December 2002

In the meantime, my life floats aimlessly. Like fallen, dry leaves led to a dance by the wind.

Day after Christmas 2002. Sometime this week I called for fever and I was figuratively sick of work. The next day when I tried to get my medical clearance, the doctor informed me that my blood pressure is shooting up to 160/110. She prescribed some medicine. With such high blood pressure at age 21, I was alarmed by my deteriorating health.
I’m a cardiac arrest waiting to happen.
I can imagine how the arteries and valves of my heart are clogged with cholesterol, animal fat from all that bacon, all in all forming human rust in my heart.
Stirred both by what was happening to my body and my attitude towards life, my subconscious began to feed me strange and unpleasant dreams. Until now though, I have not deciphered what the message is. One day I had a dream of finding a live pig when I opened the bathroom door. One day I dreamt of an airplane crash. From flying above the clouds, the plane tried to decrease altitude. In the extraordinary geography of dreams, the space between the clouds and the water disappeared, or that space has also been covered in clouds. Thus, when the plane moved down vertically, it plopped straight into the water. One day I dreamt that an epidemic hit the city. Many people were half naked, and everyone coughed out in pools and puddles of blood. I was on my way to the hospital. One day I had a dream about a train derailing. I dreamt that a short train ride was constructed, like a train shuttle service, from Ayala Avenue to Greenbelt. I was in the train together with some friends and family. Some angry workers led it off track to an under-construction part of the rail. The train fell. Everyone in the train died, except I. I had a magical ability to defy gravity. I found myself crying hysterically in my mother’s shoulders. Last night, I had a dream about playing soccer again. I scored five goals. The word “Talent” kept appearing in that dream.
My dreams, and my failing health, agitate me awfully. I feel that I am paying the consequences of my over indulgence for food at those pricey restaurants and at fast food chains. I could say that I even minimized drinking during the last two months --- but the bottle is most probably --- also a culprit. My work, of course --- is always a great deal of stress.
My ever tautological issue thus strikes again. The issue of whether I should resign or not, or to regret or not to regret later on, never comes with a smooth and sleek answer. Say I resign. I still wouldn’t know what I want out of life anyway. Say I don’t resign. Can I even continue to live my life this way? This issue never seems to run out of steam. The more I delay a decision with finality, the less I’m likely to arrive with a better answer.
In the meantime, my life floats aimlessly. Like fallen, dry leaves led to a dance by the wind. In this season of supposed merry, this has been a sickening, sad dance.

Somewhere in Italy, scientists have discovered a unique gene in the DNA map of a family. The Italian diet includes a high amount of cholesterol. This family apparently developed a gene that allows them to have a higher than usual quantity of cholesterol without risking heart disease.
How I’d love to have this gene. We do evolve after all.

Despite all of this I'd like to believe that life's all right. It’s December --- and happiness is almost a given. I continue to dwell on my self-indulgent pleasures, although I minimized the more heart-ailment-prone ones. In this “season of conspicuous consumption,” (as it was so accurately termed in of the Jeanette Winterson books) I spent some dough for presents. I also got myself some simple gifts such as pirated DVDs that you can illegally acquire in Harrison Plaza. They are: Dead Poet’s Society, American History X, Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, and Madame Butterfly. I was also able to spend Christmas with my family this year, and got a few more days off after Christmas. I treated myself to a massage treatment, and read a couple of books. The best Chillout CD buy I got this month was Ministry of Sound’s Chillout Annual 2002.
It’s even surprising how some officemates bothered to give me gifts. Thoughtfulness is as rare as interesting women to date.

This year’s Christmas greeting goes (from Jessica Zafra): “In a season packed with fake plastic trees, Styrofoam snow and false cheer, I hope you find something real.”
Something real, eh?
And what is my reality?

I’m twenty-one. When I was thirteen, until I was around nineteen, my greatest fear was to become mediocre. Now, I’m even afraid to quit my job and step into a more meaningful pursuit.
“Oh to struggle against great odds. To meet enemies undaunted.”
As matter if fact, I have the faintest clue of what a meaningful pursuit is, or where to find even a smidgen of significance in life. I just slack around a lot.
“To be a sailor of the world, bound for all ports.”
I once proclaimed to have had my truth, my beauty. I embraced the determining finality of Nothingness, and seem to have understood what it all meant at that time. Now, I cannot get to convince myself to even believe anything. I just drift, go on living, unknowing of what I want out of life.
“Oh I live to be the ruler of life, not a slave.”
Often, I’m afraid, or just mere lazy, or lethargic… to do anything.
“To mount the scaffolds. To advance the muzzles of guns with perfect nonchalance.“
Sometimes, I am shallowly happy.
“To dance, clap hands, exalt, shout, skip, roll on, float on.”
I thought I had something, a verse to contribute. Nowadays, I’m having a hard time to get fresh ideas for my journal.
“Oh to have life, henceforth the poem of new joys.”
I am mostly alone. However, I seemed to have had the “perfect idea” that God (both of which is highly likely not to exist) would’ve been jealous of. What a fucking consolation.
“To indeed be a god.”

November 2002

The character talks to a dog destined to be a Christmas present and tells it, “You’ve got to have a dream.” She tells herself, “I don’t know what I want. I’m just drifting.”

As though it were something pathological, I’ve been having a mounting compulsion to document everything. It would have been much easier if I subscribed to the idea of eternal recurrence, and relived my life, to the detail.

How can one run out of words you are trying to document something such as fascination or happiness? One can only dig deep into that wellspring.

Right after watching a TP play in CCP, I went home and had dinner. I spent the night watching Pulp Fiction while having a few beers. Quentin Tarantino’s craft is so original. All the gruesome violence in that non-linear form of storytelling. The script, or the conversational dialogue of the film, came out naturally with its easy, yet intelligent, funny conversations with a lot of fuck, motherfuckers and fuck yous on the lines. It’s like Douglas Coupland on drugs and made violent. The film’s plot and its events, from a wannabe writer’s point of view, was something I myself may never have thought of. It’s worth a million praises. Only a Quentin Tarantino could have pulled up a feat like that.


A Midweek Interlude. I just had two days of easy, dedicated e-mail days at work. Upon arriving home I read a little of Jeanette Winterson, listen to my CD’s, and get the full relief of an eight to nine hours sleep. After work today, I walked with one of my officemates to Glorietta. We went to bookstores and that part of G4 for home furnishings, candle shops, and then to Tower Records. The best part of my day was getting good Jazz find --- a compilation with 2 titles from Thelonious Monk, 2 from Miles Davis, a song from Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, Charlie Parker and some others. Since more and more coffee shops began increasing in number, as though they were algae on trees, more people have been widely interested in this music. It’s not mainstream but it became more commonplace. The advantage is that the music becomes more available on the market. A Philippine record company released this one, together with a local coffee shop --- Figaro. All these artists in one good compilation for the glorious bargain of 250 pesos, with good packaging and a coupon free upsize on any selected drink at Figaro. That’s how we market Jazz in this country. I can probably get a pirated copy later on, but I can’t wait. I just might buy the other ones in the collection in pirated versions.
We had lunch at Italiannis. I was pretty stuffed. And now I read some more, have coffee and listen to jazz and no matter how brief the sleep would be for work tonight, no matter how few the money in the bank I have left, nothing beats the feeling of almost having everything you fucking want.
Look at the now and you can throw your dreams away.

“This is it!” sounds so much better now.

After almost eighteen months of walking around the vicinity of Valero, I finally found the doughnut place in front of Philam Life Tower’s Valero side. Like discovering the shroud of Turin. I may occasionally grow weary of life, but I will never be weary of Croissants for breakfast. As though it were Holy Communion, croissants make my life less wearisome.

Perhaps it’s just me, or how I read it, my own eye that spots the element of human alienation in Jeanette Winterson’s chracters. I read (while having a beer or two) most of the stories upon arriving home from a rather alienating occupation. I’m slanting towards relating to the alienated characters of The Green Man, The Green Square, Disappearance I, or O Brien’s first Christmas. Winterson is sometimes like Camus made more dreamlike, more boldly playful with her worldly, other worldly and mythological images. Sometimes the stories or events that take place wherefrom, aside from being fascinating, are just plain disturbing --- which in my measure is therefore good.
“Orion” proves to be the best project for feminist reading, and would best demonstrate her ingenious storytelling. I once thought of making up my stories using, or alluding to the Greek gods.
Her imagery and ideas are just fascinating: from pasta machines, cities where it’s illegal to sleep, to islands where coals are more valuable than diamonds, tortoises named after books of the bible, to families who jointly dream up of traveling the world in model aero planes. The images in the stories are of course, suggestive ideas which comes from the title, “The World and Other Places.” You start to wonder where she draws up these kinds of images, these plots for stories, and deposit them in this seemingly mesmerizing language to delicately and carefully form the fullness of an excellent, entrancing story. That kind of storytelling is something that I want to imitate. But I never tried to. If I did, I’m bound to fail. How could one ever dig up from the facet to the very depths of vivid imagination, like having your own divine system of creation, weaving each fabric of your character’s fate --- write stories, and make it so seemingly easy?
However, some of these stories require a more intensive scrutiny in order to appreciate her literary genius, e.g., The Poetics of Sex. It’s a profoundly interesting read, but I can’t say I understand it. That’s something that requires secondary readings and discussions in class.
The Christmas story had the mushiest ending. The character talks to a dog destined to be a Christmas present and tells it, “You’ve got to have a dream.” She tells herself, “I don’t know what I want. I’m just drifting.” I sniff my tears back.
I like the “Green Square” best, since it’s the one the affected me the most. The phrase “Green Square” is endowed with a whole new meaning right after your read it. I realized how so few of the squares in the calendar are marked as special occasions.
I also especially enjoyed “Disapperance” because the premise of the story was so clever yet simple and elegantly executed in a story. Marquez or even Lightman already brought up the idea of a sleepless city in their novels, but this one cultivated it.
Tired from work, I let the dreams come, and slept so well after reading that, already looking forward to ending work and begin reading again.

October 2002

I belong to a generation who sleeps in the morning.

My fountain pen is lonely. It seeks both a partner and a substitute. I will take one which looks exactly like the last fountain pen I sold. Tomorrow, they will be together and they will both be mine.

While it isn’t too bad. I’ve been complaining a lot for the past few months. Yes, work is wide pacific fucking ocean of stress. But it dawned on me, as it did before, and as it always does: perhaps things aren't that bad. So I started to take notice of what isn't. Little incidents that change the tide and propels me hopefully through:

Buying dinner for my family last Sunday at Banana leaf, and walking along with them in the new part of Greenbelt.

Watching the New York Philharmonic Orchestra at CCP with my high school friends. It’s amusing to see, once more, the glittering jewels of the lumpen fucking culturati that almost matched the sparkle of the crystal chandelier. And then drinks, and lots of laughs.

The postcards and the Berkeley shirt which H.'s pasalubong from the States, and burning for my copy of his Aimee Mann CD.

