People of the nine

photo credits: Bino, Xander & Leah

I wish to tell you many things right now, so many stories, too many timelines knocking on my temple, bursting to come out beyond the tip of my pen. First there was the peculiar magic the raging waters of Typhoon Mina that enchanted a certain Kingdom in Sta. Rosa, Laguna last Saturday. I could write about men riding colorful carousels, the crazy extreme rides or how it feels being 130 feet up in the air, sitting in a swinging gondola in freezing cold. Or maybe I’ll tell you about Tagaytay in its early morning fog, the distant rebellious dark clouds threatening every now and then and a certain special steaming hot Bulalo for late breakfast. 

But so much for that. 

This time, allow me to tell you of a few people who literally stood with me under that mad pouring rain in green and yellow raincoats, those who screamed with me at the top of their lungs as the earthly space shuttle launched itself and those who embraced the cold wet mist on top of Tagaytay that early Sunday morning. 

First there was Carlo, the major link in all of us, who made nightly Hangout sessions happen in full real life. He seemed serious, intimidating as if living up to his moniker – the Supladong Office Boy, but turned out to be welcoming, easy to get along with and a guy with such a huge heart. Leah is as charming as she is here in online world, the ideal Ilongga whose smile can brighten up the gloomy sky of Tagaytay’s stormy morning. Yow was probably the most polite person I have ever been with in like a thousand years; his presence reminded me of a world before I enter this mad concrete jungle I’m currently inhabiting that made the monster that I am now. 

Xander is a thirteen year old boy trapped in a man’s body. His wit and crazy antics could no doubt easily charm any lady’s heart or as was revealed lately, could even trigger some pretty indecent proposals. Jay was my roommate. His simplicity is what struck me most. I just wish I could sleep well like him as I was really having a sleeping disorder these past few months. Berl, by first impression, looked like one who could star in those evening American sitcoms. And I wasn’t wrong! He is very funny and very kind as well. Bino looked shy at first. I was reading his blog for a long time now but never got the guts to comment or simply make my presence known. All I can say is that he’s a very generous person. Again, he’s very generous that thanks to him, one day, desoleboy.com will be born. Haha. Kidding. 

And last, but definitely not the least, is Meliza. Honestly, I know nothing about her at first. I’ve never had the chance to read her blog and never encountered her on Twitter, but turned out, we were both just waiting for a cigarette session partner to wile away the cold weather. And let me tell you this: a single cigarette stick could bond any two strangers, even if they’re from completely different world. Yes, it did for us. 

In gratitude, I write this article for them. I could very well drag every word in my vocabulary that would express how thankful I am to these people for welcoming me in their company and still they wouldn’t be enough. Strange that after a year of blogging in wary of fellow bloggers due to privacy paranoia and hard earned lessons, I found myself loosing the very mask of Désolé Boy only to reveal the real person behind for such amazing people. 

I wish I could write more, tell you all the fun stuffs, the few struggles brought about by series of unfortunate circumstances and expound more on why I’m 30-minutes late for the 9 in the morning meet-up. I wish I could capture here in words, all the puns shared, the warm smiles and laughs under cold weather and a friendship that is beginning to unfold. 

I write this days after as people of the nine already went back to work, some to their respective provinces while others, including me, is sick, and I am thinking if everything that happened was imagined, almost surreal. But as Pico Iyer puts it, none of the truest things in life arrived at by thinking. They come as suddenly as thunder, or in this case, in a sweep of a staggering rain. 

There are stories they tell about Laguna and Tagaytay, about distant motels and the hunt for the cheapest of the cheapest flip flops, but today, I decided to tell you the story of the people of the nine in hopes that in the coming days, I would be given chances to write more about such illustrious people that came that one rainy day of August. 

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For Bino, Berl, Carlo, Jay, Leah, Meliza, Xander and Yow

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Author's note: The deciding of not putting any censor on the picture is kinda symbolic for me though I would like to thank Supladong Office Boy, Bino and Yow for doing so in their respective blogs. Let's just say that this entry is the only exception. 

The Phantom of the Blogosphere

The Man eyed his Prey ravenously. There was no hatred but pure savagery in those eyes, a wildness that even wolves could find formidable. His face was gaunt, devilishly handsome but betrayed by those protruding cherry-red lips.

He stood behind a huge trailer truck as he watched his Prey approach his direction. He could hear his own heart beating. He’s not afraid of the Prey, though. He’s just afraid of the many other insignificant things now racing furiously inside his head. 

He peered through a very tiny hole of the truck. He calculates his distance versus the Prey, its approximate speed, even its expressions. “Is it alert?” “Is it aware of the looming danger?” “Is it pre-occupied by many other insignificant things also?” He observed carefully.

In a fraction of a second, as the Prey turned at the side of the truck where the Man was hiding, three consecutive gunshots roared. The Prey froze, every fiber of hits muscle screaming silently in pain. It stared at the evil eyes of its murderer and caught glimpse of Hell in them. Slowly, it fades like a dying candle until it no longer recognized anything. It dropped on the concrete ground, like a useless rug, lifeless. 

A few more minutes passed by and a fearful scream was heard followed soon by sirens of police mobile. 

The Man is already gone. 

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After a series of murder cases across the metropolis in just a span of three weeks, top officials send out warning to the general public of a possible serial killer currently on the loose, after another human dead body was again found, this time at Batasan Hills, Quezon City. 

Police Officer Juan Cristo Madalo identified the latest victim as Carlo Mayuga, 26, resident of 89 Barangay Liang, Malolos City and was found dead beside a parked trailer truck in Mainam Street. The victim suffered from three major gun wounds that resulted to his death: one its forehead, on its left chest and on its groin, same with the other previous eight victims. 

