Conversations with Plants

I've been talking to the plants. But I might have sounded a little dreadful in saying, "You smell good, I'll taste you with my spaghetti al pesto soon." I didn't want to whine to your plants.

The traffic was quite heavy and I was lightheaded from sleeplessness. I watered the plants and that's the only thing that made me feel alive today. I've been clinging tightly to the splendid memory the weekend left. And so I survived the usually terrifying Monday.


B. (Basil) and T. (Tarragon) didn't look very good today so I took out the white plastic bag and housed them in prettier vases. I'm wondering if they're really getting enough Sunlight. Today I told them that they can't die on me now. We're too involved. They whispered something back, and we shared a silent joy in this high noon after surviving a tiring, unforgiving night. We dream of making the entire room smell green, and the wind flies in with thoughts of you in its wings.

How to Save a Life

I must have listened to that song twenty-seven times this week. Life has got to have a soundtrack and I have to be embarassingly literal and dramatic. That's what I really think.

Thomas Pynchon proved to be a very difficult read, perhaps twice as difficult especially after you spent the last few days high on Nubane, with needles forked numerous times to your body, living on IV and not having any food or water for around 32 hours for the sake of medical observation. And I’ve just 4ed Philosophy of Science last term and learned from N.R. Hanson that “All observation is theory-laden.” Well, here’s a new life-lesson I can send to hallmark card-makers: forget principles we’ll just have to settle for what helps for now. Then I just had to swear I’m going to have to let Pynchon pass for now even if I’m no longer that drugged up.

“Enjoy the pain, and the novocaine.” H. tells me after a visit. Well, we somehow found a way to squeeze in some joy in between. Considering how we battled all this out, it didn’t have to be all pain after all.

Up until I saw D.’s office laptop itching for my fingertips to touch its keypads and write something, I resumed reading Haruki Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart. If you put it in terms of Doctor’s orders, this book has the perfect dosage both for personal enjoyment, and for recovering from any plight in life. It makes the experience start off as a retreat, and as you read some more, your stay in the hospital was a fucking breeze.

Now that I’m name dropping and all, the whole hospital experience has made me Tommy in Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go. And of course D. was my Kathy. I missed those sentimental clones, those clones who bared their souls. For a time there I had to ask if I ever I would be willing to accept a donation from any of them. Probably not. That story had just has helped me endure my own, easier.

D. as my personal nurse who was ever-present for all the sponge baths, hold-my-hand-while-I-writhe-in-pain, get-me-a-glass-of-water, settle-something-with-accounting, love-me-some-more, the whole shebang. And yes, I saw her laying a jealous glance over the cutesy (but not charming enough) student nurse who took my blood pressure three times before concluding it’s another 130/100. From my first confinement, the view from the window could pass off as nice: whenever you’re strong enough to stand up and see it, the sunsets and sunrises on the skyline over Manila City Hall’s Clock Tower and dome of the Manila Cathedral is splendid. And even if I didn’t have a mighty appetite, the food was great: mostly Wai-ying noodles and dimsum, as well as some Masuki siopao courtesy of J.K. My brother even brought in pizza and Hungarian sausages. And my parents just kept on sending comforting food from home.


I’m also relieved with how my attending physician, Dr. ___, dealt with me. The medical abstract reads “blunt abdominal trauma – vehicular crash; ***tic hematoma. He had a very good hypothesis of what may have happened (which other doctors had difficulty diagnosing – they thought this was a heart-related problem) and his experience and delivery allows me to just put my trust and confidence in his expertise.
He was the tall, dark, decorated, big-time doctor who seemed to have girlfriends in clubs, flashing that reassuring smile of his, delighting people with an inoffensive sense of humor that doctors should treat their patients with. I asked him, for example, what I can’t eat, “Lahat pwede kainin, wag lang yung hindi masarap.”

Once again this is a rightful time to sing Lord Anthony from Belle and Sebastian, “You may as well take it in the guts, it could get worse, it could get worse than this.”

It could get worse than this. Geez.