During my one of the four days-off this October: Watching a movie alone at Greenbelt, Wong Kar Wai’s “In the mood for love” and then watching a Jazz Band and drinking wine with ____'s friends at Monk’s Bar in Rockwell.

Helping out my parents whenever there’s some catering to do.

Getting a lot of good, Sunday night music from wherever my younger brother gets it.

Discovering the pleasure of my older brother’s favorite Starbucks drink which we usually on Sunday nights.

Sleeping at the PVP bus on the way home.

Reading, writing in my room: which is all I want it to be.

Whenever new hires are around in the office, I’m glad I’ve lasted this long.
Somewhat similar to the butler in “Remains of the Day,” I look forward to work with a certain motivation: to feast my eyes with the pretty women in the office. But I also don’t have much complacency is considering them as prospective long time partners. I saw some pretty interesting ones who carry something like a copy of Foucault’s Pendulum by Umberto Eco. What else is there to say? As I always said, many people in the office are closet intellectuals who no longer have room to channel that sort of wisdom, occupied as they are with more mundane concerns for a better customer-serviced US of America.

Drinking Pale Pilsen with D.N. and A.V. in front of the store at two in the afternoon.

Walking along Valero St. at five in the morning.

Finally, going to Boracay next week with expectations of just being able to enjoy and take it easy for a while. At least, I had a plan that materialized. Another desire fulfilled. Someday, there will be time to demand more out of life.


I’m tired now. I saw one of my classmates this morning, and she’s working at a call center near our office. My office has an office in their building as well. I have two blockmates whom I work with in the same vertical. I think 60% of our employees went to La Salle also, and most of us have common friends or have probably met before, was the boyfriend or girlfriend of whoever, have been classmates before, I’ve met two of whom I made out before. Most of us all have the same jobs now. It’ a generation with a low profile, but not exactly a superlatively easy job with a relatively higher income, and on a graveyard shift. A working class who feels none of, or have forgotten all about imperialist exploitation.

I belong to a generation who sleeps in the morning.


Why, life continues to be kind to me! Work’s trend came to a very relaxed stance even if I only had four hours of sleep in the past fourty hours. It’s been a full week without a single irate caller, which has then turned having some laughs with my officemates, and actually enjoying work. Right after work this week I literally rewarded myself. I took the car on a Saturday afternoon, went to PowerBooks and bought myself an Ian McEwan. I took a peek at a few more titles, and prospecting the women peeking at the titles.

On Saturday night, I felt thankful for my brother’s concern for the stress I’ve been encountering, together with his own mounting impulse - I suppose. Along with another cousin, we went to a place called Miss Universal. We marveled at the finer results of billions and billions of years of human evolution in this universe. It was Miss Universal. And compared to the audience in "Coyote" bars, since this crowd watches in a gentlemanly fashion as the beauty of the universe unfolds before the eyes. I got a good massage, a lot of prawns from Gambas, and a really good drink.

The next day I got one of those board shorts in Greenhills. On Sunday night, I watched Amelie again, this time in a pirated DVD copy that showed exceedingly good quality.

As each detail in the film Amelie is fascinating and beautiful, I feel that so is my life this very second. Amazingly enough, Monday morning is the only time I’ve been able to get some good sleep. I feel some part of me refuses to shut down.

I feel that sad part of me sleep inside, lying dormant, like something awaiting extinction. Why wallow in sadness when there is not a hint of sadness to console.

From my window, with the glow of lamps I just watched the sky transform again, as I listen to Aimee Mann, the Salinas Sessions then Moby and Chicane.

I look around the room and I’m pleased with what I see and what I can look forward to: more reads, thoughts to ponder, smells to smell and the one of the best places in the world to be in --- in Boracay with my happy solitude. I’ll be taking an island to such an island.

Why, have I pondered happiness and felt it.

September 2002

I simply grew woozy about the existential dilemma, like having so much cheese, or so much chocolate. Now I have nothing to explain my plight in life.

Leaving. L___ is leaving for the States to study photography. Unlike me, there had always been a deep boldness in her to pursue her passions, embrace life or maybe take semi-calculated risks.
She gathered many of her friends the night before she left. It was at the newly reopened Penguin, and a great Jazz band played that night. Genuine Jazz.
Half the crowd were L__’s friends, half of it artists from CCP (I recognize some of them from Tanghalang Pilipino, from my ushering days, although they would have no idea whom I was). It made the crowd more interesting with all the artsy women in their artsy clothing. There were smartly-dressed good-looking guys who were old and gay. It was the best crowd I’ve seen in months, and the best party I attended in a long time. A lot of philosophy majors, lit majors, DLSU mountaineers, and a lot of people from Madison came to the place. Everybody grew up a little, and lot of them grew prettier and dressed better. The cosmetics they applied looked more expensive. Or maybe my tastes have changed. A lot of them launched off their careers as editors or writers in magazines, Law school students, MA students in Philosophy or Music, Call Center Reps, or what not. One or two got married. I remember getting lucky with one of them. Many of them were just the types you’ve always dreamed of: very clever, pretty, excellent taste in everything, passionate, and most importantly: you can’t have them. Maybe the hype lessens when you put them under the microscope.
Aside from getting all boozed and listening to the music, I got a chance to talk to____ about getting an MA in Philosophy.
After the party, the people just drifted away. Who can tell when life will be kind enough to have us, or ever meet and gather up again? I’m eternally glad I wasn't at work tonight. Beautiful comets rarely land on earth.

Restating a redundancy. Why did I have to learn of, experience, reason with, and eventually get over the phenomena of existential angst at so early a time in my life? Although I never really resolved it (it was merely a matter of getting over,) I simply grew woozy about the existential dilemma, like having so much cheese, or so much chocolate.
Now I have nothing to explain my plight in life. The only other issue I could take up with myself is how excruciating work is, especially recently. I don’t occupy myself with matters such as romance or related trivialities, politics or society.
Here I am with my redundant, my tautological issue. Whenever I think about quitting work, I think about what I might lose. I have to take a lot of crap from our customers and even some co-workers, fuck them all. But then I may also lose on the lifestyle I’ve been sustaining. For the past three hours, I’ve been just able to live with the kind of pleasures that I want to reap: reading Kundera, in the coziness of the room, watching the late afternoon sky’s nimbus clouds liquefy into hues of orange and purple as if it was deliberately brushed and stroked by a painter’s skilled hands. I listen to a fitting set of Chillout, while big, fat drops of rain chant outside with the chorale of passing cars.
Is it my job that positions my life in this reciprocal arrangement? Perhaps heavy stress and high intensity is required to be able to take it easy.
What was the last real risk I’ve taken? None.
I resolved that I at least have to stay in this job until December. But I have filed most of my remaining vacation leaves which has left me with almost a week’s vacation each month. I resolved to just take it easy at work, not minding my metrics too much. Maybe I’ve taken it too easy, and I’m foreseeing my warnings.
As a result, I’m able to take it even easier when go home. It was Sunday morning yesterday, and I was able to go running again at CCP yesterday. I took a warm shower right after, some good coffee, reading the papers with the excellent editorials of Today, and then new book by Jessica Zafra again in the relieving sanctuary that is my room. Sunday night at work was relatively relaxed, though I had to encounter a grueling one and a half hour call with the usual, vicarious venting of a customer. And then it’s home again. I had a monster breakfast out. I saw most of the shows in the Juice channel and it amuses me a lot. It’s addictive. It showcases modern urban living in a candy-coated reality. Nothing ghastly ever happens in that channel, or if ever there was, it has already been dissipated. Most of the features are about fetishes, on fashion, beautiful spaces, good living, good health, vacations, trendy recreations, with very interesting advertisements in between, and drop-dead charming hosts. It helps to have a dose of those. It helps to be happily ignorant of harsher realities. Right after, I had a serving of some pornography and even got to see a video on the newly acquired DVD player. I’m not fond of suspense thrillers and with my weakening constitution; my heart jumps and began to wonder how strong this coffee is.
And then I woke up, to my last day this week, anticipating my days off. I woke early enough to see the 70’s show and Frasier tonight. I figured, this at least, should be rewarding enough.

Indulgence. I wanted to feel I had friends. – Bargo with D.N., M&L, and then Café Adriatico with ___…. Eiga Sai afternoon and then dinner with J.K. and his friend at Don Henricos. Saturday Morning: North Park with officemates… M.'s birthday bash at CPK and then a few drinks at Malate during Saturday night.
Tuesday Night: W___'s birthday at his place, then Café Adriatico again with ___.

Without regard to being superfluous, I feel the need to register this profound sense of fulfillment during my days off. It comes along so effortlessly, for the fact that there is no work tonight. I decided not to go out on the night of my day off. I spent the night alone in the room, where everywhere I turn to is pleasing to the eye. The Ministry of Sound and Real Sound of Ibiza CD sets a relaxed, perceptive mood. Jessica Zafra is an easy read. She speaks of reality with a mildly angst-ridden, but tasteful, and truly intelligent voice. The language is rich and her voice is distinct enough to stand on its own. It thus produces a genuinely insightful, well crafted and humorous read that never fails to turn against and put up a fight against all that is phony and maintain strong contempt for all that is moronic. There was a time when I though she no longer had anything left to say. Now, I just envy the life she lives. Except for my job, I love my life to the little-lest detail, especially nights like this. The sky is enveloped with this blank mantle, the city sleeps, the streets and lighted with pink and orange halogen lights. I lay ever comfortably in a room which brings me so much relief. I’ll be watching some DVD’s in a while, and maybe get some take out when my stomach starts to grumble.

Am I inventing my difficulties? I make my fulfillment with the moment fluctuate as often and as quickly as the flapping of butterfly wings. For here I am, exclaiming my complaints about my job again. I have seriously considered resigning, for maybe about 6,976 times now. I know that this kind of decision would momentarily give me a great sense of liberation. Momentarily, yes. But it builds no confidence for the future. I want to be immersed in new experiences in life, and I want to savor previous pleasures I have been missing. But I do not wish to regret later on, if my semi-calculated risks turn out to be enormous disasters. And then there’s the a long list of clichés to advise me:
my own cliché: Life is a brief pause in a bleak world.
Some people just shut the fuck up and work. Either they have found what they wanted out of life, or struggle to maintain what they already have: families, houses, girlfriends, cars. Some people simply don’t know what they want and let others tell them what to do so they shut themselves to work. Some of them have occasional sex, keep an apartment and a pet. Right now, I recite my litany of complaints about my job. I worry, I try to decide, foresee my possible regrets, foresee some momentary joy, hope for some meaning, and while I do this: life happens. Life happens, even if you didn’t have any plans.
For all I know, my life has already, rather so quickly, just flashed my eye and passed by.

