a world of
our own. I still remember how we graced an old, abandoned house with our own
idea of macabre architecture. I still remember how his ate would blush whenever
I playact an evil-possessed bastard and how he, a loyal fan, would marvel at my
most pedestrian of illusions. He was a more gullible playmate than her ate, and
I was but a guilty nasty trickster.

Their feeble wooden house by the riverside is now a proud,
stable concrete. But the place to where it stood will always keep the history
of our adventures, our supernatural yarns. To the grains of sand our playful
steps were intricately stamped and our voices were registered in the silent of
the waters. We wallowed and wrestled and gamboled and danced to the tune of our
laughter. We had hard and low times of course, but childhood is only meant for
cute lamentations. I cannot come up with a bitter tale from among the fleeting
stardust moments we’ve had.

But this will not continue as a heartwarming reminiscence.
This is a sad true story.

There is a boy named Daniel Joseph Bantique now resting in
peace. At eighteen, he could have been elsewhere. Yet his life is drawn to be a
very short one. He died in a motor crash while driving home from Mabayuan, Olongapo City, just meters away from a funeral
home. He suffered a broken skull which deformed his face. The rumor has it that
he drank and drove after a tearful breakup with his girlfriend. His wake will be seeing its final dawn today. I will be there just like I was there all along.

Just recently, I asked my Ate: “How would you react if
I die for the same purported reason Joseph died? Would you welcome the girl to
my wake? My Ate is quick to
respond: “No. If she shows up, I’ll have
her skinned. Of course she exaggerates, but I can see her utter disgust to
the thought of it. Well, that is beside my point. My point is I am a potential
candidate for the drink-and-drive-to-forget drama. Well, in my case I am only
capable of the drama. I don’t and won’t drink, and I don’t have anything to
drive with. Oh I forgot; I have a cat. If she’s a horse, I might have been an
equestrian. Just forget about it.

Joseph’s story rings a loud warning about life’s
uncertainties. The first is about the uncertainty of love. One day he and his
girl are exchanging sweet morning greetings, then came the night they are
doomed to bid goodbyes. I can only speculate on that matter, but I believe it
was a very sudden change of hearts between them, and its aftermath was a literal
sudden death no one ever thought of. That was the other warning: death is very
unpredictable.

Actually, part of my anxiety is due to the fact that I used
to drive as fast as hell. An avid follower of Discovery Channel must have heard
these words: “I shouldn’t be alive”. Yes,
I was given a second life. My motorcycle diary is filled with accounts that
range from police chases to death races. I have ugly scars on my patellae and
tibiae that can speak about them. I was a daredevil and with speed I used to
play recklessly. But now I learned to prize the life. I gave up driving after
the horrible accident at the Bicentennial Park, SBMA, October of
2005. God is great, I got away with only a sprained ankle. Not too many people
will live to tell the story of such a high-speed crash.

Here I’m still alive, still aching, still bleeding. Here I’m
still alive, I live to experience more torture. Life is sometimes more dreadful
than death. At least death brings sympathy, some people live without the sense
of comfort. At least death draws company, some people simply languish in solitude.
At least in death, flowers pay visit; some people live their lives dry and
colorless. I think of Joseph and I think about the void he left in his family,
in his community, in this world. I always hear people talking about how they
will miss Joseph and how their lives will never be the same again in his
absence. I couldn’t agree more. I just think his death only reaffirms the old
saying that goes like this:

We do not know the value of a thing until we lose it. But I won’t
end it just like that. I think I know the value of things or persons before I could
lose them to death or any other inevitable end. It is actually my value I’m
having a hard time assessing.

Dear Moon,

     I love you.
I’ve died so many times yet I love you, I still love you. I die everyday
because I can’t reach you; and you, being merely a moon, does not seem able to
offer a hand. I can give you imaginary hands whenever I like, but I don’t like anymore
of imaginations. My brain has given up on me, I was just fooling myself. Our
love, as an idiom puts it, is a cry for the moon. You can see, the deaths I
talk about are merely hyperboles; the bittersweet me, an oxymoron; and you, being
the moon, an overused personification.