According to initial investigation, Mayuga visited a friend near the place where his body was found by a resident who requested to remain anonymous. 

In further probing, NCRPO Director General Ismael Gullido said they discovered a significant link among all the recent killings aside from the similarity on the way they are gunned. Apparently, all eight victims, including Mayuga, are bloggers owning a personal website each. However, it is still unconfirmed if all the victims knew each other through their respective web blogs. 

While Gullido admitted they still don't have a suspect behind the killings, he said they are now forming a special task force to handle the cases intensively as well as increasing police visibility across the region especially during nighttime. The public, meanwhile, is advised to remain calm and vigilant as tighter investigation is now currently on the move. 

-report from the Philippine Daily Reporter, 19 August 2011

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The Man lounges on his handsome armchair reading broadsheet. From that, he learned that his latest prey was in fact from Bulacan and it made him laugh. "Was all these, still, a coincidence?" he thought. 

He throws the paper on the carpeted floor and grabs his Armscor 45 caliber pistol. He polishes it carefully under the faint light of his lampshade. In between, the man would smoke his pot for few hits, taking quick glances at his open Macbook sitting on the center table of his living room. 

“There’s the blog site of my next prey,” he thought. White sleek, a profile picture of a half-naked guy and is said to be in his early twenties. “A perfect prey for me,” he said. “Just like the others, fuckers who all deserve to die in a meaningless death.” 

More deaths shall follow. For the mean time, he shall start work. The first step, find the man behind the anonymous blogger that is his next prey. 

On the laptop screen, it reads: Désolé Boy

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Author's note:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 

However, remember that in every fictional story, there's always the hint of truth behind it. May you find that truth buried here. Thank you. 

Para sa malayang sining

Ako ay alagad ng sining at tungkulin kong ihatid sa mga tao, lalo't higit sa aking mga kababayan, ang iba't-ibang uri ng katotohanan na aking nalalaman, nasasaksihan at nararanasan gaano man ito kapangit, kasulasulasok o karumaldumal. Tungkulin kong magmasid, isiwalat ang mga pilit na ikinukubling katotohanan, bigyang boses ang mga walang tinig at makinig sa bawat kwentong bubuo sa isang makabuluhang kasaysayan. 


Higit sa lahat, tungkulin kong ipagtanggol at ipaglaban ang aking kalayaan sa paniniwala, paglikha at pamamahayag kasama ng mga kapwa ko tagapagtaguyod ng sining.


Naniniwala akong ang sining ay dapat laging matapang, naghahamon at tumutuligsa. Ang sining ay hindi kumikilala ng kung ano ang moral at di moral. Katotohanan lamang ang dapat sinasalamin nito at ang iba't-ibang mga kaisipan, hindi ng piling iilan lamang.


Bawat isa may karapatang tawaging alagad ng sining. Bawat isa may kakayahang gumawa ng isang obra.




-Désolé Boy   Journalist, Film-maker, former Musician

Staccato

Everything you know about him is wrong!

You think you know things about him? In four hours of twice in a week you’re spending with him? In seeing the same movies he likes? During fifteen minutes of him under your nakedness while you savage his innocence?

Everything you know about him is wrong!

Happiness, in his dreams, he owns it. He can dream and that’s what he’s good at. For in dreams, the world may still be lopsided and draped in mist, despite it being, everything feels just right where in reality, things are morbidly wrong. Lamentably, you are a part of his reality, not his dreams, which makes you deadly.

No more that he waits, for his eyes had dried up like a rustic well in perpetual summer. Seasons changed and he now walks with the sun in his chest. No one could touch him.

He is illusive. He is today. He is tomorrow.

-Désolé Boy en route somewhere North, 6 August 2011

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image sourced from Robert Alejandro's Facebook

Broken hand

There can be a lot of ways how someone’s right hand could end up like this, but most could be summed up in one word – stupidity.

Rolling on that wrong side of the road while terrible pain sears everywhere, I knew the right hand suffered the most. I knew something is broken somewhere there and as quick as the accident took place, a million thoughts came running towards my head.

My worries proved to be valid right after. Work suffered. Even eating and dressing yourself up became huge tasks. And as if they were never enough, a very kind waiter at Greenwich last Monday, after I consumed all my pizzas with my poor left hand, handed me a performance rating slip for me to fill up not minding the fact that my injured right hand is very much visible and that there are actually four of us in the table.

I would go upstairs at home and would face my piano keyboard, eyeing it very dearly. Should something worse than this accident happened, I thought, not being able to play the piano would be the most tragic. You can play the piano even if you’re blind, even if you’re deaf, even if you’re dyslexic or just plain stupid but you cannot play the piano with only a left hand.

Whenever I’m feeling deeply sad, just the mere touch of my fingers on the piano would relieve me. I realised I need to take good care of my hands. And not just the hands, but the mind and heart controlling them.

When the accident happened, my hands are really full. I have a handful of problems exploding in my very palm. I was racing with the rain and the mad wind is gushing fiercely on my face until I lose control of everything. I didn’t pray. I was pressed on a dank pavement and behind all the pain, there was a mounting shame taunting. People gathered around. There were shoutings. Shame. Blood. Open wound. Shame.

But in times like this you’ll realise that there are those who are willing to slice your porkchops for you, hold your other hand so you can safely ride a jeepney or simply open the door for you. They are there, friends, family, even Joey, who up to now, still, I don’t know who he’s supposed to be in my life. But all the same, I’m more than thankful for them.

The writing of this, anyway, should prove that things are fine and I’m back to being the old me. Maybe from here on I won’t hop on a motorbike anymore. Maybe.