The Dancing Zarathustra. The last schedule rotation blessed me with weekends off, beginning this Saturday night. A spontaneous blast of party mood coursed through my body. I took my brother along to where the ladies slightly younger than us flock and fall in line at the entrance.
Young women are eternally crazy about dancing, while young and old men are eternally grabbing the opportunities for chancing while dancing with women.
When you're there it just happens. You go home and you wonder why you have additional entries/digits in the phone book. She danced so well, I can never call her anymore especially when she saw me as the Dancing Zarathustra. Even ___ was restraining his hyseric laughter.
The disappointing end of the “The End of the Affair.” One Monday afternoon while more ordinary people are working to make a living, I lie in my room watching DVDs. The End of the Affiar is just the type of movie that suits afternoons such as this. The moving, melancholy musical score, the delicate movement, even the color, setting and screen play fits well with mood I set.
Everything in this film is notable. The theme itself has a simple (almost conventional) storyline that was made rich with the complexity of the characters (matched with excellent casting), dramatically powerful setting and cunning storytelling.
I love the way it measures and equates love with jealousy. It raises jealousy to a higher platform, a kind of pedestal where jealousy turns into love. I have never thought of it as sensible. This is where I saw jealousy, hate, desire and betrayal as meaningful components which embraces love. This film seems to have demonstrated that. For a few seconds, I missed having that ilk of passion.
The script was remarkable, and since that DVD afforded my to read subtitles and allowed me to literally dissect the film, I noted a down a few good lines:

I am a jealous man.
I am jealous of this stocking.
Why? Because it does what I can’t. It kisses your whole leg.
And I am jealous of this button.
Poor innocent button It’s not innocent at all.
It’s with you all day and I’m not.
I suppose you are jealous of my shoes. Yes.
Why? Because they take you away from me.
I measured love by the extent of my jealousy.
And as my jealousy was infinite,
Anyone who loves is jealous
My love should have been infinite too.

Everything was notable except perhaps for the ending, where the protagonist falls into self-pity and surrender to a belief in God. I don’t really give a fuck if the film aims to divulge a proof of God’s presence through a story of sexual jealousy, infidelity and desire, but I see it as a kind of Deus Ex Machina where God intervenes to make himself triumph.
Despite the disappointing ending, I’d say this afternoon was nothing but terrific, as terrific as the many afternoons I had before. The sort of thing I live for. It’s amazing how the coffee I myself make nurtures the spirit, how something as given and available as the weather: occasional drizzles and the murky clouds --- gives me glee. I opened the room’s window to let some light in, while a playing a freshly burned CD compilation of film themes. I had a terrific weekend, and this is the icing to the cake. I don’t think I’d even bother to sleep.
All’s wonderful, for now. And I think of it all: the films that I see, the music I hear, the reads that I read, the walks that I walk, the weight that I carry, the lightness that falls on me now, and yes, the loves I had, the love I lost, and even the love that I do not have.

August 2002

My brother had all of a sudden developed an eager and expensive enthusiasm on sleeping well and living well. He decided on fixing up the room upstairs and connived with me. So much for my salary disspating concerns and the cause and costs of consumerism. He took so much effort and spent so much as well, that most of what I had to do was reap its results, sleep comfortably and pay for some of the stuff. It surely paid off well for the comfort, the smell, solace, the good sleep and the new spirit of the place. Just last month I mentioned that “there should be some income draining at the mall and some faithful upholding of consumerism.” It may be hysteric and unnecessary, but i can also be very pleasant.

___, who is in Sacramento right now is getting married in September. Together with some other high school friends at ______, we met up at his old house in Sampaloc. His uncle made a video footage for best wishes. H. will be going to the US for a 3 month long research, and will be able to surprise Mark on his wedding. H. treated us dinner at Ongpin. We went to this place called Estero. The prices were more reasonable and the food was at the caliber of more expensive Chinese restaurants. After that, we had a drink in Malate, inside New York Café where I once again noticed what seemed like an antique GE electric fan. What I enjoyed the most for the night and was quite vocal about, was the perpetual pleasure my friends give me. It’s good to see that we all get by, and everyone’s still interesting. I’m most glad for their company, and for having a bunch of them who will be willing to stick around.

I’ve been working for over a year now, and there several occasions when I felt happy and looked forward to work. The past several weeks, getting a positive outlook towards work becomes more and more difficult. That state of sedation has left and for some reason I have to admit no matter how gravely, that I feel vulnerable now.
One cannot help to wonder how people pull their act together. My mother worked for the same company for twenty-six years. I’m starting to wonder how could I last one more year at work. I’m starting to wonder what I’d do next. I start worrying about the future again. I do not even know what I want, or what is worth it.
All I want to be is a librarian. Something like that.
But I guess we don’t always end up doing what we want, just the things we’ve got to do, and maybe sometimes what we really want to do, if we muster enough strength.
“We are not here to be happy.”
Whatever happened to simple joys?
“If you are willing to have one joy, you must be willing to have a thousand pains.”
My ten minutes are up, and I have to take a shower. This feeling only lasts around 2 hours, and then 9 hours of work, a few minutes of commute, and the rest of the day trying not to think about it. And maybe I shouldn’t really worry.
Things may look different in the morning.

The next morning. Since 8AM I have thought of nothing but being absent for work tonight. Or maybe even since 10PM last night. The night was unexaggeratedly difficult, given my frame of mind. My metrics were at its most terrible. I attracted half the supervisory calls in a random queue. It’s the scene in a movie where you’re suspended on a twenty feet high wire, about to damn fucking find out about gravity.
How long has it been since I’ve last screwed up? I haven’t felt this fucking anxious since I flunked trigonometry in the first quarter of third year high school. Only a Cather In the Rye could have saved me.
I have not the strength to iron out the mess I’m currently having with work, neither to overcome my fear of losing the job to launch myself out there and see what the world has to offer. I have not the passion to squander my soul. I have confined myself in what used to be a coven of complacency now The only way to go about the screwed up psychology of working is to simply ignore it and watch TV or something. Adapt to artificial happiness and say farewell to long forgotten passions.
The final ritual is to stare at the mirror, and wipe the indifference of your face. Conjure the feeling of sedation and even enthuse in saying and listening to yourself saying it, as if the deception is real. This is the best fucking job in the world.

Tuesday Night. I met up with M., supposedly to catch up on the Cinemanila at Greenbelt. Since there’s an hour interval between the time we arrived and the beginning of the movie, we decided to have a drink at NSG. It proved that drinking had always been some sort of point of no return. We ended up ordering more and more 25 oz draft beers, betting for the bill on billiards and having a four cheese pizza. I won the bet, of course, but paid for the pizza.
We headed to Malate afterwards to go to a coyote bar, which has quickly turned into a fad nowadays. Semi-decent performers who seem pretty enough (and non-prostitute enough) dance on ledge while the libido-crazy, crowd chants in all their testosterone, “take it off.” It was fun to see M. get drunk and publicly dance a little, which would be crossing the borders of our character. I remember having a similar experience in Libis with my brother and MM.
It’s always fun to see how men fall behind the lures of women, while men luring women seems to have been a lost art, a lost archetype.

Wednesday Night. I have been longing to see ___ ever since we got in touch again. She had bestowed a lot of insight, humor, sensibility and even a little sense of adventure in my life.
We met up at this new portion of Greenbelt to have coffee and crepes at Café Breton where they played a lot of Nina Simone and Frank Sinatra. Her friend ___ was also with us at that time. They both lived in Madison before. It’s good to be around someone who’s read the same books you did, listened to the same music, saw the same films, shared the same angst or lost the same passion. The first conversation is always the most refined.
After an hour or two of laughs, conversation, and regret for the past being a gladder experience than the present, L__ had to go because she had to meet up with her boyfriend.
___ and I decided to stay along and watch one of the films in Cinemanila. We took walks along the new Greenbelt. We saw a Japanese film, Kikujiro. It was so hilarious that I laughed like a hyena and almost had a heart attack because I laughed too hard. Having a child into the picture makes it real touchy. Like most Japanese films I saw, it’s touchy, but not nauseatingly touchy. This story and this comedy is so liberating that I felt like going on a road trip or laugh out loud on all the world’s gloominess. The plot is not complicated, and is actually something line one of those Filipino cheap flicks, only more clever and more well executed.
After watching the film we headed to Malate for a drink. Cafe Adriatico's a a classic. The heavy, wooden furniture which ridded the place of the phony interiors of new bars. It had a sense of history. It looked like an old Malate-house-turned-bar and has stood there to watch every other bar disappear. The place was filled with old photographs, oil on canvas paintings portraits by local artists, as well as (and what I loved the most) a drawing of the Illustrados. The Indios Bravos. A bunch of smart, coño (and occasionally horny) old boys who wrote well and revolutionized society.
That was around four thirty in the morning. A few tables away from us, an old man was seemingly seducing an expensive, flawless looking prostitute, conversing in Chinese. On another table near us, a pair of homosexuals flirted. Malate would’ve been cold at this time, the orange lights of the streets shining brightly as a supernova. I was drunk, and as my non-sober side goes, I probably talked a lot. She was inquisitive, and her voice was deep and husky.
It’s been a while since I had a long conversation. At 6am, we had breakfast at the Mcdo in La Salle and I gobbled, still drunk as I am, as if it were the last day of my life.

