Selma

It all begun with the thought of killing Him; a single thought that sprawled to this ungodly verdict of slaughtering such practical horrendous pig. I thought if there’s anyone who should take His life, it should be me. No, not even God should take his life. He, after all, took mine. It’s time that I do what I always knew I had to do. It is foretold that it in my own hands, He shall perish.

But it didn’t happen. Yes, I killed Him with my very own hands, but not because I wanted to. It’s because he wanted me to kill Him.

He pleaded and crawled on my feet. “Kill me…kill me please,” he said.

I cried. I cried very very hard. But not because I felt pity for Him, but because I hated Him more than I ever did. I want Him to die without Him wanting to die. I want Him to plead for Hell to swallow Him whole. I want to hear Him curse God for allowing Him live. I want Him killed. But I don’t want Him to want it.

I screamed at the top of my lungs while kicking His face and groin alternately. “Fuck you! Fuck you! You fucking pig!"

He started spitting blood. And I want more. So I kicked him more and more, harder as the next one. On his face. Groin. Legs. Chest. Blood spurted from His mouth. Face. Groin. Legs. Chest. More blood came out of His mouth. Face. Groin. Legs. Chest. More blood.

Once, He told me that it is okay to like whatever that would give me joy. I believed and lived such philosophy. Torturing Him to death gives me joy now.

Finally, I am convinced that every single cell in my body is happy. Finally, I am whole again; no longer that the shadows of my shattered years would haunt me. No more rejections. No more pain. Finally, I am free.

His mouth moved like He was trying to utter some words with the little breath left in Him. He failed.

I took the dagger and slowly slash a cut in His dank right cheek. Not only blood begun trickling down, but trails of tears could now be seen dripping from His eyes. I look at them and there I saw no anger for me, instead I saw nothing but remorse. And with that, a burly surge of anger rose from within my chest like it was there laying dormant for centuries already. For the last time, the dagger danced along His chest and its silver blade looked never the same again.

___

I never heard His breath again. Kneeling beside His lifeless body, I closed my eyes like a triumphant warrior not wanting to see any remnants of the finished battle. But instead, like a curse, I was plagued by flashes of disconcerting images. 

A blind woman, barefoot, traversing a busy side-walk.

A silver-haired child swaying in a canopy.

A rusting tin can with paper bills in it.

A man hanging by his head inside a dimly lit room.

Red moon.

A mechanical pen.

A blank bond paper.

I opened my eyes once more. And as tears came falling like beads of Heaven, I begun praying. Our Father in Heaven, holy be Thy name...

___

“They say it’s the last song 

 They don’t know us, you see 

 It’s only the last song 

 If we let them be.”

-from the cult film “Dancer in the Dark” by Lars von Trier

___

The movie keeps haunting me for days and I keep on having nightmares like this ever since. It is a nightmare, I know. But I also know that my nightmares are always real. Always.

For Alterjon

Two things I want to say. 

First. Thank you. 

For being a kind, generous and loyal friend. 

And for the flowers too. You know it's been years since I last received a single red rose and I hope you'll forgive me for bragging about it here. Again, thank you so much. 

Second. Happy Birthday. 

I have three wishes for you. Courage. Hope. Love. 

___

"The old believe everything; the middle age suspect everything; the young know everything."
-Oscar Wilde

Twenty four

I was born exactly twenty four years ago now past midnight by the early hours of the twenty first of June in some shady hospital somewhere in Manila. Every year, it seems like a rite to pass this very same tunnel getting crampier. There is the same old spaghetti recipe in the house, dusty bottles of booze getting kicked by the floor, empty buckets of fried chicken, missing jig saw puzzles and swelling candles on top of some rambling chocolate cake.

There’s nothing really earth-shattering about turning twenty four. If you’re seven, like how I used to, there would be party thrown by your parents with balloons and hotdogs on sticks; thirteen and the pimples would start arriving; on eighteen you get a ballot and a driver’s license; by twenty one, they say adulthood comes to us men. But come twenty-four, a twenty four is essentially as simple as being twenty four. No certificates. No fireworks.

Twenty four could mean independence to most, an apartment of your own, a stable 8-hour job and a nice girlfriend or boyfriend to take into some fancy dinner at the end of the week. Although, at twenty four, I’m still the same boy who doesn’t wash his own underpants; who, with the exception of instant pancit canton, canned tuna and sardines, would never dare face a stove. I’m still the guy, who, from time to time, would still crawl on her mother’s bedroom to sleep beside her, demand his father via overseas call to give him money because a sale is on its way at his favorite line of garments and moan over the fact that prince charming hits the traffic over the moon.

