January 1999

The Holden Caulfield Effect. I remember how waiters or bartenders refused to serve an under aged Holden Caulfield a scotch and soda. Resigning on this refusal, he would quip, “Give me a coke.” And then I remembered how I explored bars by myself, having my own twist of this scare that I wouldn’t be served alcohol, being asked for an ID, getting my face pale and my hands chilling and forehead sweating coldly. With a cigarette in hand, I would snap, “Give me a coke.” Since I reached college I blotted all those scares away. I summoned waiters and bartenders with the assurance that they will serve me what I ask for. I’ve seen myself grow a little, not that it had done me any good.
I called this into mind as I jog the memory of what M., L____ and I divulged last night over Blue Ice at the Verve Room and Jazz Rhythms. (Prior to that was a fantastic dinner with other friends in celebration of H.’s 18th birthday.) Somewhere in the long strands of our conversation we spoke once more of The Catcher in the Rye’s impact on our lives, as we watch a pretentious, pseudo-intellectual crowd party in Julio Nakpil.
And now I should I get to the point that should be pondered, the reality check that somehow left me stunned. This calls for a re-examination of premises. When I read Catcher a few years back I had more than a gist of a world that is phony, boring and moronic. And I think this is how it all began: the shaping of a rather peculiar character. Now, though, as I examine my intentions and thoughts, it seems that I am somehow losing a grip of Holden Caulfield’s perception of reality. I’m almost pretentious. And more than that I am abruptly losing that idealism I have fired up in my youth, along with the passion, angst and eccentricity I thought I had. Now, all I can think of is my apathy and my indifference. If I ever did learn anything, it would only prove what Schopenhauer suggested --- an increase in intellect is an increase of loneliness.
To put it more concretely, for instance: I once wanted to study Law. I didn’t want to be the pro-bono type, who advocated human rights and championed equality. I wanted to be wealthy and mediocre. I thought I would be able to buy the groceries and pay the bills, live a comfortable life, maybe even please my parents. The idea that of all that nationalism, self-righteousness, integrity, is merely novelty and patronage - is becoming so tempting. What is even more tempting is just to make the dough and collect objects. I am being absorbed by the world of them yuppie cheeseballs who would rather eat their own liposuction fat. Despite philosophy, I am often becoming mundane. But of course, by saying this and doing something about it, I would no longer allowing it to happen. I still want to be someone who catches children falling of the rye, falling off the cliff. I would still wonder where the fishes go during a freezing winter.
Funny how when you grow old, so much of the ugliness in world gets in to you --- golf, recent model cars, country club memberships and huge houses --- that you almost feel as if you grow up backwards. There was a time in my young life when I wanted none of those. I wanted something else, something that no one else could lay hands on.
But if the day comes and I take or surrender to what this phony, boring and moronic world has to offer, sucked up by a sordid social system, I should look back to what I have once thought. When that day comes, I should puke. I should die choking on my own puke.


A Joint Tale. The joint had spun my heartbeat to a lively percussion that skipped and swayed to the music that she played. The music was as beautiful as she is. She is music and infinitely more.
And then I heard her laugh. I heard her spout her tales on tripping, the clarity and cleverness of her thoughts and responses. She was patching sunsets, oceans and islands… and I imagined that I have journeyed there, as I look at her with eyes stricken a concealed longing.
Until I come down: from that world of weed with her patched postcards and her beautiful music, from the building’s rooftop where Manila’s lights scatter in my eyes… I come down gradually, in search of her.

The night is shattered as I knock the door at three in the morning and my father awakes from a much needed sleep. He asks me where I have been. He looks at with heavy eyes, penetratingly, through my conscience. A heavy boulder of guilt falls on me.

Pablo Neruda redeems what is left of the hours before this morning’s class.
“And I, infinitesimal being…. felt myself a pure part of the abyss…”