Désolé Boy

Chapter One: Butcher

2012-02-08T08:52:00.000+08:00

Wake up at 6:09 in the morning. Get dressed. Never mind not combing your hair. Never mind not taking a shower. Go outside your house. You shall feel the early mist of the unfurling morning. Feel its gentle caress. Savor it. You’ll need them later.

Stand beside the road, on the right side going North. Wait for a while. A white cab shall stop in front of you, the one with the name “Magdalena” painted on its sides. Ride at the back. Tell the driver, an old man with missing teeth and whose hair spiked with silver strands, go straight ahead, turn left on the fifth crossing then turn right before you hit the dirt road. He’ll know what to do.

It’s still too early and you are allowed to sleep. You don’t have to worry. The driver knows where to take you. Trust him.

Now you’ll wake up. Don’t be scared to find yourself alone inside the cab. The driver did his job which is to take you to your destination. You are alone now.

Now step outside. You’ll find yourself alone in the woods. Don’t be afraid. The sounds are just the rustling dried fallen leaves. Look up. In front of you is an old hospital-ruin. Observe carefully. The worn-out white paint of the building, the cracked up glass door and the hanging sign painted in bold red color that says “emergency,” remember all them.

Enter through the cracked up glass door. Don’t look back. Inside, you’ll find yourself in a narrow corridor leading to a double door in one kilometer distance. Don’t mind the number of doors on your left and right. Don’t even try to open them, or touch them with your hands. Just go straight ahead. Walk with your head held high. Don’t run. Just walk in your normal speed. There’s no use hurrying up. The distance will just stretch itself and you’ll end up tiring yourself. You’ll need all the energy later.

Once you’re at the door, open it slowly. Inside is a man, half naked, waiting for you. Nod at him so he’ll acknowledge you. He’ll ask you to strip all your clothes. Don’t ask. Just follow him. He knows what he’s doing. Then, lie down on the operating table. Your hands and feet will be tied on its corners. Don’t move. Don’t be afraid. He knows what he’s doing. Prepare yourself.

The man will kiss you on your mouth, his tongue battling with yours. Then out of nowhere, he’ll hit you with his whip. Don’t be afraid. Don’t resist. It’s not up to you now. He’ll whip you again. Two, three, four, five, never mind counting them. You’ll feel your flesh burning, tearing. You will scream the most terrifying scream of your life.

The man will now pick up his blazing iron rod, burned under the fire for hours and hours. He will direct it to your chest. Once the blazing rod and your flesh collide, it’s like Hell descended upon you. You can smell your burning flesh like the smell of the early morning mist.

And then again, he shall whip you. From your arms, to your thighs, every bit of flesh will be purged of the most excruciating pain you’ll ever feel.

Tears from your eyes will fall without you even noticing it. You’ll hope you become numb but the searing continuous pain shall deny you. Sweat and blood are now all over your body. Your flesh tearing down for you are now lying face down on the operating table. You’ll wish for death but there’s no way to evade such torture, such duress.

Once you’ve given up to Death of escaping such madness, your body shall relax. One, two, three another whipping. Four five six, the double-blade dagger slashing through your flesh. And then at some point, you’ll pass out.

Now wake up. You’ll find yourself alone once more inside the room. You’re dressed from waist down. Notice that no single trace of blood can be seen in your body yet the scars are evident everywhere. Someone will come in. He’ll nod at you. Acknowledge him. You’ll discover a whip wrapped in your hand. Somewhere, you can smell a metal, burning.

It’s up to you now. You’ll know what to do.

_____________

A Valentine Story, Chapter One: Butcher is dedicated to Alterjon

Prelude to a Valentine story

2012-02-05T19:15:00.003+08:00

In a night when the Moon finally cries,

when the night is darker

and when the stars are farther

a woman in red vail

would be seen in flight.

Behold! She’s no more than ‘nything

but Satan’s long lost bride.

Somewhere ‘neath the mist

beyond the cricketing beast

she crawls along the Earth

humming riddles of death.

At once, the hornets would flee

while magpies kneel in fear.

So the boar swallows the cat,

that the cattle swallows the boar.