 
    Poetry becomes me; I see only
metaphors when I look around. When I say I love you, I am not even sure whether
it stands for something else. Forgive me, but sometimes I make poems I don’t
understand myself. But this I understand completely, dear moon: I am bidding
you farewell.

     You became
my moon because you cast a light so little even a candle can outshine. I
understand, you are a distant thing, and my great grandmother is a more distant
star in the vast galaxy. I failed to realize that you shine not just for me. I
should have paid the loyalty of the little candle, who had been with me in the
darkness for a long time, now she is but a melted past. And I hope you, yet to
become a past, only changed a face.

     I never had
you, we never had each other—but, I, love, you. I’ve died so many times just by
thinking about it: how I love the moon, and why the moon cannot love me. You
said you love me and I refused to believe. Oh, I did believe it, but I only
felt a love of a moon. A love so quiet, so removed that if I cease to become poet,
I will never ever feel. You know already about the infirmity of the smoke, the frailty
of a ghost. Things only you can decipher. There are things we shared because we
knew, there are things we knew because we shared. I think I can never forget
about that whirlwind romance we had for days despite all these.

 
    Tonight, I write to you for the
last time. I can imagine how sweet it is if you cry. You said it pains you losing
our chance, like it leaves you another crater to the heart. Yes, it pains you
finding another one in a matter of minute. Yes, it is sad. I doubt my absence
ever saddens you, but then again, I doubt my own doubts.

 
    You will remain up there, and I’ll
be down right here. The sky is vast, turning a blind eye on you is almost
impossible, but loving you is not less impossible anyhow.
I gave you so much space, that’s how you viewed it. No. You
have it before I can ever give it. And I believe you always have the freedom to
hurt me just by pursuing what may please you. I love you and I only wanted more
of your light, but a certain pull has kept you away. It wasn’t the gravity, it
is the opportunity. And now that the opportunity has flown away, I say goodbye.
I won’t urge myself to continue and give it a fight. You didn’t wait, you
didn’t fight. That’s how sad you can get. Spare me of the crocodile tears,
please. Don’t give me sadness for an excuse.

 
    Dear moon, be happy instead.
Because from now on, I’d stop gazing, I’d stop stalking, I’d stop weaving
metaphors for your beauty. I’d stop calling you moon and any other fictitious
names like sugarfree. I’d stop cracking hackneyed jokes. I’d stop broadcasting
you over blogs. I’d stop stealing from your precious time. I’d stop phoning
you, you won’t hear my high-pitched voice again. I’d stop contesting your ideas
and laughing over your judgments. But I confess: I am actually weeping right
now.

 
    Dear moon, I thought you’ll need recuperation
first before you are ready to love again. So it goes without saying that you’ve
been healed. I honestly think you owe it to me that you are healed, or I am
just being too confident. You made me believe we are working out well, I can
wait for years if it calls for it.

 
    You love me but I gave you enough
reasons to love someone else more? I know nothing of those reasons. You provide
such reasons for yourself. Your only crime is that you didn’t love me enough. My
only crime is that I was too laid-back on you? Where is the love?

 
    It hurts but I’ll be fine, I swear.

                                                                     Your dear sugarfree.

“What shall I write?”, I asked myself.

A certain voice inside my head quipped: “write about the
Kris-James-Hope love triangle.” After several seconds as I was about to give my
first words on that hurricane of an issue, which is now, it seems to me, the
single most pressing among national concerns, another voice from within
whispered: “better write about Scorsese finally catching an Oscar, it’ll make
you sound more intellectual.”

Yeah right.

So I am just being obedient, a Kris-James-Hope reaction
paper should be left for the Sucalditic brains of a tabloid writer to ponder. And
writing here about Scorsese is something like wearing a nice pair of eyeglasses
while reading a hard-bound classic novel right in the middle of a busy
wet-market. Therefore I decided to write about the 10-hour city-wide blackout
instead.

They say that power outages methodically erupt during
pre-elections, not because most of us prefer to make love in the dark but
because some people can only count the votes when lights are off. The rampant
power interruptions only signal that the rehearsals for bigger and blacker
blackouts are up to swallow our hopes for fair and decent elections. “Elections,
my dear. Let us get rid of politics!”. Yeah, I read your mind.