Sick leave on a Sunday and Monday night. After a long self-deliberation on whether this would be an irresponsible decision or not, I landed on the choice to consume two straight sick leaves. They say it is normally the tendency of employees to screw up a little after they get good appraisals.
This is my only chance to stay home, enjoy the room, have coffee and buttered toast and lounge around, read all night, and get some TV.
The return of the 70’s show and Frasier becoming daily, makes another major impact in my life.
After two days of staying at home, I went to the mall and went for a little impulsive shopping. Got a good buy off National Bookstore, “Eros Pinoy,” an anthology of contemporary Philippine art and poetry. Most of the good authors had something in there. The good thing about working and having money, is that you don’t get second thoughts spending your own hard-earned money off the things you’ve always fancied. Expensive Columbian coffee included in the list. Although I must admit that I’d really gotten used to the thicker Italian or French blend, or even that cheap yet classic Café Puro jade blend.
Sunday Morning. The night at work came to pass and I was able to get through it uncomplainingly. The sun glowed Sunday’s magnificence on the last day of August. I’m glimmering with gladness again.
It’s seven in the morning and there’s a bottleneck in Taft Avenue. 4,761 law graduates will be taking the bar exam. There are so many lawyers and there's even more lawlessness. Despite the increasing number of lawyers, there is a seeming scarcity on those who would actually defend against poverty and injustice. So many things are uneven.
Not that I myself had done anything about it. I rest my case.
It was a good thing I bought a copy of Today when I got off Buendia. It’s strange how something as regular as reading the papers had made me felt so alive this morning. I grew a bone of sensitivity about upholding my citizenship. Reading the editorial had suddenly awakened a long forgotten passion. I remember how I had such strong convictions on national issues, on doing what is honorable, or simply being principled. Reading that editorial on Filipinos in Sabah being deported and maltreated, seemed to have rebuilt from the rubble of failed idealism I had left in me. I was in the jeep and heart went into a quick pace and my eyes were starting to moisten out of pity to what happened to fellow citizens, and out of pity to what had become of me.
I sold out to the Americans. How many times have I rationalized myself on this account, to the point that I can unpretentiously admit that I’ve simply grown lethargic on the big ballyhoo of raising the banners of nationalism, especially in a time when America considers the Communist Party of the Philippines as a terrorist organization.
The world is a magic trick. This has been made known to some. Some choose to look the magician in the eye, others choose to be blinded by the trick and simply play along.
My industry makes a lot of money for the government and for American Coporations. It makes money for me as well, who willingly allowed myself to be enslaved by the strangling hands of imperialism masqueraded as globalization, with the internet as the new playfield.
Reading on Today, I relished each delicious word the writers wrote. There’s this article on the Weekender about the war against poverty. Like Today editorials, it was written with so much elegance, wit, with a touch of humor and keen irony. Most importantly, it was framed with a backbone of their respectable ideology. The language is ordinary, with heavy words once in a while. It also comes with metaphors that work to deliver a point more strikingly, and always with a sense of history.
The smell of the crisp morning paper, it’s lay out, the font of choice, makes it more encouraging to read. It gives its identity that that is distinguished, and I believe would appeal to one’s better taste. I saw this paper start back in second year high school and it has always been maintained with excellent standards. There are still people who write for an occupation, no matter how unattractive the monetary rewards are. Contrary to the cliché, there are writers who live by, and are fed by their idealism. They must live humbly yet so nobly, living up to the obligations of their prized nobility.
And I went home to the life I choose. Having a hefty breakfast, lunch at home with my family, running around a lot and playing with the kid. Since its Sunday, my family switched to the home improvement mode again. I write ramblings that I write for myself, while having strong Columbian blend of coffee I’ve always wanted to buy and try out, listening to the new, the new Coldplay album, and a compilation of a 6cd chillout album. This room is a sanctuary. I’ll get a few pages of Kundera, then off to slumberland, thankful that I can take it easy.

July 2002

We must have strange sufferings, rarely sprinkled (maybe when the rain clears,) with strange joys.

FRI29JUN – TUE2JUL, 6:30 am. Running at CCP. Running to run away from it all. How relieving to see how the stress dissolves into puddles of sweat. The lack of exercise has turned my bones brittle; the way the lack of love turns a heart brittle as an old man’s skeleton. Now my joints and muscles rejoice again, at least for 30 minutes to an hour a day. I don’t really think of anything when I run. My mind just sets off to a temporary lull, and passively takes what is prevalent with my senses. Looking up at a clear sky being doused in the fog, and then pollution as you look towards the buildings in Makati. Looking on to the wide-open road that is yours to conquer. Listening to the chorus of chirping birds, music from aerobic sessions. Smelling the salt of the sea and my sweat. Tasting the bitter dryness of gastric juices in your tongue, craving for water and oxygen as you run. I take my water by the bay, and then drive home singing to every morning on screeching lungs. After washing up and some reading, I sleep so fucking soundly as if there is nothing to regret.

The great thing about being alone is that you though you do not have anyone thinking of you; you do not have to think of anyone else. You do as you please, with no needed hassles. Although you have to deal with people along the way, you can be respectful, polite, not pathetic, and yet selfish. I gave so much time to myself I this week’s days off; I am able to uncompromisingly delight myself with simple joys:
TUE930PM: Drank in ___ alone, and got drunk, toying with the idea of how Holden Caulfield would’ve been like if he turned 21. Would he have been able to live up to being Holden Caulfield? How immense was the influence of Salinger’s sensibility on me. There’s a reason why literary characters are immortal. There’s a reason why Holden Caulfield never grows old.
WED1030AM Finally went to UM to buy pirated CD’s: Chillout Project II, Travis, Moby’s 18 and a mainstream compilation. It was the CDs I came for but what I saw what was a lot (thought not all) of the mind-numbing, spirit crushing yet perfectly aesthetic beauty of pretty, self-obsessed and most probably characterless yet always-game-for-gimmicks La Sallian ladies. I should be telling myself with a satisfied grin, “Been there. Done that.” But I find myself saying, “I want one of those,” knowing you can’t have everything.
Nobody can eat all the eggs.
WED230PM: Like all normal employees, there should be some income draining at the mall and some faithful upholding of consumerism at G4. The hysteric but nonetheless unnecessary desire to buy appliances and amenities at Dimensione: 12000 peso beds, 8000 peso sofas. The 1200 peso mugs at Starbucks. 500 peso scented candles. 7000 peso fossil watch. 5000 peso presto shoes. 400000 peso flat screen TV.
Of course, I didn’t buy any of those.
I spent half of the day at Tower Records (supposedly, at Music One but it transferred to Greenbelt) to listen to new chillout releases that I would end up buying in UM. Yes, I am a patron of piracy. I am a patron of music, and I do not want to pay an insanely larger amount for huge record labels to bag the profit or afford a rockstar his next baywatch babe or night at the playboy mansion. But I ended up buying a jazz CD, Witch Doctors of Underground Jazz Improvisation, primarily because its not sold at UM, and it’s irresistibly good. I was also on the verge of buying the CD from a French band called “Eggstone.”
I walked to Powerbooks and spent hours browsing for books, and looking at the women browsing for books. I didn’t want to buy something experimental so I went for a classic, “The Unbearable Lightness of Being” by Milan Kundera. I’ve been wanting to read this since high school, but its only now that I actually considered the price to be cheap. I also bought a long overdue read, which is a short story collection by Jeanette Winterson. I got myself some Jamaican Patties, I ate and declared myself a man who is fully satisfied with food and good buys.
D.N. and I met later for a drink in one of the new bars in Malate. He bought me a drink for a customary first pay check treat, and surprised me as always with his seriousness for the future with all his plans for family and career development. I’m not surprised, of course, that I don’t even want to think about those.

THU430AM: After some strange dreams that seemed so deliberately directed. I woke to 430’s diluted skies. I opened the windows here upstairs and played the fitting chillout project 2 compilation against the sound of rain dropping on tin roofs, faint chirps from birds, the swaying of trees, that made the window look like a profoundly meaningful postcard.
When the house awoke, I had breakfast and slept again. I also saw a really good one at HBO, “Ordinary Decent Criminals.” The laughs, mild absurdity, cleverness, touchiness, and the excellent of performance of Kevin Spacey, made my day.
I went back to the room, listening to Travis, Moby, and WDOUJI which meshes well with the weather. It’s as if somebody cast a spell. The music is unseen magic that makes life better.


TUE19JUL02. After fourteen days of having interrupted my running, the floods finally went down the drain and the skies have cleared. Like a loud welcoming anthem, I sang in jubilation to the morning as my days off kicked off. I ran and reveled as my skin was once again basked in sweat and sun.
I took a moment as always beside the Abueva sculpture. I remember, during my usher days, looking at Manila from the window of Parterre Box Right: the city with the twinkle of orange lights along with the music and dance of whoever will be performing for the night. During the mornings, the perspective turns to the other side of the window. Everything reverses, like a photoshop effect.
I saw someone who was sitting on the edge of the corner, reading her bible, clad in her office attire. It’s very apt, perhaps, to read and be taught how worthy humans are of damnation, as the story goes. The only way to redeem us human’s mess is for God to be human and be tortured to death. How vindictive. How cruel. I think I read that from the secondary text Nietzsche book.
If you are someone who have suffered so, reading that story would not have alleviated, but would have rather augmented your suffering. And to be clad in your office outfit, to miss work on a Tuesday morning. We must have strange sufferings, rarely sprinkled (maybe when the rain clears,) with strange joys.

Wednesday, while life lulls itself away. Wearing a white polo, khaki jeans, blue sneakers, carrying a copy of Kundera, I went to live the day. I started it off with a fettuccini and chicken lunch, and had it alone of course.
Since the office has cut off the supply for Styrofoam cups, I’m not able to drink all the water I’m supposed to while I’m working. So I shed a few hundred bucks for a spill proof mug at Starbucks. With the free coffee coming along with it, I had all afternoon at the coffee shop reading Unbearable… occasionally staring at the back of people’s ears, wishing at the back of my head to have the birds of fortuity to flutter and flock on me, to have the fate of Teresa meeting Tomas. I had an Oreo Cheesecake matched with the usual café latte and the delicious novel. The read is exactly how H. would’ve loved it: absorbing, but not too reading intensive and heavy. I love to pay attention to the details, and I fancy non-American authors a lot because of their much more excellent background and taste.
After an afternoon of coffee, reading, and solitude, I met up with my brother and M.M. to a place called Times.

Although the birds of fortuity (more appropriately, the spirit of chamba) have fluttered and flocked on me before, I feel that chance has not spoken to me in a long, long time.

June 2002

This just happens once in a while, and then it starts to occur more often as do sores or strokes. Until then, you suddenly begin to understand why people innately have the ability to develop antibodies for diseases, or just how easy it is to get used to pains and pangs.

