"If one is not half-mad how can one give birth to a dancing star?" - Friedrich Nietzsche
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!" - Jack Kerouac
D. must have had this in mind during our anniversary. I didn't even fancy having an anniversary. We had a party in P. with wine and booze and salad and pizza and friends and she asked us to come up the rooftop. The floor was covered with rose petals, set-up with small chairs, candles and lamps. As she greets me, fireworks lit like a spider across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and D. goes “Happy Anniversary, J___.”
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Sunday, March 6, 2005
A Welcome to Where We're From
The trip back to Pagsanjan was probably one of the best drives I’ve ever ridden. I sat quite comfortably while my father drove on a highway that didn’t have the usual bottleneck. It’s March but the usual ferocious heat I so often described, softened itself as the calmest sun of summer. Like always, nature sympathizes and the clouds gloomed with my grand aunt’s demise. At the same time, I felt that all my grand aunts and grand parents who've passed away were all happy to welcome me back.
On the many trips I’ve had on the way here I probably never looked hard enough at the un-photoshoped, un-cropped and inartificial view of rice fields and mountains. There are towns lined with garden flowers and plants sold at the sides of the highway. Fire trees and acacia trees formed an arched roof for the road. We were listening to the Philippine Madrigal Singers, Café Del Mar 11, some Eels and Toad the Wet Sprocket.
Pagsanjan is lined with houses like ours: mid-20th century style two-storey houses with the familiar capiz windows. I was glad to be back at this old house. It must have generations and generations of ala-One Hundred Years of Solitude stories to tell about the _____s
There’s a four-post bed in one of the three adjoining rooms. Other bed frames are carved with monograms, AA for ____ and AAA for ____. Even the blankets were weaved with their names or initials.
In the altar near the sala, there’s a huge crucifix, and underneath were small statues of St. Dominic and St. Thomas Aquinas. Near the dining table, there’s a grandfather’s clock whose pendulum has stopped. On the cupboard, the china’s engraved MA for Maria ____, and locked in there is a set of 22K gold heat resistant porcelain.
From the capiz window, I can see an Antique Shop, where a wooden mermaid stands. I remember Lola Amada telling us stories about a mermaid in the river (a few steps away from the house) who may have been the cause of why many people drowned there.
I remember one of the summers I was here, reading Sun Tzu all night with mosquitoes feasting on me. I remember all that muttering that was the Pasion. I remember drunken excursions with cousins, and having to return here for all our grandparents’ wakes.
The house does not have a strong provincial feeling, save for the tricycles that speed through the highway, and the heavy Tagalog accent people have. This area must be richer than many of the residential areas in Metro Manila. This part of the province is free of eye sores such as slums and garbage, not to mention how the greens here are greener. There are a lot of small-scale stores that have been around for decades: the sandal and shoe store Step Rite, the restaurant Dura Fe, and this Antique shop across the street. Having been around for the groceries, the market place, the restaurants and stores, and with the tourist spots nearby, this town’s pretty progressive.
People know everyone and generally have a kinder disposition.
I wanted to congratulate my Dad for taking the effort and pains to maintain this house. The house spoke to us, wordlessly, where our family came from.
On the many trips I’ve had on the way here I probably never looked hard enough at the un-photoshoped, un-cropped and inartificial view of rice fields and mountains. There are towns lined with garden flowers and plants sold at the sides of the highway. Fire trees and acacia trees formed an arched roof for the road. We were listening to the Philippine Madrigal Singers, Café Del Mar 11, some Eels and Toad the Wet Sprocket.
Pagsanjan is lined with houses like ours: mid-20th century style two-storey houses with the familiar capiz windows. I was glad to be back at this old house. It must have generations and generations of ala-One Hundred Years of Solitude stories to tell about the _____s
There’s a four-post bed in one of the three adjoining rooms. Other bed frames are carved with monograms, AA for ____ and AAA for ____. Even the blankets were weaved with their names or initials.