Then the water, at once,

stops whispering,

stops chasing liberty.

She cuts all her hair

and hid them in her mouth.

Then she bathes herself

with her own woman’s flesh.

Oh, the marching of the beggars

banging sharply like dying stars.

From the North, comes the Serpent

Hail the South, brings the Sloth.

Then Satan will come at once

to claim Thy soulful bride.

So Heavens and Hell shall bind;

towards the Sun, together, they climb.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost...
_____
Soon: Chapter 1, 2, 3 and Interlude

Ablaze

2012-01-30T09:09:00.000+08:00

The church bell was banging non-stop and there was a commotion downstairs. I went down lazily in my green striped pajamas and asked what was happening. We all went out and people are pointing up at the sky.

There it was, high atop beyond the towering houses are massive black smokes trailing up relentlessly. People are shouting and running everywhere. Then came sprinting towards us was my cousin’s house helper.

“Nasusunog yung bahay sa harap ni Ate Grace! (The house in front is under fire!)”

I quickly went back inside the house, grabbed my bike and hopped on it. Ate Grace’s house is a few kilometers away from us. It was very windy that day and I thought it’s not impossible that the fire might jump onto other houses around.

The scene was pandemonium. Even at a certain distance, the heat of the blazing fire was overwhelming, countering that of the cold morning breeze of January. I saw my cousin, Ate Grace, holding my four year old niece, Miel, in her arms. She was crying as she handed Miel who quickly enveloped me in a tight embrace. She’s scared, I thought.

I tweeted about the situation, made a Facebook status and called someone at work.

The house where the fire started is home to seven families. It was half concrete but mostly old lumbers and plywood. Old tarpaulins with faces of last election runners used to cover the front for some afternoon shade. Seven siblings, with a family of their own, sharing a single house. They have no electricity, I was told. They could afford no more of the monthly bills. Most of the siblings have no jobs, even their spouses, and are merely depending from the mercy of other siblings working aboroad. Now, fire is rapidly eating them up, turning everything into ashes and smokes.

The air is thick with helplessness. Men carrying pails of water are scurrying, trying to splash down the glaring fire to no effect. Children are crying in a distance as they watch their home tearing down in front of them. After a while or so, trucks of firemen came. Their siren sending more chills to the neighborhood than relief.

Then came a man, crying, walking towards us. His name is Manny. He dissolved in front of us.

“’Yung pera ko. Lahat ng ipon ko, wala na. Nasunog na. (My savings, all burned down. All gone.)”

No one muttered a single word as we all watch Manny lament the loss of his possessions. One could probably understand the frustration, having a one year old kid and a wife, with nothing for shelter, nothing for food. He quickly got up, punches the concrete wall with his dank fists as she shouts incomprehensible words. The men pulled him away. Both of his fists went bleeding.

Then a sound of a woman, wailing. She just came from work only to find out her house also burned down. She held her chest, as if catching air to breath with difficulty. She passed out as people shouted for an ambulance. Authorities are shouting instructions. Some are managing the traffic, others maneuvering firemen’s operation. Out of nowhere, a small voice spoke in my ears.

“Tito, wawa. (Uncle, it’s pitiful.”)

It was Miel, my niece. I hugged her tight and decided we should just go inside their house. I gave her to their maid.

People watched from a distance. We all did. And I knew all of us wanted to do something, but just couldn’t think of anything, as if the world stopped for that moment. When the fire is still angry, the smokes trailing up, children, women and even men crying, sirens and red lights trying to drown out the scene.

Then a call, and that time I knew what to do. I composed myself, waited for my cue, and in my modulated voice, I spoke…

“Kasalukuyang tinutupok ng apoy ang may hindi bababa sa apat na kabahayan dito sa Barangay Mambog, Malolos, Bulacan…” (At least four houses are under fire here in the town of Malolos, province of Bulacan.)

_____________

Caedite, vexate, ligate vinculis!

(Murder, harass, bind into chains!)

Caedite, vexate, ligate vinculis!

(Murder, harass, bind into chains!)

Caedite, vexate, ligate vinculis! Saul!