So there I was, alone in the house without electricity, reduced
to a grumpy, sweaty loser. No PC, no CP, no TV, no friggy, no venty. That went
on from 8 in the morning ‘til 6 in the evening. I couldn’t stand it; I left the
house before lunch. For couples, especially the stereotyped poverty-stricken,
God-forsaken couples, sex can be an alternative. (common jokes on population explosion).
But for city-dwelling singles like me, who rely primarily on digital techies,
much is true about the devil finding some work for an idle hand -during
blackouts- to do. Several times I was tempted to do a choke-the-bishop self-help.
My mind can do a vivid replay of the most ticklish soft porns I’ve watched for
the last two weeks. EErk! But that was dirty and I’m a hypocrite.

Who would have thought I’ll end up dating a girl that day,
an old friend in a new package. Yet she is not worth a story. The armless boy
we came across ambling through the highway is more noteworthy. It can make a
good dramatic movie. That brings me back to Martin Scorsese.

The Academy Awards shunned Hitchcock all his life. The
greatest director of motion picture history according to film scholars has not
an Oscar to his name. The same thing is true about Scorsese– he is, according
to the vast majority of critics, the greatest director of American Cinema. But
he has never won an Oscar trophy for Directing, not until this year. Which
makes me sad, because I am one of his biggest fans. I thought, winning an Oscar
merely subtracts from him. With the trend of winners they have there for
several consecutive years, much of my respect for the Academy has evaporated.

Scorsese should have won a lot earlier. Two of his films,
Goodfellas and Raging Bull are among my all-time favorites, and in these two
films he showed a Godlike flair. I am yet to pride myself as a film critic but I
think you can trust me on this: Scorsese ties with Tarantino as the brainiest among
living filmmakers. But that of course is just an opinion.

Now where am I leading to? Should I always write a thought through
entry? Should I always end with a catchphrase?

OK.

I know it’s kinda late, yet I am sure many of you still haven’t
read or heard about this:

You are the person of the year; give yourself a round of
applause. Time Magazine has awarded YOU, shall I say US, the prestigious “Person
of The Year” title for 2006. The first time I heard about it, I laughed hard,
because it is funny, period. Of course the TIME Magazine can justify this joke
by pandering further: “for seizing the
reins of the global media, for founding and framing the new digital democracy,
for working for nothing and beating the pros at their own game, TIME’s Person
of the Year for 2006 is YOU.

Oh, that’s romantic of them; I want a hit of what they’ve
been smoking.

In the advent of Blogging,
Youtube, Wikipedia, Myspace etc. WE are not only changing the world, WE are
also changing how the world changes. The World Wide Web has been the tool for
collecting the small contributions of millions and making them matter. Somehow,
the internet has also helped millions of minds that would otherwise have
drowned in obscurity backhauled into the global intellectual economy. That
includes me absolutely, and you of course. I mean the YOU who doesn’t just
watch, the YOU who labors, the YOU who thinks and speaks and shares. Not the
passive YOU, who just lurks, who just receives, who just dies. I have no
problems with YOUtube being the 2006 “Invention of the Year”. I am one with the
many beneficiaries of that medium. But the “Person of the Year” getting into the
collective hands of players and slackers, is always questionable. If they would
call us all to receive the laurels, anywhere it would be, I’d be the first not
to show up. I wonder who showed up to receive it for “the Computer” in 1982. Is there any ceremony? Please enlighten me
on this matter, show me what a Person of
the Year is made of.

TIME Magazine salutes to all the wankers, haters and losers
of this Earth.

In other news, a friend of mine (Kim) is enraged at another
friend’s (Nino’s) fate in a recently-concluded  “campus talent competition”. In that campus, “talent”
has this very unusual definition: the ability to please any person who prefers Carmen
Elektra over Julia Roberts. I don’t blame Nino for joining the what is now
being branded by Kim as “trampfest”, or “crapfest”, whichever is more apt, as I
don’t blame myself writing here in Friendster. Nino is one of the most talented
guys I know, and he is not aware of how great he is. He does his art because he
loves it, he doesn’t do it to compete or to let the mediocrity in you shine. Sometimes
his ultra-meekness is giving him away, and some public exposure is healthy for
the ripening of the genius within him. Some exposures are detrimental, but
failure makes an artist. Some exposure could mean defeat, but hey, this is Earth.
Vincent van Gogh only had defeats here all his life. History vindicates.