In the altar near the sala, there’s a huge crucifix, and underneath were small statues of St. Dominic and St. Thomas Aquinas. Near the dining table, there’s a grandfather’s clock whose pendulum has stopped. On the cupboard, the china’s engraved MA for Maria ____, and locked in there is a set of 22K gold heat resistant porcelain.
From the capiz window, I can see an Antique Shop, where a wooden mermaid stands. I remember Lola Amada telling us stories about a mermaid in the river (a few steps away from the house) who may have been the cause of why many people drowned there.
I remember one of the summers I was here, reading Sun Tzu all night with mosquitoes feasting on me. I remember all that muttering that was the Pasion. I remember drunken excursions with cousins, and having to return here for all our grandparents’ wakes.
The house does not have a strong provincial feeling, save for the tricycles that speed through the highway, and the heavy Tagalog accent people have. This area must be richer than many of the residential areas in Metro Manila. This part of the province is free of eye sores such as slums and garbage, not to mention how the greens here are greener. There are a lot of small-scale stores that have been around for decades: the sandal and shoe store Step Rite, the restaurant Dura Fe, and this Antique shop across the street. Having been around for the groceries, the market place, the restaurants and stores, and with the tourist spots nearby, this town’s pretty progressive.
People know everyone and generally have a kinder disposition.
I wanted to congratulate my Dad for taking the effort and pains to maintain this house. The house spoke to us, wordlessly, where our family came from.
Friday, March 4, 2005
Adelia Knew A Secret
March 4. Pagsanjan, Laguna. Adelia A. A.’s finally back in her hometown. She died yesterday in a bathroom accident that's common among old people. That bathroom is across the room where I sleep. She lived 94 years. 94 years of which, she didn’t spend a day working. She never married, but she seemed to have found joy in dedicating her services to the Philippine Independent Church. She was given a dinstinction for that service. She called sugar “refinado” when I tried to make her coffee, but with diabetes she refused the cookies I offered. She loved Bingo. She used an abanico. She prayed constantly. She constantly powdered herself, being rather compulsive about hygiene. She had an excellent memory for stories about almost-forgotten friends and relatives. She had a hearing difficulty which made her, quite literally, just lend a deaf ear to the DTS sounds booming from an 8.5 diamond set-up across the room. And as long as she was able, she walked towards the Sto. Niño to touch it and make the sign of the cross.To have lived this long, so persistently and idependently, she must have quietly kept a secret to happiness.
But then we grieve her loss. And my mother grieved the most, since she always took care of Lola Del. I hate how it’s all a cliché, but like the grieving and the death it’s all just inevitable. You cannot help but be deeply touched by the affection shared by people who’s lives she touched. How you are thankful she didn’t suffer terribly during her death, but still wished she was around.
Quietly still, and probably as happy as always to be here, she is home.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Some More Aimless Floating
I’m in the upside of the resolutely-floating-aimlessly-phase of my life. Only this time, I don’t feel lost and I don’t feel that I’ve gone astray. I’m smooth sailing. Smooth sailing while resolutely floating aimlessly, with tides and waves taking me to cloud nines and earth’s nirvanas.
A few minutes ago I was just having my serving of the early evening’s after glow, watching the sky’s golden gleams turn dark. From my 41st floor cave, I saw the sun’s fading glimmer cover half the sky with gold, red, violet and blue on one side, and darkness on the other. And I can see a mountain in between, like Olympus hanging there in the heavens.
And then one million light bulbs beginning to light up the city.
This afternoon, boss gave me a figure for my salary increase and annual bonus. My salary’s going to be more decent and I could use the bonus money for another trip. And considering how I don’t take any crap from anyone in this job, this job gives me not the tiniest bit of stress that I can’t manage, I’m grateful they’re giving me more money.
Tomorrow, I will be flying to Boracay Island with D., and a number of our closest friends. I’m no longer alone in my return to an island where I found so much of my happiness. Mathematically, I’ll be twice as happy. I’ve been too proud in telling myself that it’s my Birthday gift to D.