Twenty four years and three times I fell deeply in love – all unrequited. Been robbed twice, one with an ice-pick threatening to slash through my throat the other when the culprit willingly lift my cellphone from my backpack without permission. I’ve been molested once by an old man, probably in his late forties, inside a bus on my way to school when I was still in college. Then there are two attempted suicides; two major hospitalizations; and two important people I recently lost, which I think I will forever mourn.

This, of course, is not some rambling birthday post. How capricious and hypocritical it would be if I would lament on my birthday the fact that I am poor, dateless (not to mention sexless) and that I am an aspiring writer, who not only could often not write, but also does not know the proper use of colons and semi-colons. The country is going down-hill in some wild avalanche and being the “youth-of-today,” a large chip is bestowed upon us in terms of two categories. One, there’s the screaming poverty munching a huge scale of Filipinos everyday while in government, corruption remains to be a status quo. Second, despite the rallying marches, holding placards and streamers of protests, you have to think of a way to rock your look for some party, wear some Givenchy long sleeved top paired with an H&M jeans, after you’ve shouted the words “imperialist” and “capitalist” in any street of Manila.

There could be a lot of things swirling inside the mind of a twenty-four year old man; like slaying dragons and inventing spells; being into relationships and having imaginary sex; learning to speak French and being able to ride a kite someday. But more often than those, I am afraid I have to admit that I'm actually afraid.

For the next twenty-four years, I could still be the same boy who does not wash his own underpants and who still doesn’t even know how to properly fry an egg. I could still be dateless. I could still be robbed. I’m afraid the child in my heart won’t be able to rise and handle it all, sail within the roaring waves of change and stand with the seasons of my life.

The past twenty four years, life has not been fair to me most, but this very same “unfair-life” gave me the simplest but the greatest joy I ever had. I may be lacking things and stuffs most of people of my age have, but sitting here in our rusty roof typing away words in my cursed laptop while I think of chocolate cakes and an old family spaghetti recipe with Tanita Tikaram singing on the background, I think I am mad enough to think I could survive another twenty four years like this.

____

Well I've been afraid of changin'

Cause I've built my life around you

But time makes you bolder

Children get older

And I'm getting older too

-Landslide by Stevie Nicks

Away

“We’re not going out here until we've managed to write something decent,” I told myself sternly. The sun peeks behind the dark clouds and the open window allowed the entry of some cold wet breeze. Perfect, I’d say. There was no internet connection in my room (you have to go down to the lobby for wi-fi) which means no distractions from whatever site that might drag me to some ridiculous conversation which includes the use of some ridiculous words like “vagrancy,” “effervescent,” and “communicable.”

I’ve been blaming the weather for my inability to summon metaphors or even simple paragraphs lately. The heat irritates me. Cold makes me weak.

This might count as hiding though I prefer it called “self-exile,” like what I did last year for my birthday when I left the planet without any contacts or suicide note. I spent my days traipsing the roads of Tagaytay only to retire at night in some cheap apartelle drinking vodka. And now, together with me in this hotel room, my luggage which includes two change of underwear (I’m in full commando most of the times, even as I go out and check the sky or play race with the waves) my laptop and a dozen grammar guide books to doctor my rambling sentences, I will try and challenge Sigmund Freud.

[It’s nostalgic too. Last time I was here, dengue symptoms pinned me down inside my room. The mere memory of it gives me the same chill.]

It’s insane how I wanted to be a writer. I remember my good friend Edward. Between us, he is the real writer. We’re the perfect duo, people would say. Edward, the prolific writer, and me, his procrastinating director. He’ll tell you how it is and I’ll show you how it is. He’s fantastic with words and his connection with the subject is always profound. I thought I’m best behind the camera. That’s how we always worked and always with satisfying end result.

But all these are lies. I locked myself inside this room and ran away from everyone not to write, but to actually realign my purpose, to once again gather my emotions and to feel “effervescent” and know that at least I’m still breathing.

Although, realigning is not really realigning. I’m so used to “vagrancy” that peace and order feels like a “communicable” disease consuming me largely day by day which makes me want to vomit. I hate it. I’m void with emotions and happy was not enough to fire up the snoring cells of my hand and mouth. I thought “effervescent” is happy but the unsolicited visits of housekeeping during my orgasmic epiphanies tell me otherwise.