When I heard that Nino will be competing in a campus talent
fest, I was more than excited to see and cheer for him. But it turned out I wasn’t
able. If I was there that night I could have shrieked to death protesting the
results, complete with German-tongued expletives. God didn’t let that happen,
he clamped my feet to where my nephew’s 1^st birthday party took
place. I had real fun there, tremendous fun, yet it never escaped my mind the
thought that somewhere out there, Apollo is sobbing, for one of his sons will
be shortchanged. I have little doubts that Nino’s bid for the campus title will
be thrown to the pigs. Not because he is a so-so, but because the judges of
that contest are dimwits, they can mistake an airplane for a bird, they are
pinheads and their idea of mind game is tic-tac-toe.

I am really tired of explaining why this world belongs to
them. The world does not work to reward true artists, for crying out loud!

All in all, Nino is a winner long before he competes.

Virna and I will be seeing each other tonight for the first
time, it scares the hell out of me.

Diosdado and her dogdamned daughter Gloria shared the same
fate: they failed to win another presidential bid after turning their backs to
their vows of retiring. Diosdado had lost to Ferdinand Marcos in 1965 while
Gloria lost it in a landslide to FPJ in 2004. Yes, the dogdamned elf actually
lost the election, she just won the massive miscount with the help of teachers
and canvassers of Martian arithmetic, the military of blinded loyalty, the
congress of unsound judgment and, who can forget the ominous voice of the
century, Virgilio Garcillano of Comelec. Although GMA is there in the comforts
of the palace, she was never in the hearts of the people. She hasn’t got the
trust of the vast majority. She simply stays in Malacanang by sheer mettle like
that of a mussel that is glued in the reefs of Pasig River.

Don’t you worry, this introduction will not go on for
another minute. All I am pointing out is our topic for today, which is:

“Word of Honor”. 

“Word of honor” is a mighty phrase. “Word” and “Honor” are independently
mighty as well. If you don’t hold on to your Words, people won’t Honor you, and
you won’t get what you want from them.

Three entries ago, I said I’ll stop blogging here. Two entries
ago, I took my words back and I am still writing up to now, hoping I’ll be
read. I am still the blind man in a blindfold in the dark looking for a black
cat which wasn’t there. Because I lied epically, I reaped an epical penalty: I’ve
lost three to five readers. For two consecutive entries I earned kamote for a
comment. Can anyone tell me what is more epically devastating than that? To see
that my entries are ignored is more than bankruptcy; it gives me stronger pain,
like the pain in winning the lottery only to realize that you’ve trashed the
lucky ticket. By the way, I don’t do business and I don’t bet on the lottery, I
can only empathize with bloggers.

Fortunately not all bloggers are as touchy as I am. I see
bloggers who continue writing despite scarce-to-none readership. And most of
the time, they write better-than-usual.

When I write poems, I don’t expect much observation from people,
since poetry is stricter and less comprehensible. Only poets can criticize
other poets, while everybody can applaud a poem. Praising an art is as easy as
1,2,3; critiquing it is as intricate as surgery. Only poets can extract the
hidden beauty from a poem that sometimes I am tempted to believe that the
masses cannot appreciate higher art, higher poetry.

So here comes blogging,
anyone can blog. Blogging does not require so much of a skill, and reading a blog
is no more than eavesdropping. When one is as confessional and dead-serious as I
am now, one appreciates attention. Good or bad comments are better than no
comments.

Don’t I sound so serious?

Three entries ago, I said I wouldn’t write here anymore. It
was on my part, a lapse in judgment. Each of us commits that classic folly
everyday of our lives. Have you not promised yourself to stop loving? To stop
smoking? To stop watching porno? To stop patronizing cheap teledramas? To stop
biting your toenails? To stop crying over spilled beer? I never had the courage
to stop writing, here and anywhere. If at some instances I appear to be
self-righteous, I beg your understanding. If at some instances I sound cynical,
blame youmanity. If at some point I am not able to give honor to my own words,
blame the words for they insist more than you do, that I should write more.   

***

Alas! My sugarfree is back on my embrace. We talked last
night for about four hours.