(Murder, harass, bind into chains! Saul)

Caedite, caedite! Ligate! Saul!

(Murder, harass, bind into chains! Saul)

Vexate, vexate, vexate Saul! Saul!

(Harass, harass, harass Saul! Saul!)

Vinculis, condemnate vexate!

(Chain, prosecute and harass!)

Condemnate! Condemnate!

(Prosecute! Prosecute!)

Why do you persecute me?

Why why why?

Fall down on your knees, turn hatred into love.

Turn darkness into light.

Bow down, Saul! Bow down, Saul!

Saul, Saul, Saul.

-from Z. Randall Stroope's "Conversion of Saul" (an SSAATTBB choral piece)

listen here

Javier

2012-01-22T11:51:00.001+08:00

Regret, they say, always comes when it’s too late. But for the seventy year old Tatay Javier, regrets, he said, are futile. In the fading years of his life, he’s not even asking for forgiveness. All he wants is a quiet life, to reminisce his golden years of prime while relishing the remaining days in this world who can’t seem to forgive him.

“Ako si Javier, sitenta anyos. October 2007 nang dalhin ako dito sa Anawim Home of the Abandoned Elderly.”

Among the over fifty elderly of Anawim, Tatay Javier is different. He actually has a family living in Mandaluyong in a house he built by his years of working abroad. Not rich, but with a wife and three professional daughters, life should be a lot easier for him.

“Naging ano ako…pumunta ako sa giyera sa Vietnam, nag-trabaho ako sa Saudi. After that nung nawalan ako ng trabaho, nag-litson ako, nag-manok ako, nag-gulayan ako. Lahat ng hanap buhay pinasok natin.”

But Tatay Javier is no saint. He admits having his fair share of trailing the damned path.

“Noong araw nagmamaneho ako ng jeepney may baon akong alak, umiinom ako. Kung saan huminto ang jeep ko puntahan mo ako doon, nakikipag-mahjong ako. ‘Yan marahil ang ikinagalit nila sa akin. Wala akong nalalaman na dapat ikagalit kundi yung bisyo ko nga na inom ng alak at sugal.”

His family deserted him. Tatay Javier didn’t utter a word. He packed his things, armed with only a folding bed, he camped in the street just across the very same house he built for his family.

“Yung anak ko dadaanan ako dyan ni hindi man lang magmano o gumalang, oh tatay andyan ka pala, o yung kumakain halika na kumain ka na. Wala na. Ano pa nga bang pag-uusapan namin? Wala na siguro.”

It was Lucita, Tatay Javier’s younger sister, who arranged matters with Anawim to have his brother taken under its custody. Of five siblings, they are the closest, she says.

“Masakit. Napakasakit para sa ‘kin. Nung unang gabi nga, umiiyak ako, kaya lang tinanggap ko na rin. Siya namismo nagbo-volunteer kaya sumang-ayon na ‘ko. Mas masakit naman na makita ko siya sa kalye.”

Anawim, for Tatay Javier, is his second chance to live a simple life, away from the bustling crowds and demons that the city brought him.

“Nandito ako ngayon…tawagin ko itong Paraisong Lupa. Oras-oras nagdarasal ka at oras-oras kumakain ka. Pagkakain mo matutulog ka. Ano pa bang tawag mo dyan, di pa ba paraiso yan?

He even boasted that since he took shelter in Anawim, his health just got better and better.

"Aba, malakas tayo, malakas! Malakas tayo! Nakita ninyo nakapanhik ako nang walang alalay, pumanhik ako diyan nang walang alalay. Pero noong kararating ko lang, hindi ako makapanhik dyan, nanginginig ang buong katawan ko. Pero ngayon, panhik panaog na ako dyan. Hindi naman tayo si Fernando Poe na maraming kwarta eh. Ang kinukuha lang ang maraming kwarta (laughs).”

But beneath the jokes and Tatay Javier’s boastings of his famous lechon, as he stares beyond the towering trees of Anawim, there’s a faint twinge that he’s still hiding somewhere.

“Nakiusap ako na kung may dadalaw isa man sa pamilya ko, ‘wag nang patuluyin. Ayaw kong maalala ang mga pangyayari."