I remember how thrilled I was about giving D. this priceless gift. It’s a Bridgette Jones Edge of Reason original movie poster displayed in the glass walls of National Bookstore. I asked how much they would sell the poster. I had to charm (or plead, more appropriately) my way into it and ask the National Bookstore Customer Service officer to give it to me for free. For more sappiness, I brought her a bouquet of flowers on the day of her birthday. She prepared salad and we had dinner at her house. We had separate a dinner and a drink with her friends, at the Oyster Boy in Greenhills, on the weekend before her birthday. We’re out a lot and it just reinforces the joy you already have.
Three weeks from now, I will have an exam in La Salle for my MA Philosophy application. Visiting the University again and the prospect of studying again, made me feel like I’ll be doing what I want and I’m taking control of my life. It wouldn’t be the coven of complacency that is College, but studying Philosophy will somehow make me feel like myself again. I even reviewed a little.
Three weeks ago, I had a short story idea. There was one night this February when my stomach kept churning and I couldn’t sleep. It was my subconscious creating this physical manifestation, telling me I had to write. Until my hand did what it had long itched to do. Again, it’s no award winner, but I was able to write fiction again. My fiction.
Tonight, and in the coming nights, I think I’ll just have some more of this. Some more dreaming, some more living, some more aimless floating.
A few minutes ago I was just having my serving of the early evening’s after glow, watching the sky’s golden gleams turn dark. From my 41st floor cave, I saw the sun’s fading glimmer cover half the sky with gold, red, violet and blue on one side, and darkness on the other. And I can see a mountain in between, like Olympus hanging there in the heavens.
And then one million light bulbs beginning to light up the city.
This afternoon, boss gave me a figure for my salary increase and annual bonus. My salary’s going to be more decent and I could use the bonus money for another trip. And considering how I don’t take any crap from anyone in this job, this job gives me not the tiniest bit of stress that I can’t manage, I’m grateful they’re giving me more money.
Tomorrow, I will be flying to Boracay Island with D., and a number of our closest friends. I’m no longer alone in my return to an island where I found so much of my happiness. Mathematically, I’ll be twice as happy. I’ve been too proud in telling myself that it’s my Birthday gift to D.
I remember how thrilled I was about giving D. this priceless gift. It’s a Bridgette Jones Edge of Reason original movie poster displayed in the glass walls of National Bookstore. I asked how much they would sell the poster. I had to charm (or plead, more appropriately) my way into it and ask the National Bookstore Customer Service officer to give it to me for free. For more sappiness, I brought her a bouquet of flowers on the day of her birthday. She prepared salad and we had dinner at her house. We had separate a dinner and a drink with her friends, at the Oyster Boy in Greenhills, on the weekend before her birthday. We’re out a lot and it just reinforces the joy you already have.
Three weeks from now, I will have an exam in La Salle for my MA Philosophy application. Visiting the University again and the prospect of studying again, made me feel like I’ll be doing what I want and I’m taking control of my life. It wouldn’t be the coven of complacency that is College, but studying Philosophy will somehow make me feel like myself again. I even reviewed a little.
Three weeks ago, I had a short story idea. There was one night this February when my stomach kept churning and I couldn’t sleep. It was my subconscious creating this physical manifestation, telling me I had to write. Until my hand did what it had long itched to do. Again, it’s no award winner, but I was able to write fiction again. My fiction.
Tonight, and in the coming nights, I think I’ll just have some more of this. Some more dreaming, some more living, some more aimless floating.
Monday, January 31, 2005
The Usual Pleasures
Sunday night: Slept 10 hours and woke up in the afternoon to visit the mall with D. for my obligated consumerism: a new body pillow, and the more rewarding buys from Book Sale. I found Goethe’s “The Sorrows of Young Werther.” It’s hardcover, newly translated Random House publication for the unbelievable bargain of 120 pesos. I’ve always wanted to read this, ever since I heard about it in Sophie’s World back in 2nd year high school. My adolescent urges made me interested in a book that caused suicide rates to increase. I remember reading that it was banned in Denmark and Norway for a time.