Gone to CCP again to see Maningning Miclat’s four paneled painting. It’s like boxed-in depression made huge, largely unexplainable, irresolvable, and captures you completely. In one of my nights off, I watched the Anton Juan play for the French Spring in Manila. It’s very good, but not too fascinating on my own uncritical and unintelligent judgment. Going back to CCP isn’t the same. For the reason perhaps, that you’re not really part of it anymore. It’s not one of the regularities found on your zone. You become just a visitor who’s moved on and is trying to remember. The ushers from my batch who are still in CCP ask me why I’m alone all the time. I never really celebrate being alone because it’s no longer a reflection of your solitude, but merely a convenience. Besides, the only activities that I can do alone is to go out alone go to the mall, watch movies, have dinner, write, and masturbate. The movies have really been disappointing, and it was not because I see them alone. Although they are worth watching, nothing so far (this year) has been worth of praise. Even the reads become disappointing sometimes. There are good chapters and some not pretty good ones. So far, I can’t remember (for this year) a read that I would really rant and rave about. Even that. After getting a few rounds with her, I eventually got bored with it and wanted someone new. Sometimes even music stops to come from people’s souls, it merely becomes just plain listenable. This feeling doesn’t arrest all the moments. The feeling when things stop being funny. When it comes to admitting that although things are all right, things aren’t the glad way they were. When you start to use “things” instead of a more specific, more witty, or even more artful adjective. You even keep it plain and stop using words that clutter. This just happens once in a while, and then it starts to occur more often as do sores or strokes. Until then, you suddenly begin to understand why people innately have the ability to develop antibodies for diseases, or just how easy it is to get used to pains and pangs. Without having to go through a dissertation in Semantics, I think I can tell that it helps to naming and enumerating things. I think it would help to make list of Top Fives or all-time favorite whatevers. I resolve to make list of the lists I would make and their specific categories, starting off with no specific ranking yet. It’s already Wednesday afternoon and my week is just about to begin. Five and a half hours away from logging in to a difficult Wednesday, with absolutely nothing to look fucking forward to in my normally uneventful week in an almost pointless life symptomed by the I-feel-I’m-too-old-at-early-twenty-something crisis. Except perhaps, for pay day, which would provide means for a little activity in my excitement scale. I still need the money to lavish during my days off. I guess the two days off went well enough. Last Monday morning I was out at 5:30 and had to stay in Makati for a medical appointment at 8:00. I spent the time in between playing billiards alone in the office recreation room. I couldn’t have coffee or breakfast because I’m not supposed to eat or drink anything before the medical exam. I’m obligated to bring some samples for blood chemistry. In the recent annual check up I was diagnosed with hypertension. My blood pressure was 150/110 and 140/110 if I get enough sleep. My my right eye only reads 20/50. Of course, I’m overweight. I gobble and shovel food into my mouth, along with beer and cigarettes and have not seriously exercised. This made me begin to wonder how sick I was mentally. I wondered if there is some deeply-rooted disturbance in my unconscious that I’ve grown too thick-skulled and too indifferent and apathetic about. I’m not really too paranoid about the outcome of the medical tests. I’ll take the prescribed medicine or attend to the occasional check-ups. This will only slightly affect, or will not impose any radical changes in my current lifestyle. I just minimized my smoking. As a matter of fact, I have managed to cushion the usual jolt of paranoia brought about by work, probably by virtue of being sedated. Anyway, I rested well Monday afternoon and woke up at around four for Dead Poet’s Society. I first saw this second year high school while hanging out at the Guidance office. This movie would peg a spot on my all time top ten. This time around though, I didn’t watch it with the same intensity, eagerness for poetry, exploding hormones, and idealism as before. I grew even more nostalgic of days when I had so much unquenched curiosity about life and the world. I remember how Cirilio Bautista taught us that Frost’s poem about “two roads diverged in the woods…” is not really about being different, or taking the less traveled route, but about the inconsistency of human decision. After watching it again, I wanted to read some of Walt Whitman’s poetry. I forgot to have dinner that night and went straight to this great date spot in Examiner called Aresi. They violinist played both saccharine-filled pop music. The walls had makeshift falls and you can hear the water swish. I didn’t have a date though, and I didn’t have anywhere else to go to. For the lack of considerable prospects, I wouldn’t really die to have a date. I met up with some friends for a few drinks. We headed to a cheap videoke place in Roosevelt, after which we want to a “Health Club.” We went to Kowloon and I had two pieces of jumbo pao and slept over at my cousin’s. Most of Tuesday morning and afternoon was spent sleeping and playing the Star Wars game and trying to catch some of the shows on I missed Monday night TV appointment on Star World. Late in the afternoon I went to Makati to meet up with R. and D.N. to join them in an after-work drink. We went to this economical but encouraging place in Chino Roces called “Obeertime.” The crowd was mostly older-crowd employees probably set out on getting drunk to shake off the stress. It’s great to see my friends again, and to reminisce about high school and even college over a case of beer and grilled panga ng tuna and tenga with tokwa immersed in seasoned soy sauce/vinegar. Of course, we had to discuss all that rant about careers and your future. I think I worked a good number of months ahead of DN and a few months on R., but how I envy their zealous pride and attitude towards the future, and the determination they have on their planned career path, and their planned life. I haven’t gone any far but I feel that I’m just mere sedated. My brother arrived from Davao today and I also envy how he travels a lot and sets out on adventures on such places. I woke up at 4 am and they were still drinking, so I joined for a little catching up on stories. I slept like a baby on Tuesday night and just spent the afternoon reading this new short story collection. It’s almost a newly formed habit to listen to reflective music before the end of the days-off. I played the Mozart-Beethoven-Bach list followed by some chillout. The Classical Comforts album seemed so fucking saddening this afternoon. I wanted to lament, but I really had nothing to lament about. But I guess started to think that I needed to achieve something. After having read this month’s and last month’s entries, I just wanted to learn to achieve a state of absolute sedation. This would probably postpone how one should live life, but it would do good until something comes along. I don’t know how to put it exactly, but it’s better than lamenting or brainwashing yourself to be happy. I am ever thankful, however, for my family, and the time we all spend together. My mom’s birthday while swimming in Laguna with all of our relatives. I had to take really long walks to find the nearest open cake shop at 7 am to bring her cake. Father’s day Lunch. It’s been a while since all of us sat together and ate at the dining table. We paid for lunch and simply appreciated the moment and each other. The gimmicks with my brothers, with our quiet, unsolicited understanding that makes harmony and happiness so effortlessly easy. With all my solitude, they keep me together. When sleepless in the space between the beginning and the end of work. This is the only time of the day that I should be having a life, or at least getting some sleep. I’ve been looking forward to resume my reading for Einstein’s Dreams, which I have actually been aching to do when I was at work last night or since H. lent it to me, craving to stuff my imagination with its imagery, of imagining what it is to be stuck in time or to be lost in time. It lets me imagine time collapsing or being something as complicated and indescribable as the smell of cinnamon. Imagine how missing socks reappear, be locked in embrace and contentment for an eternity, or to see a raindrop suspended in midair. Fantastic dreams. I think I lacked the concentration to sustain the appropriate level of appreciation for the book, so I decided to set it down for the meantime. I clicked the TV on to watch “Amy and Isabelle,” or I think it was Anne instead of Amy. I was too sedated to be touched, but the story was good enough to have me finish it to the end. It just lets me put a face to how my some of the customers would be like. Right after that I tried seeing “Bringing Out the Dead.” I see it as a commanding exaggeration for how a job genuinely burns you out. The film of course, was presented spectacularly. I had to have a beer for that. But I was too tired to finish the movie and took on recourse to rent it one of these days. I thought I was going to get my head down finally, but sleep escapes me. This is when I had to decide that another day has so insignificantly passed by. But I had to decide again, that my life generally has not had a sprinkle of significance recently. This day is really not a great deal different from others. Maybe this is not so bad. I’m getting more of what it means to be sedated, to have no wishes or whims, and to coincidingly have no whinings. I should remain hopeful, however, that in some nerve ending in my brain, there is a thought, some kind of shove for brain activity that would make me think of something to make this all ---- significant. At the beginning of the end of this week’s work, I kicked it off with standard biking session at CCP. There are so many vehicles on Roxas Boulevard during weekday mornings that I just thankful I am alive right now. Right after that I did some sit-ups and three sets of twenty-five repetition push-ups that my arms and chest still aches at this time. After biking of course, I jumped at the chance to watch the shows I missed on Monday night TV appointment on Star World TV. I saw everything beginning from Third Rock from the Sun, to King of Queens, to Dharma and Greg, Everybody Loves Raymond, Frasier and Boston Public, and even Caroline in the City. Except for occasional glimpses of MTV, Juice and Pia Guaño on MTB, this should be all the TV I prescribe myself, as these shows provide genuine laughs and sporadically, some touching sentiment. Sleepless and fatigued from the only heavy exercise I had in a few months, I spent my first night off drinking with relatives at Project Seven and then automatically slept a snap after my back touched the bed. The next morning I woke up and resumed reading Einstein’s Dreams after breakfast that morning. I took my the increasing number of antibiotics --- Amoxil, Diovan, and I had to take Alaxan because of the slowly becoming unbearable pain in my arms and shoulders. I had an allergic reaction and both my eyes got all swollen as if a bug bit them. There was an itinerary prepared for the day and although I almost did, I didn’t want to cancel everything because of this. I needed to go to UM to buy CDs and have lunch with no less than myself, watch Amelie have coffee and then go to NSG tonight to watch the World Cup over those hundred ounce beers. I wasn’t able to go to UM for the CDs but I did see the French film Amelie. At last, a film that I would hail. This is my best film of this year and would probably sneak into the top five of my International film category, and make a notch in my all time top ten. The film literally seems to have its own color and texture --- with the sepia quality and poetry of photographs. It also was able to blend some sort of harmony between magic realism, interesting magazine advertisements and MTV. I like the way it cleverly focused on little details to tell a story or illustrate a point. It was a simple story that unpretentiously laid itself out. It didn’t have the drugs and desolation of Trainspotting, or the rich sense of climax and plot in the events of Red Violin. Amelie presented a more simple story that beautifully, creatively and carefully comprised a distinct set of details. It used color with a subtle playfulness. It used tricks and visuals that came out as innovative and refreshing. A lot of other films will try to do this, but will fail. The kind of film I was looking for since it had some sort of literature I love to have infused myself with and celebrated each moment of. I saw it in Robinsons, after I had lunch alone and some Dairy Queen chocolate mallows. I believe less than twenty people were inside the theater, and I don’t think all of them were intent on seeing it. I had an entire row to myself, right on my preferred spot, three rows from the back, middlemost seat.

May 2002

I love how I finish yet another night at work, as though the beginning of the day is a coronation for my conquest.

Jairus Jason Whines Again. It came to the point of mentally drafting my resignation letter.
Perhaps I have not often mentioned what a great deal of stress my work has thrown over my shoulders. Significantly, on the few months after I’ve started. At that time, I’ve always felt an anxiousness in the middle of stomach, followed by the formation of a parch on my throat. It happens right when I’m about to press the available button. How I thought and yakked of resigning, everyday. I more often had the mindset that it was something to keep me level, and kept silent about the details which were undeniably obvious.
Perhaps my fears that sprung from work are invented. And that led me to counteract, thus I invented reasons and rationalizations that allowed me to assuage my fears. I think I thought of that, when I was staring at the site from the bus window during a late afternoon. People were rushing home. The light from the setting sky makes the buildings seem so small, despite having swallowed so many lives.
After a while, I guess I’ve learned to adapt to this line of work, to put up to a difficult feat. Time, a long length of time, makes us acquiescent to the circumstances we face.
I was telling myself just last month, “I had gathered so much complacency. I already had my intuition working on it. Just when I had extensive client knowledge, take on every customer issue, and make sound judgment calls. I had that air of professionalism hanging on me.” There was a time that I started to generally enjoy work, or have adapted to enjoying it.
And then I transferred to a new account. I felt my complacency crushed, my professionalism dampened and demoralized. My liver has not turned yellow since then. Once again, I am back to zero.
Once again, the litany of everyday life becomes, “Why do I have to put up with this?” Although after a time, I’ll eventually conquer this affliction. It’s even easier now, I know, since I’ve once grown desensitized to the fretfulness worked has caused me.
Somehow, I could say that I proved myself. Having read all the Nietzsche stuff, I wanted a test of strength, a new struggle. I don’t want to rake up the redundancy for the formula of how I got through it before. Furthermore, I can never really be certain that I’m going to pull it through this time.
Until a better job comes up, I have to be glad about what I’ve got.