I remember how I so arrogantly left the world of television production to avail the peace and simplicity I always dreamed of. When at 2 ‘o clock in the morning I feed on some sleepy actor his lines and where 30 men work on a set-up to make it look and feel like at screaming high noon. Now I wonder if I still want that kind of peace.

Spread eagle, lying on my bed, still in full commando, I wonder if I can really write, my plans on taking immortality through writing a book and making a film. I thought about retreating in Ilocos and build there my dream rest house with a picket fence and a tomato garden and just forget about the lustful city. I thought about my music, a family of my own someday in the future and Devon, my cactus that sits patiently in my room.

Two days more and I will leave with few promises on my pocket. That I will get more inspiration even it means being petrified by love for the nth time, have my heart shattered into gazillion pieces and attempt to consume a mouthful of silver cleaning solution. That I will study harder, read more books and act out my age, more. Finally, find better, other jobs maybe, which pay could land me my dream rest house in Ilocos, produce my very own film someday, publish my written memoirs and shun me away from potential suicides and temptations of insanity that writing and life bring.

To Jonathan Carroll and that little bird who told him

Remember how I was desperately looking for a copy of the novel "The Ghost in Love" by Jonathan Carroll and how I wanted it badly as a gift for my birthday?

I just had my wish come true.

And the best part, Jonathan Carroll himself, the author, gave it to me.

Last night I received this e-mail:

I couldn't believe it at first. I must admit, I'm having second thoughts if it was really Mister Jonathan Carroll who sent me a copy of the book. So I doubled check and went on Mr. Carroll's official website and here's what I found out.

I went crazy when I noticed his official e-mail address and the e-mail address that sent me the copy are actually the same.

Another thing that came across my mind is who is that "bird" Mr. Carroll is referring to?

I was having a conversation with Papa Jay in YM that night and told him about the whole thing (know that you're one of my primary suspects Papa Jay, hehe). He said that bird must be the one who told Mr. Carroll about my wish to have his novel as a birthday present. The question now is, who's that bird that told Jonathan Carroll about everything?


But more than anything...

to Mr. Jonathan Carroll

Thank you so much for giving me one of the greatest gifts for my birthday. And it's not my birthday yet! Haha.

I just hope that more of your books will be available here in the Philippines. Please write more inspiring novels. Again, thank you so much.










and finally, to that little bird who told Mr. Carroll

Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me. You just made me so happy. I just hope you'll introduce yourself so I can thank you properly.

Hope to meet you soon. Thank you.

Have you heard of this book?

I’ve been desperately searching for this book (Alterjon could attest to that) “The Ghost in Love” by Jonathan Carroll to no success. Apparently, it’s not available here in the country. 

Powerbooks offered to have it shipped but of course with extra amount. I was thinking hard but even how effortful I count my remaining “riches,” I couldn’t afford it with my present financial status. 

Scribd.com has the first chapter of the novel but nowhere in the internet could I found the remaining parts.

My birthday is coming and I want to give myself that book as a gift. But even if I managed to save up before my birthday, the book stores said it would take 4 to 7 weeks before the book arrives.

I sensed that my friends are trying to get it as a gift for me but I warned them not to do so. I don’t like people gifting me books.

So this is some sort of a strategy, writing about it here on my blog. If any of you guys know where else I could buy that book, I would be more than thankful. My contacts are on the About Me page.

Meanwhile, here’s an excerpt from this book I’m obsessing upon:

Suddenly, sensing something, the ghost stopped what it was doing and glared at the dog. Peevishly, it demanded.
 

“What?”
 

Pilot shook its head.
 

“Nothing. I was only watching you work.”
 

“Liar! That is not the only thing. I know what you were thinking. That I’m an idiot doing this.”
 

Embarrassed, the dog turned away and began furiously biting one of its rear paws.
 

“Don’t do that. Look at me. You think I’m nuts, don’t you?”
 

“Yes, I think you’re nuts, but I also think it’s very sweet. I only wish she could see what you’re doing for her.”
 

Resigned, the ghost shrugged and took a slow deep breath.
 

“It helps when I cook. When my mind is focused then I don’t get frustrated.”
 

“I understand.”
 

“No you don’t. How could you? You’re only a dog.”
 

The dog rolled its eyes. “Idiot.”
 

“Quadruped.”
 

They had a cordial relationship. Like Icelandic or Finnish, “Dog” is spoken by very few. Only dogs and dead people understand the language.