I also got a back-issue (August 2004) of the New Yorker from Book Sale. I’m not a big magazine fan, but this is a magazine that gives yourself a kind of blandishment for your good taste. The magazine has poetry and fiction, good reviews, the most well-written magazine features. Even the font looks good. I afforded this pleasure for P50.00 or 90 cents (against the $4.95 price on the cover.) And I’m reading on quiet Sunday night burning scented oils, while playing the Thievery Corporation, Groove Armada, and Jakata Visions.
Thanks to Book Sale, you can at least take a break from profligate book buying.
Another night: Spent the evening having dinner with D., at a Japanese restaurant whose servings are too big, then coffee at Café Ad.
Saturday: Visiting D. at her place, shopping sale items at Podium, and her treat to an excellent dinner at China Star. Hakaw, fish fillet spicy garlic, seafood rice. Laughing with D. while watching Friends’ final season. PS2 and booze until 6 in the morning with M.M., D.D., V.E. A.V. and my brothers.
I was spent some time listening and really re-absorbing The Smashing Pumpkin’s Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. It’s one of the albums I’d bring if I’m going to be stuck in a desert island. Listening to Billy Corgan’s sad lines, I feel like Rob in High Fidelity (that part about having a which-came-first-the-music-or-the-misery? kind of conundrum.) How easily I identified to these lines:
holding back the fool pretends
(from To Forgive)
rescue me from me
(from Galapogos)
suffer my desire for you
(from In The Arms of Sleep)
tomorrow’s just an excuse way
(from Thirty-Three)
Having these usual pleasures, I remember how I was once miserable high school dweeb singing along to Melon Collie and Infinite Sadness. I’ve already attained a high on happiness that I’d almost be happy to be a little sad. You barely feel that you are yourself when you’re happy.
I also got a back-issue (August 2004) of the New Yorker from Book Sale. I’m not a big magazine fan, but this is a magazine that gives yourself a kind of blandishment for your good taste. The magazine has poetry and fiction, good reviews, the most well-written magazine features. Even the font looks good. I afforded this pleasure for P50.00 or 90 cents (against the $4.95 price on the cover.) And I’m reading on quiet Sunday night burning scented oils, while playing the Thievery Corporation, Groove Armada, and Jakata Visions.
Thanks to Book Sale, you can at least take a break from profligate book buying.
Another night: Spent the evening having dinner with D., at a Japanese restaurant whose servings are too big, then coffee at Café Ad.
Saturday: Visiting D. at her place, shopping sale items at Podium, and her treat to an excellent dinner at China Star. Hakaw, fish fillet spicy garlic, seafood rice. Laughing with D. while watching Friends’ final season. PS2 and booze until 6 in the morning with M.M., D.D., V.E. A.V. and my brothers.
I was spent some time listening and really re-absorbing The Smashing Pumpkin’s Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. It’s one of the albums I’d bring if I’m going to be stuck in a desert island. Listening to Billy Corgan’s sad lines, I feel like Rob in High Fidelity (that part about having a which-came-first-the-music-or-the-misery? kind of conundrum.) How easily I identified to these lines:
holding back the fool pretends
(from To Forgive)
rescue me from me
(from Galapogos)
suffer my desire for you
(from In The Arms of Sleep)
tomorrow’s just an excuse way
(from Thirty-Three)
Having these usual pleasures, I remember how I was once miserable high school dweeb singing along to Melon Collie and Infinite Sadness. I’ve already attained a high on happiness that I’d almost be happy to be a little sad. You barely feel that you are yourself when you’re happy.
I'm a Model, an Alienated Labor Model
I’m a model, an alienated labor model. Work’s been so tedious, repetitive, bobofying, and dehumanizing. I have metamorphosed into one of the office furnishings. I’m just one of the pieces of furniture occupying office space. And I’m exceptionally tired of repeating to ask why.
My life felt like a Kafka novel.
And I feel useless. I’m as useless as the in-and-out tray for letters, at a time when everyone e-mails everything.
I wouldn’t have noticed that I’m actually alive if I didn’t hear some chillout or late 90’s music from my launchcast station. And if I didn’t sit beside a window behind the broad metropolitan sky, with a daily serving of sunsets during late afternoons.