After a brief period of scorching, unbearable heat, which seemed like so much loathing, it began to rain again. It drizzled on early mornings and late afternoons and the skies went gloomy all day.
I probably have mentioned this for a million times, how nature sympathizes with life’s dryness. At one point, I thought that nature itself not only sympathizes but actually dictates the course of life.
It’s 5:20 pm and I’m looking out the window while the leaves hum and dance on the large, against a background of ashen skies. A blue car passes by. I’m playing sharply depressive music, European alternative music: Coldplay. I used to listen to it a lot at work when I was on the chat team --- and ironically enough, that didn’t register any hint of depression when I listened to it at that time. It depresses me now, but I play it all the same. There is no point in wallowing in depression but we are inclined to do so, as if it was a necessary condition.
The last few tracks of Moby’s “Play” was equally depressing.
I’m still wondering if should label my present affliction as a genuine and terrible one. Maybe I’m psyching myself up for a grand re-affirmation of life. Maybe, in time. For now, I should learn to convince myself to be glad with what is steady.
Steady means all that I have for now. The two days I had off, the reads, the nights out, the occasional sex, and the little joys that I have always dwelled upon.
I know that this may or may not lead to an eventual deformation of character. I was having a drink with M&L last night. We covered one of the most usual objects of conversation: how’s work? How’s the future? How we ask not only how the present is, but also judge how the future would be, as if the future were easily predictable. As usual, I had to concede that I didn’t have any long term goals, no plans for career growth, no dreams. I only had little fantasies, like having a fantasy chick, fantasy job as a waiter, fantasy owner of a coffee shop, fantasy own apartment with fully loaded library, fantasy furnishings, appliances and amenities, fantasy car, fantasy success, fantasy life. Fantasies I would never act upon. Fantasies that let me resolve to low profile happiness. Sheryl crow sings, “It’s not having what you want, its wanting what you’ve got. I’m gonna’ soak up the sun. I’m gonna tell everyone to lighten up.” Wow, I’m getting really mainstream. I think it’s the way she sang it, the commanding precision of timing when it hit me.
Is this what it’s like to be a bystander to your fate? To simply hope for the best about what happens next? With all that I’ve learned and spouted in philosophy, this seems like a sorry lot.

Life responds? The first stroke of sunlight arrives at around 5:30, right after my shift. It automatically activates a joy-in-my-spine. I love how I finish yet another night at work, as though the beginning of the day is a coronation for my conquest. Work is over, at least for now. I take a pleasant walk to the loading zone in Ayala Triangle, along streets still silent and empty. The 5:45 am wind brushes my skin. The sunlight is pleasant, not ferocious. All those necktied men and short skirted women are still in bed, hesitating to get up. I’ll be on my way home on a commute with no traffic, unimaginably glad for the end of the night. It’s like receiving a reassurance that life will reply to complaints I file.

April 2002

I may have been very glad to be living out Salinger’s usual epiphany: of having the character saved with the appearance of a child in the picture. Someday, in this story, there will be a time when I’ll need some saving.

The first weekend of this month became a brief one. I’ve once again been victimized by the interim periods that wipe out your days off. With one day off for a week, I spent Saturday night for a drink, billiards (in a Timog bar frequented by prostitutes,) and yes, window shopping for them in QC and in Malate. The mere fact that I’m out a night is a remedy to my little grief.
We saw something interesting last night in Malate while window shopping. She looked scarcely fifteen, with barely blossomed, underdeveloped breasts. She had thin arms and skinny legs and had oval shaped face, moderately attractive. We didn’t take her, of course, since we were just shopping from the car windows.
Unusually enough, the young prostitute struck me strangely, as though I saw a wildflower in an unlikely place.
Thoughts arrive like butterflies and I delineated dating and prostitution. Prostitution can be a better alternative as opposed to stepping into that dating circle, when you pretentiously present your personality to the person your dating. Dating, by disposition, is deceit, since you put your best foot forward keep your less attractive qualities lurking in the shadows. Though decent, most women who enjoy dating would be those who consider Cosmopolitan Magazine as literature. A lot of women nowadays find Claudia Schiffer more interesting than Hannah Arendt. The other category of the dating types would the one would be the one who judges not with the depth of character, but by the immensity of your “success.” Or maybe even the immensity of something else. But in prostitution or in dating, the end is one and the same: for a couple to copulate.
So I felt consoled, and even blissfully hopeful, that I should go out one of these nights, in search of, and seduced by that powerful and slowly-dissolving innocence.
One of these nights…

It has been a week of salary dissipating activities, consisting mainly of fast food and junk food consumption. All I’ve been eating for the past week would be McDonalds cheeseburgers, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Shakey’s Pizza, Hen Lin Siomai, Kowloon Siopao, Pringles, Lays, and since its discovery as an untapped resource, Bingo’s chili cheese dog. Given the chance, I enjoyed gobbling another Kamikaze burger at Hotshots and a Double Western at Carl’s Jr. This eating at fastfoods/restaurants at the mall is this week’s frenzy. I remember the time, and perhaps still have sods on my taste buds, when I craved for pesto, angel hair pasta, a crab sandwich, Paella, bagoong rice and crab shell omelet. Not to mention, of course, that I have the sizzling specialties of my hardworking parents every day. It’s always, quite literally, on the house. The most notable is the sizzled daing na Bangus, the flesh of the milkfish both tender and crunchy, swimming in honey and tereyaki sauce, sprinkled with sesame seeds and fried garlic --- my dad’s recipe.
I no longer wonder how I’ve grown to occupy more space in the universe by accumulating slabs of fat. I’m wondering what the best way would be to tell my tale of obesity. To eat to become happy, and to become unhappy because you ate too much.

It’s curious. I will begin another entry with the word, “week.”
Another week is ahead of me. Handling the week, however, has been an easier undertaking. I would’ve felt anxious when hours before the first log in of the week tick closer. I guess I’ve simply grown to be more complacent in working. Perhaps the customary night-outs during weekends have helped ease things out.
I had a another drink with friends last Friday night. We went to Eastwood in Liblis, probably because we were in the lookout for nice smelling women clad in skimpy clothing. And in for a better taste, we went wine bar in Makati called Pravda. The place was just so high brow and it sported this “see and be-seen” crowd. Although we were nobody to be seen, the music was quite good, and the place had perfect dim, red lighting that matched with candles on each expensive looking, well designed table. Che Guevarra’s pictures were all over the place. I just don’t understand why Che Guevarra should be involved in such a high-brow bar. A lot of the women, of course, were impeccably beautiful, and maybe even interesting and sophisticated, a lot of men where just the type who flaunt the immensity of a success that would probably compensate for the shortness of their penis. Everyone had wines and cocktails.
We went back to Malate. We settled in what we called a “classic” bar, ___. A lot of bars already sprouted in Malate and a lot other things came up that tampered the spirit of the place. M. once mentioned that a lot of the icons of our childhood were all swabbed away. We recalled our best memories before the “gay takeover.” I guess Malate has a new face now. We were just glad that ____ still stood. It hasn’t changed much. It’s a place where we felt so comfortable and steady. It was a place where we inevitably come home to. We’re barely 21 and we sounded 40.
With the good drinking binge from Friday night I was made a vegetable from a terrible hangover. I think it’s been a thousand years since I’ve did anything or physical so I decided to go biking at least. Whenever I see the magnificent sunsets at the bay, sunsets so beautiful, I can’t explain it, I almost start to believe this should be the handiwork of some supreme being. But you start to see how religion and churches work; you begin to believe that the idea of god must be overrated, and the explanation unacceptable. To recall Heller’s Catch-22, this must also be the same god who included phlegm and tooth decay in his divine system of creation. Right after the sunset I made a few rounds on CCP, on that wide road fronting the PICC and that street where trees arch and bow to (on the secretariat building.) I also went up to the film center from left side of the steps fronting the bay. While mounting that ramp with my bike I saw the sea which looked like a graveyard at 6:00 pm with early evening clouds and waters that looked gray. I saw through a hole inside the film center, and once again in a long time, felt a fear in my stomach. I couldn’t look, afraid of what I might see. Passing on a Saturday night out, I bought my brother and his friends a drink here at home.

During Sunday mornings I look forward to seeing J., our cook’s little Girl. She’s named after our mother and it’s the closest thing to having a sister. We watch cartoons, play around, and eat together a lot. Interestingly enough, she has this way of making my eyeballs moisten with tears often. Whenever she sees a McDonalds commercial, while playing her cooking toys or while she is resting her head on my shoulders when she sleeps.
We had breakfast at Mcdo this morning, and I had to chase her around a lot. We also drove and Sunday drives are such a pleasure. We went to the bookstore and I had to buy her a book about a girl and a dog that she wanted so bad, she’d cry inside the bookstore if we didn’t get it.
I may have been very glad to be living out Salinger’s usual epiphany: of having the character saved with the appearance of a child in the picture. Someday, in this story, there will be a time when I’ll need some saving.

March 2002

The unpopulated streets and the unbusy buildings seemed to rest, and that made me feel less weary. It reminded me of the whole sensibility of summer, always with a heat so scorching, so maddening, yet always delightful, always with a soundtrack, always immersed in a growing nostalgia for the summers before, summoning memories at a time were feelings were so raw.

Even your saliva would taste different during summer. It would be more simmered. Soft bubbles of fulfilled longing, boils on my mouth, and I feel the warmth of her skin.

Every year, come summer, I write something like this:
“There is something with the sunrise of summer, something that I loved which never lost its spectacle. I watched its sky from the blinds of the window, the transformation of pitch black to purple to pale white to a glorious yellow. The golden beams bring a blistering heat that brushes a familiarity with my skin, announcing the arrival of summer and all it holds.”
Before, this is what summer holds and this is what I write about: What does it hold? A bottomless well of booze to quench an undying thirst, endless parties, trifling and sensible thoughts to ponder, newspapers and books to read, the idiot box, boredom that can never be effaced, scorching heat and lazy afternoons and a summer to spend eternally in bed.
Now, this is what summer holds: Work, fucking work, except during weekends where there is unwavering desire and an abundance of eagerness, but only little opportunity to go to the beach.


Today summer proclaims its arrival to my skin. Extra salty and extra thick sweat oozes out of my pores, from the scalp of my hair to roll into my beads on my brow. This is the first physical indication. I never attempted to name this feeling. Perhaps there is no suitable English translation that captures the tropical connotation of "lagkit." Not only is it the sticky sensation from the oppressive heat or the drowsiness in your eyes, it is a bed magnetizing your limbs, a spasm of hot lust, the smell of the sea and rainwater on asphalt, a glueyness between your fingers that needs to be washed by garden scented soap, the mad craving for soft drinks on ice cubes, San Miguel Pale Pilsen frosted on its brown bottle, taro milk tea while walking on the mall, or just plain iced tea.
Summer always summons a lot of memories. It has a way of re-cycling what had happened before. It’s composed of the same occurrences bordering on mild differences. Or perhaps, it has been my adaptability that made me notice the differences less and less.
I distinctively remember the summer of last year. It had the same blistering heat and heaviness of the sun settling on me, which I felt again today. I was reading 100 Years of Solitude, lying on the couch in a sweat-drenched shirt. I listened to 98.7’s classical music and some chill out day in and day out. Back then, there was still a sala downstairs. I remember picking up R. from school after her classes, and making out on their house during late summer evenings after we go have dinner or see a movie. Even your saliva would taste different during summer. It would be more simmered. Soft bubbles of fulfilled longing, boils on my mouth, and I feel the warmth of her skin. That relationship ended before the last summer did. I haven’t had one since then.
Although not entirely predictable and pre-determined, I must let this summer create a scrambled version of what has previously happened in my life. I didn’t hatch any plans. My desires remain low-profile: (paraphrased/plagiarized/re-worded/re-thought from The Beach) mine is a desire that the sun will bleach, or will be washed by the waves of the sea.