With a family behind me, I was never restless. And I’ve got friends who are willing to go through all the clichés of friendship. M&L, who despite their own sleepiness were happy to drive for the requirements I’ve needed from the office. I've got my poker buddies and relatives, who made me manage a few laughs.

Worrying about work will get me nowhere from here. I may have screwed that promotion, but I’ll damage control for that later on. Or maybe screw it some more, what the fuck. Somewhere along the line, I described that promotion as an inconvenience. And life comes at me whipping up a little storm in the normal course of how I live, in order to explain to me what a real inconvenience is.

Oh, and hello again, solitude. Here you are. We have met again on rather strange circumstances, but you’re always a pleasure.

Let the Healing Begin

I was reading Haruki Murakami at that time and this was the last line I barely understood before my parents rushed me to the hospital for the third time this week: "The Earth, after all, doesn't creak and groan its way around the sun just so human beings can have a good time and chuckle." And so God created pain. And even if I had the ability to make the world spin in another orbit, I certainly couldn't just laugh the pain off. But now I say enough now. Enough of this that I didn't see coming, enough of the pounding in my back, the stabbing feeling near my liver, and the heavy throbbing in my lower left chest. The most meaningless thing in the world right now is to dwell on that twinge of sorrow. As if shoveling steaming white rice to your mouth with quick deep breaths, shifting gears in careful calculation, brave and instinctive as a baby's first step, we move on.

Now that I that I'm back to this drawing board, I'm going to map out what's remarkable enough to look back to and what I should be grateful for: the euphoria of Orudis (a strong sedative), the warmth of having a family behind you, people who willingly made an effort for you, a God out there whom in your most desperate gave heed and gave mercy, and having D., who is the most effective medicine without whom none of this pain can ever be assuaged. True healing is not within the confines of the hospital and the efficacy of medicine.

There is everything to be thankful for, and this is when the real healing should begin.

As Is

I started my Friday morning off with some well-deserved sleep. When I woke up, I tidied up the room so I pass off some physical activity. Then I read the assigned articles from school that counts mental exercise. After a long shower, I drive to Ortigas to pick-up D. The traffic wasn’t an expected rainy Friday night bumper-to-bumper. It’s easily endured when you’re listening to Kaskade’s Chillout Sessions.

Since I’m inclined to eat healthier we order the Bangus Belly and a side dish of laing at Oyster Boy. We had a drink with S. and F. I manage to limit myself to three bottles. D. and I go home and Friday night turns out to be something like a perfectly blended fruit shake after a swim on a hot day.

Despite less than four hours of sleep, my mind felt at its sharpest during the Saturday mornig Philosophy of Science class. And when you’re in a hung-over train of thought during recitation, it becomes unstoppable nothing can just ram into it. And just when you think you’ve made an acceptable, or a fine analysis, someone just might have been less amused or even annoyed. But what the fuck anyway, that’s what we’re in class for. If you’re too intellectually indolent to let any nincompoop thought pass in class, then that nincompoop idea stands. And just like how it is in the world, nincompoop ideas that pass, prevail as truths. Geez. Wherever the hell did that come from?

I met D. for lunch and with a lot of nostalgia we stop by UM to see if there are pirated CDs. The bets I bought are: Chicane’s “Far From the Maddening Crowds,” Chicane’s 2006 sessions, Snow Patrol’s “Eye’s Open.”

We also went to CCP to renew our subscription for this year’s season of plays by Tanghalang Pilipino. We caught the Virgin Lab Fest that same night. The teaser reads:
“See how Dory, a call center agent, can go to have a crack at the country’s premier literary competition. Up to the challenge, albeit mentally challenged herself, one can catch a glimpse of what goes on in the minds of aspiring winners, even the most delusional of them.”

It was very entertaining and promising for a lab fest play. But the protagonist’s Ruffa Mae Quinto antics are just too unoriginal, and some of the punch lines have been too overused.

Before the play, we shared a seafood hot pot and a tuna and shrimp bento at Rai Rai Ken. It's still fatty but it’s in a smaller quantity, and I’ve managed to deceive myself that I’ve made a smarter food choice since I was able to abstain from beef and pork. If ever this is a delusion, it made me feel better anyway. Besides, weekends are the only time I get to eat something relatively yummy.