We are back to the ballgame.

Last year I turned down a Valentine date offer from ate’s
friend. Not entirely because I don’t like her; she is a very likeable person, I
just don’t like seeing myself dating with someone like most people do in such
seasons. I would rather pick any day randomly, and I’ll pick any girl that will
go my way, and I’ll pick any light-colored mood from the pocket of my heart,
and we’ll go anywhere and she’ll pay for all the bills, and I’ll bury the
moment right after. That’s my idea of a perfect date.

Last night, history repeated itself, another non-girlfriend
wished to have me as her Valentine. I gave her this almost cryptic response
thru SMS: “any number multiplied by zero
is equal to zero”. I meant nothing by it honestly. But she took it for some
contemplation as if it was some Russell’s paradox— the girl is fond of mind
games. We could have spent a lovely night playing chess or scrabble or sudoku.
I just threw that possibility without further thinking.

Why do I do what I do? Why does the chick run away from the
worm? Why do I push people away? 

We choose what feels better according to John Stuart Mill,
the father of Utilitarianism. And if I choose to be lonely when I have all the
opportunities not to be alone, then I am a happier-than-usual soul. But if I
choose to be lonely because I have no other choice but to be in the deafening
silence with shadows, then I should try art. I am neither of the two, at least
last night.

While millions of couples reddened the earth with millions
of kissing and fucking, I stood in front of millions (unless a covered court
can accommodate at least a thousand people) to celebrate the night the perya fashion. People crowded the plaza
to witness and experience a cheaper version of lova palooza, with their SK
Chairman hosting the party. Technically, I was not a lonely heart. I was with
people, and we were happy. You should know that public service is a lot more
rewarding than going out for a pseudo-date. Notice that I use the word “pseudo”
very often these days; there is phoniness anywhere I can’t help but see. And if
you cannot see phoniness in me, hello my friend, welcome to my family.

Going back to the party, it was a successful fund-raising
drive for the youth. Not only did it bring fun to my constituents, it also
guaranteed future funding of several projects for their welfare. Since we are
but a poor, ambitious barangay, such money-making programs are necessary to
amass sufficient funds to realize our single most important dream of building a
great pyramid that will house my corpse. Go ahead and ask them one by one if I am
joking. I am simply so much loved here that even my jokes like, “let us paint this valentine red with our
blood”, will be taken seriously. Luckily for them, I am no Jim Jones, I am
simply a bum. And I promise to the world, you’ll erect for me what history will
name: “temple of the bum” if not “the great pyramid of bum”. And every woman that
I have sex with will taste their share of immortality.

Pity on them who overlook(ed) me. Pity on them whom I overlook(ed).

The Valentine’s Day will stay in the calendar for as long as
there are hearts inside humans, but I’ll see to it that for the next hundred
years, as my mummified body already is lying in the middle of a pyramid, the
earth will rejoice more passionately in each celebration of…

…the ”Bum’s Day”.

Superadvanced happy Bum’s Day to all.

What do you think of yourself, Tony?

Tell me.

I think you are quite impressive.

But you know that it isn’t your being impressive I want you
to talk about.

What do you think about other people’s IMPRESSION on you? I
am prepared to hear an i-don’t-effing-care-about-them-dickheads answer. But you
can always try to avoid sounding so egocentric. You’ll sound more original
simply by saying "I’m human, I’m sorry if I tramped on you folks just to
satisfy my EGO".

Playing schizo is fun, but you are more of a SISA than a
Tyler Durden or a John Nash. I suspect that Kids like you really thought that
masking themselves with psychosis will give them a halo for a noggin. Well, in
your case, you don’t convince me. You are but a confused
can-i-be-your-boyfriend crock of a horseshit. You will have to skin your ass
and plea for mental incapacity before you can justify what you did to Kim. And
there can be no justification. All I need to hear from you is that you are
among the world’s dirtiest pigs, among the worlds bitchiest faggots.

If you really are ill at the mind as what your blog
desperately advertise to attract equally
desperate and ill-minded wankers like you and your alter-dicks, it is rooted on
attitude. Better stick your ass to your Manila,
Olongapo is a slaughterhouse for bearded sows that speak from the pussy.

We can be friends. Define friends.