It is always excellent to expect nothing else.

The journal is suffering from a major backlog. Yes, a lot of things are yet to be written.
Lourd De Veyra cleverly carved it these beautiful words:

Sometimes I would look out the window
And see tiny pieces of poem gathering on the glass like afternoon dust…

…Again I look at the window
And see the dust thinning away, in a fading chaos with the wind
Multiplying into a million of permanently lost poems.

These were the first and last lines of a poem that certainly gave meaning to the feeling of leaving a planned journal entry or an ostensibly important event left unwritten. I think I’ve said before, that I have not lived my life until I have written about it.

For the sake of having another lousy entry on a major burn out day, since the journal is suffering from a major backlog. I’ve been more vulnerable to stress since I’ve started working. Although it remains manageable, and what the stress I am experiencing right now is miniscule relative to others, I still am susceptible to a share of irritability, anxiety, and lesser emotional resiliency.
I feel so fatigued physically. I have been completely sleepless for more than 30 hours. It’s not the first time that I’ve been sleepless for more than 30 hours straight, but it’s exhausting nonetheless. I had to come in at 10:00 pm last night for an update training, and log out at 9:00 am. I’m sharing a workstation with another employee, who’s things occupy the entire table. This workstation is also more cramped than usual --- compared to the more comfortable workstations and areas at the office. I’m able to hit my performance targets but I’m tired as an ant. My throat is growing sore, and my back and shoulders has an ache that slices through my body. The switching from the Siberia-cold office to the overbearing heat outside has been nothing but healthy. As I arrive home, (the morning bottleneck is endured by sleeping it off in the bus) I receive the errands from my mom, and my conscience tortures me when I refuse. Under the merciless heat of the noon sun, I take a long walk to the market or take the car to Escoda. Not that I am oppressive, but the place is indeed festered with, and is, scum scented. I see the unfortunate bums scattered on the streets who are not always blameless as to why nothing is happening with their lives. Our own ignorance always gives us culpability. I take the unpleasant walk back home and the room is a total wreck. Sometimes, it isn’t helpful to idealize chaos. It’s noontime again, highpoint of the house. Each molecule of air is taken over by the thick whiff of liempo or tilapya being grilled, sizzled squid, lamb chops, and chicken. Literally, its like gravy is in the air --- a concoction of mushrooms, corn starch, soy sauce and seasoning. Add that to the summer’s maddening heat and all the hurried tension around the house. Oh, and I almost failed to mention that suitable background music amidst all this from the PVP liner bus to our house is provided by YES FM – a radio station that appeals to the masses awfully with it mindless music. The radio station plays dumb music that melts your brain.
I decided between beer and Berocca (anti-stress medicine). Of course I chose the former. I tidied up the room, closed all blinds and blocked every path of sunlight. I had the lamp on, played the 70’s Italian-porn soundtrack songs from Salinas Sessions, and saw some pornography. I got some of the liempo and tilapya and feasted on it while having some Pale Pilsen.
It’s almost four, and I can get a few hours of sleep. I can’t get that heavy boulder, that planet of tension sitting on my back, but at least, this is semi-relieving.
I may have seconds thoughts about not drinking that stress vitamin after all.


Outlined journal backlogs, before dust settles on them, before they commit to become dust themselves.

3/8
- Thursday night: had a drink with H. in Malate. Upon arriving home - surf for porn, out of nostalgia, boredom. Started chatting people up on IRC out of nostalgia. You occasionally bump into a rare find, a jewel in that septic tank --- not exactly Helen of Troy pretty, but not necessarily ugly. I met someone in chat before whom I found from the UP channel and we had coffee or lunch two or three times in Katipunan and Ayala. She was one of those UP cheerdancers and would pass off with a good rate in the character scale. She’s decent and she has humor. Met someone again tonight.
- Friday afternoon: standard biking session, watch the sunset, let pores secrete sweat, smell the sea while biking leisurely along the CCP Trellis, watch the Yachts and imagine turning them into a surrealist painting. Friday night, I met up with the girl. I bought her coffee at the Starbucks in La Salle. We weren’t able to build good chemistry. She seemed profoundly interesting, but we can barely laugh together. She liked science oriented books and middle age history. I felt too much angst festered in her, much like myself at one point in my life. She said she didn’t link going out for dinner, or going out at night. I cannot delve and dwell into too much angst, not anymore, after I have devised my way to chill out and I’m little deeper into my own hedonism. She prophesized, during the beginning, the end our knowing each other: “I must say that these efforts for hi-ended quips and repartees might result in bitter disappointment.” I probably replied with some heavy and therefore pretentious words… probably even quoted some schmuck.
- Friday night: After the disappointment, I dated myself to “A beautiful Mind” and met up to drink with my brother and some friends in Malate.
- -Saturday afternoon: silence lies afloat empty chairs and tables on the store, formerly the beloved living room… leaves of the trees swaying with graceful gait, humming songs with the wind… the setting sun reciting poetry through shadows and things drifting… six hours away from logging in again.

The weekend after that, I think.
- Thursday afternoon: Came home at around 1:00 because of the HR meeting thing. Bought my godchild, a gift for his second birthday. Attended the birthday party at McDonalds at around 6:00 thereafter. I got so stuffed from the food I slept at around 10:00 p.m.
- Friday Morning: woke up at 4:00 a.m. read a little and wrote some ramblings. Went biking two or three hours later. Cleaned up the room and watched TV during the afternoon, and read De Veyra’s poetry in between.
- Friday night: Taking the ride with K., went out for the 12 AM shift’s dinner/drink in Greenbelt. Ate pasta and had hundred ounce beers and had some laughs. It ended quite early and most of the team had to go work at 12:00 a.m. Had coffee at starbucks and closed service requests at the office. Headed straight to Sidebar in Malate to have a few more beers and spend my time alone, to have some solace.
- Saturday Morning: standard biking session. Since it’s a morning, it’s slightly more strenuous but not necessarily less leisurely than afternoon biking. Went up the ramp a few times, resting besides the Abueva sculpture, catching my breath. Arrived home, went to this air-con specialized shop to bring in the car and fix the air-conditioning.
- Saturday afternoon: started reading on Haggedorn.
- Saturday night: Met up with K. at the Cable Car in Makati for drinks, and met up with some other friends at Mati in Rockwell (one of those places where beer is 80 or 120 a bottle and yuppies reign) A number of shift leaders and production supervisors from the office were there. They kept on teasing Kim and I as an item, as we have perpetually been the object of office gossip. It flatters me of course, since K. is an Aphrodite, a legitimate, nice smelling hottie who cooks splendidly, as she is white as milk, creamy as asparagus, gentle, glowing brown eyes that speak her kindness, or nestle you in good humor. She’s probably the officemate is spent the most time with. I’m glad we’ve grown to be good friends and I’m glad I would never have to fall for her. We ended up cracking some heat, before calling it a night.

The next weekend:

- Friday morning: saw M. at the PVP bus and asked him for a spontaneous drink in high noon, to which I’ve grown accustomed to.
- Saturday night: Kowloon Siopao dinner, standard drinking session at Malate with friends and family. Saw the Subic girls again.
- Sunday morning: I’m not sure why I ended up in my cousin’s house. Kowloon Siopao lunch. It was another cousin’s graduation and we went to Katipunan to buy her flowers. Katipunan is such a serene place during Sunday afternoons with all the swaying leaves of trees, wide, empty school fields, loungy places, and people in comfy clothes.
- Sunday night: dinner at Moomba with the project seven people. Slept so fucking well.


This weekend:
- Saturday: just had a chili cheese dog at Bingo while K. ate ice cream. Saw her again at 6:30 pm at Cable Car to drink at Cable Car. Got drunk enough to sleep at 12:00 am. Before Kim and I met up, I dropped by PowerBooks to browse, and saw that they are now selling Paul Coehlo’s Alchemist at P199, from P519. My recent acquisitions at Book Sale and National Bookstore: Pablo Neruda, Selected poems, from P700-800 to P150, Burroughs’ Interzone from P400++ to P150, and Haggedorn’s Dogeaters, from P400++ to P150.
- Sunday: went to a beach with my family, cousins and second cousins. The beach wasn’t too fantastic, spent all day reading Haggedorn while basked in the sun, listening to the waves on the wide shoreline, drinking San Mig Light, smoking, laying my back on the wooden benches of the hut by the beach.

Holy week wasn’t too holy. Holy, not in a non-religious sense, but in my sense. For the past two years, I had my own season of contemplation, my Holy Thursdays. Although everyone’s quiet reflection was relieving, the traffic eased and the days more laid-back, I still had to go to work. But it was a good week at work. While having breakfast in her car sometime during the week, K. and I took a drive along Valero and Legazpi and around Makati. The unpopulated streets and the unbusy buildings seemed to rest, and that made me feel less weary. It reminded me of the whole sensibility of summer, always with a heat so scorching, so maddening, yet always delightful, always with a soundtrack, always immersed in a growing nostalgia for the summers before, summoning memories at a time were feelings were so raw.

February 2002

The beer tastes better as the afternoon sun fell heavy on us, mirroring its light on glittering waves, disturbed by passing jet skis.

Nothingness – the determining finality of it all. Before that, there is a straight line… of days that simply drag you along like the currents of the sea.