After the dinner and the play, we play some poker at home, treat ourselves to a few glasses of wine, and turn in before dawn breaks.

And then it’s Sunday. There will be work again later but we let love blossom in a mid-July afternoon. There is some time left, and as if devouring a delicious dessert, I read a back-issue of the New Yorker.

Then I wrote, this is how I’d like my life to be.

The Measure of Demands (in 100 words)

This is the quantitative measurement of my life's most immediate demands. Go to the drugstore for a week's supply of Versant 5mg (to be taken once daily). Go to the grocery for: 400ml of shampoo (so I won't have to buy another bottle for a month), 40ml of anti-perspirant (the one that smells slightly like Armani, to match what's left of the 34 fl. oz. of Armani), 160g of toothpaste (whitening 12-hour antibacterial protection). Go to the bank for gas money (roughly 600 bucks per week, 13-14 liters to the tank).

If kept simple enough, life's demands are pretty manageable.

My Life is a Blank Page (in 100 words)

Today, my life is a blank page. I have the slightest idea how this story would unfold, so I somehow let it automatically chronicle itself. The world always has something awe-inspiring, something significant, something terrible, and there's always, always something boring. Suspected terrorists blow up trains in Mumbai. My blood pressure shoots up to 190/120. There's a strong chance of a stroke, yet I scarcely feel it now. Malacañang bribed bishops. There’s never enough time to prevail over boredom. And she told me I shouldn't be afraid. Life is blank page, but at least I barely feel that it's empty.

Snore Symphony, Disappearing Dream Carnival (in 100 words)

At 10pm, Disneyland sings its symphony of snores - the music of this purgatory been waking and working. You are also bound to catch the smell of somebody else’s feet. You are also bound to smell whatever the previous occupant’s clothes and body left in the uniform pillows and blankets. You can’t bring any personal mattresses or comforters in. Disneyland makes all it’s 30 customer service agents sleeping at the same time, look like batteries being recharged. I remember the first time I saw everyone sleeping altogether – amazing, and awful, imagining it as a lightless carnival of quickly disappearing dreams.

Disneyland (in 100 words)

There is a quiet room in this reclaimed land. “Disneyland,” it’s called. Considerable office space is allotted to discourage employees from sleeping in their workstations, or for whatever convenience (you may actually live here). There are ten 3-decker beds, each with a uniform white bed sheet, pillow, and a blue fleece blanket. There is a usually sleepy security guard assigned to watch out for the sleeping. They are the guardian angels of this carnival of dreams. They must easily understand why the angels were rebellious and envious. And they must have seen whatever it is that happens during your sleep.

Why Didn't I Write Before? (in 100 words)

Why didn't I write before? I would have been able to look back and say: what an excellent thought to re-absorb, what a splendid experience that was. Instead of just forgetting. You have never truly lived until you have written about your life. Writing is the act of owning, of possessing your reality. So now it's time to delve into the details. Begin gently, like your first sip of steaming-hot coffee. Then pick up the pace as in a conversation that's grown interesting. Don't worry about the time you lost or running out of space. There'll be another one tomorrow.

Would You Be My Muse? (in 100 words)

"Would you be my muse?" It's been so long since writing enriched my life. I could not remember the last time I wrote anything freely - without restraint, without actually tailoring my reality neatly. I've forgotten the time when I wrote as myself, not as somebody else who became who I am. Let me be nameless and let me tell you everything. Let me tell you about beauty, how senseless it is. Let me tell you how the moon moved in this reclaimed land by the sea, how the wind wrapped this evening in a lovely embrace. Would you, please?

I Think Therefore I Am Stupid

I’m a PhD student with a 4.0 (first term) and 3.75 (second term) GPA.
I earn a considerably decent income.
I can spell the word concupiscence
And even use it in a sentence.

I’ve read some books, which I understood (I think)

But mostly, I think I’m stupid. (I can’t help it)

But frankly, so is everyone.