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.