Though you can never rid yourself of uncertainties, though you can never efface boredom, deny your emptiness or the nothingness which is the determining finality of it all, you can still get yourself to say that happiness in manageable. I cannot refuse this bone of optimism that’s growing within my skeleton.
Like most things, happiness is fleeting. But why not savor it while it lasts, why not insist on making it linger a moment longer?
We went back to the beach, and I found belongingness. I found an affinity with the sand and the scenery. To have your feet buried in the continually crumbling sand, flood your eyes with the magnificence of an earthen sunset, let the booze snake down your throat, and listen to the waves as the water ripples, and listen to my chill out CDs. We took a lot of photos of ourselves, as though to make the memory accessible. We had lunch and dinners at grills and steakhouses in Subic and had drink on a dive-shop-slash-bars by the beach. The beer tastes better as the afternoon sun fell heavy on us, mirroring its light on glittering waves, disturbed by passing jet skis. At night, the lamps hung on the trees, and the lights from the ships on the silent sea glowed with the stars. We checked in one of those cheap motels.
I understand the difficulty of not being able to spell out the bliss I’ve been hanging on to. I have been groping for more words that would decorate it profusely, that would explain the eminent richness of experience, but they escape me. It’s probably my job that led me into the lack of finding the intellectually stimulating. Not to mention that this job has added so many of my imagined fears. It increases my insecurities of the future, even to the point of keeping the job itself. But then, it gives me the money I need to squander during weekends, and probably respect required by everyone. I believe that my paranoia has increased tenfold, and yes, paranoia is just the highest scale of reality. My job makes me represent a lot of things which is beyond my control. Irate callers somehow give me the idea that the dreadful anger exhumed in human nature is somehow justifiable, because Corporate America has its glitches. More importantly, it has its greed. And now I have my own. I think it was back October when I said, my own cliché: “that there are certain things we have to do, to keep on doing the things we want to do. Even your own pleasure has its prerequisites.” I got a 25% salary increase since I was regularized last month.
Perhaps my muse is frowning at me. She seeing a coldness, growing like a tumor in my brain. She is thinking that I’m slowly becoming a person I dreaded. Sometimes, it becomes less and less important to put things into writing. Maybe I’m merely losing it, watching myself ebb away from me. But then, why let it?
As I’ve said, everything’s still manageable. I’m fetched on a far, better position that most people. Rarely would you think that the grass is greener on your side. This is me and my low-profile happiness. Perhaps there is happiness lurching in the night, when I stare at the unfeeling buildings erected on Ayala Avenue. I see them everyday, and never seem to see them get tired. They would always have some lights up, no matter ho occupies those desks, when the former gives up on the job. Maybe I should always feel like the eager newcomer who is determined to rise up on the challenge. I’ve always tried to stare so closely to the people who go to work during the morning, when I’m about to go home after the shift. I wonder what their lives are like. Do they live like zombies alienated by their jobs? Can they afford to catch the day’s snatch of happiness, or maybe light a sincere passion? What are their certainties and what do they live for? What is it that helps them get through a difficult day? I don’t think they think of it that much.
There is a moment, in each passing day, when you think of your own afflictions. Between that summation of my low-profile happiness, I have the terrors of my own solitude and my own vague aspirations. It’s not that all apparent for now. Somehow, I think they are still is easy to get over. Someday, perhaps things will be more difficult. The future’s not far, with the way I hurry the days. I will be alone long enough, and be alone in the end zone. But why think of it now, when its less difficult to design legitimate alibis, and any affliction is not an urgent, but rather an invented concern.
It’s strange how I’ve gotten to enjoy Monday afternoons such as this one. I woke up early today, and went biking when the sun wasn’t even up. It was so fucking cold I didn’t even sweat. I went up to that spot, on the side of the CCP main theater lobby, after you go up that high ramp. On one side, there is Napoleon Abueva’s Magkasintahan sa Buhay at Sayaw, one of the sculptures I’m most fond of. I wrote an essay about that sculpture once. On the other side, you get the view of Roxas and the buildings of Makati blocked heavy with the city’s carbon monoxide. After that I went home and slept again. I spent the afternoon writing and reading and sleeping again. During the evening, you are served with a comedy marathon on Star World: Third Rock from the Sun, That 70’s show, Everybody Loves Raymond, Dharma and Greg, and Frasier. Oh, and I almost failed to mention that I’m almost drunk now. A rightful celebration to a glorious day, to muster enough confidence to say that the week is going to be easy.


An emotion switches and swings so quickly from one mood to another. One minute you are a five year old in Disneyland, the next minute you are the oppressed protagonist in appalling 2 pm soap operas. We’ve always believed that Sisyphus has ordained life its meaning when he said fuck you to the gods and took meaning in pushing his boulder to the mountaintop. Sisyphus represented my ideals, somehow. He was my hero, my high school thesis.
He represented my drive towards facing the nakedness of reality, my impulse to the truth, to pursue what is passionate and principled.
But now, becoming Sisyphus won’t be too laid-back, it won’t be too hedonistic. It is as though I have found a new struggle. It is the struggle of I don’t know. I don’t know and I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to complain. I don’t want to be too compulsive, or too naïve. I don’t want to be filled with fear, with the ignorance of why I live, or why I have lost my ideals. I want to ask myself why I sound like a self-help book, or why I write so bad? Why do I feel complete, yet sometimes completely empty?
My answer is to press your mouth to the loving, relieving lips of a beer bottle. The answer is to write, to matter how vaguely, or how ugly. The answer is to find your story, to tell the uniqueness of your story. It does not matter what the ending comes to. The answer is uncertainty. Life has not endowed us the favor of certainty.
Have you not gone tired of your struggle? Have we not all gone weary even of our own happiness, struggles, uncertainties, absurdity, faith in God, faith in Nothingness, which is all merely faith in something unknown.
Did you not want to feel nothing? Have you not wondered what nothing feels?
Have we failed to catch the drift of what Sisyphus meant had when he found his meaning? What was it like to love that piece of fate?
We make this absurdity thrive for each day of our lives, with our demeaning occupations. I’m working again tonight, and you’re working again tomorrow, pushing that stupid rock… only to push that stupid rock again. I spur my brilliant excuses to our customers, and once again psur my brilliant excuses to our customers.
Of course, there are always benefits. Somebody always gets richer when the dice is thrown in the craps table. We can have our share of the pot. We should have a job for more salary-dissipating activities for our selfish vanity, and fulfilling not just the needs but the importuning of gastronomic fantasies, or working your whole life for a two week vacation.
Here I am trying to write and be sublime and all. Pretty pathetic attempt, I guess. But then, as you may have noticed, I only write the same thing. I have no new message, no specific event, no new story to tell. “We are all in one boat… and that boat is going nowhere.”
Nothingness – the determining finality of it all. Before that, there is a straight line… of days that simply drag you along like the currents of the sea.


Everyday at twelve noon, the highpoint of the house arrives. I think you can only call it half a house, since half of the place is devoted to our family business. Twelve noon is the busiest time of the day, since a large volume of people come over to have lunch. A thick whiff of sizzled squid, lamb chops, and tenderloin would cloud the air. Utensils would continually be clacking, against the cacophony of 12 PM traffic in the street, the loud and heated hiss of fire on sizzling plates, my parents and our servers moving in a hurried tension.
At this time of the day, the room downstairs would be most rowdy, as it usually is. The room upstairs would make you feel like leftover food being nuked in the microwave oven. It is the most difficult time of the day, especially to find solace. I usually have a beer or two at this time, during regular working days, bum around with my cousin (who would be on his lunch break from school) or watch the telly in my parent’s room.
I miss the sala I’ve always spoken of, and the revelry it brought me during afternoons with its poetry of light and shadows, chillout/classical music, the rich blend of coffee, good reads, and a type of solace more rare than blue diamonds.
I spend maybe half an hour talking to my mom and dad every afternoon while they eat, after most of the customers finished eating. It’s amazing how they always make it a point to have lunch or dinner together. Nothing fancy, but together. And all of a sudden, I am most glad I have them.



I made an effort to read and re-read effort my journal for the past couple of months, and even the entries for the last five years. It was like taking my life in my hands, and clutching it firmly again, listening to my story from my own voice, and noticing how this voice has changed.
I also took it as a point of comparison for the entries I’m writing now. Maybe I’ve grown less eloquent, or maybe just more forward, honest, and less decorative on my choice of words and had lesser things to conceal.
My frustration about the most recent journal entries (since I started working) is that they have been railing against the same things and plugging the same fucking fare to the point that it’s become sickening to talk about it. Undeniably, there has been sameness in my life. However, I failed to dwell into the very details of events that taken place that would probably spell at least a little difference.
In this Friday afternoon, between buttered garlic toast, hazelnut coffee and bossa nova, I resolve to engage more profoundly into the moment and spell out that difference to whittle the worthlessness of writing about the sameness of my life.
Call it as some sort of mild escapism, but I have to lessen all that redundant crap about my job… or even the happiness I managed to assemble.

Pixel Juice by Jeff Noon. This is one of the titles that I got off the rack after a lot of browsing at PowerBooks. I never heard of Jeff Noon, I never heard any reviews for the book, nor received any recommendation. But I guess I just followed my intimations and instincts. I remember buying a lot of books this manner, titles such as Sophie’s World (yes, before everybody started reading it), Zen: Freedom of the Mind, or a poetry book by Luisa Cariño. I initially liked Jeff Noon because it looked like a fusion of Coupland, Hornby and Welsh, and because it had an interesting cover and binding.
Pixel Juice is a collection of fifty stories. The stories range from product recalls for factory-defective celebrity-looking fucking dolls, to instructions for the use of mad gadgets archived from the museum of fragments. There are stories about magic-realist drugs which feed robots their dreams and hallucinations to feed them their humanity. Noon also based some his fiction on the club scene in Manchester to produce stories about eternal groves on jellied-up moments. There’s this story of a DJ that can make echoes of the beat last for six weeks, rapid-fire fingertronics, etch-plate aesthetics and fractal scratches out of human edit --- because her one hand is pliant and the other hand is made of butterflies.
Noon mostly writes about the future, about AI’s that he fondly calls autogens. I think he’s trying to give at least a faint glimpse of how screwed up the future could be, with all the buzzing technology that humans hatched. The language he uses sounds unique because he usually invents words for himself, like names for drugs, drinks, or artificially intelligent beings. I don’t know where he draws it from, video games, porn flicks or classic sci-fi books. Sometimes it’s annoying because it sounds pseudo-scientific, and sometimes it’s downright amusing. Take these definitions for instance:
BABY n. The outcome of unprotected sex between a human male and female.
BORBI DOLL n. the most sophisticated doll of the 21st century. The girlfriend of RoboKen, with whom she produced the baby-data called Borble.
The stories from Pixel Juice always seem to attempt a disturbing effect that runs on an occasional dark humor, or would lead you to an interesting insight. With most of the stories dwelling on the future, what seems to be stressed is that whatever is the result of evolution, desire remains undiminished. Desire only becomes more and more obscure.
Some stories, however, lack detail and are therefore difficult to imagine. And all those stories about robots and AI’s and autogens and chromosofts and magic mirrors become terrifically annoying after you read one or two stories of that kind. It’s really annoying to the point of vomiting. The best stories are the ones which aren’t about that. The most fascinating one would be “The Cabinet of the night Unlocked.” It tells a story of a ritual discovered by a mute monk back in the 1400’s. The ritual consists of activating a “switch” in your body that turns it off painlessly, to give you a pleasurable death. It was most fascinating. I also enjoyed “Junior Pimp” the story of an eleven-year old pimp, “Fetish Booth #7” was quite fascinating as well, although the reason why the character wanted to die was not established, only the “how.”
Out of fifty, perhaps the book provides 10 noteworthy stories, 20 brief and would-pass-off-as-amusing-and-readable stories, and 20 that are annoying and crappy.