Tatay Javier paused for a long silence.

“Isa lang ang matatanggap ko dito, ‘yung apo kong lalaki tsaka yung kapatid kong bunso (Lucita). Yung batang yun mula pagkabata nun ‘pagka umui yan at nagbakasyon, pupuntahan ako sa aking higaan, aakayin ako nun at ‘tay halika na manood tayo ng basketball’ kaya napamahal ako. Siya ang susi. Kung hilingin ng bata na ang nanay niya papasukin, baka bumigay ako.”

“Kung itinuturo ng Panginoon bakit hindi? Walang magulang na ‘di nakaka-alala ng anak. Anak mo pa rin ‘yan. Ngayon kapag magulang ang sumama, masamang-masama.

Despite having witnessed the shoutings and ill-treatment of his brother’s family, Lucita got one wish.

“Gusto kong patawin siya ng pamilya niya. Nadudurog ang kwan ko. Naaawa ako. Hindi ko pinapakita. Dito (puso) lang lahat.”

At the end, we asked Tatay Javier what is his prayer now.

“Panginoong Hesus patawarin po ako sa aking mga sala at nawa’y gabayan ninyo po ako sa magdamag na pamamahinga ko. Huwag mo po silang pabayaan, ang aking pamilya. Salamat po ng marami."

___

***

Our team managed to find one of Tatay Javier’s daughters, a top professor in some distinguished private college institution within the Metro, for her side of the story.

She declined.

She said she doesn't want to talk about his father anymore.

***

Anawim is a lay mission foundation that provides shelter for the abandoned poor elders. For donations and information please visit their website at www.anawim.com.ph

I am a man, not a saint

2012-01-17T10:28:00.000+08:00

I intended this to be a letter of apology. I wanted to take back many things I’ve said, things I’ve done which cost both of us much, then and now. But sometimes, even writers don’t have a command on words. They fly fast nowadays; stubborn yet canoodling.

So this, ladies and gentlemen, is where words brought me. Once again, to a concert of boorish words stringed together without a hint of decency to provide coherence, I bring you this.

I’m not saying sorry anymore. I’d rather be a painfully arrogant man than betray myself, again, with such humble words. I won’t say sorry for holding on to hate, for it drove me far from where I was before; stripped of dignity and of person. I won’t say sorry for sabotaging my happiness, even his. I just couldn’t allow the fact that while the world is happy, while the world is kind to him, to them, I’m being whipped mercilessly as I count the stone slabs in my cold cell. Seventy two thousand five hundred nineteen. I’ve counted them many times.

I’m not taking back those, my words, my rage, the curses even the prayers. I have given the world so much and as much as I would defy anything to take many things back, I know I just couldn’t. Like time, those faithful nights, that part of me in him, my youth, and of course…love. But one thing I’ll take back and in great effort I swear I will: my forgiveness.

The thing about saying sorry is you tend to forget yourself just for that moment to think of others; an admirable trait in a world slave to Narcissus. So I’ll give myself some good this time.

Last night when I was walking home from work, tired and all from the complicated battle of speeches and papers and from a two-sentence message that slapped me late, I noticed it was a clear night sky. The staggering infinite constellation of stars before me was overwhelming. It was a very long time since I last look up at the night sky and admire the splendor of those distant creatures of the universe. They’re like sparkling tears threatening to fall from a woman’s beautiful face. I wondered what have I been doing for the past years that I didn’t stop, all those nights that were spent wandering on the cold streets under the shade of electric stars, instead of dreaming about open skies.

I wanted to say sorry to myself because of the many things I did, the many wrong turns despite the many cautions. But it will break my recent proclamation against it. Besides, what will it accomplish?

“He’s told me a lot of times how sorry he was. But he never asked, not even a single time, for my forgiveness. Or admit what he did to me was wrong.”

-Hidden Journal

I have no new words for myself or for anyone. Here I am, counting stars in my limited fingers. I’m not saying sorry anymore. For there is truth to my rage, to my selfishness, to late night phone calls, to novenas, to stolen touches, to excruciating pains of betrayal, of spite, and of condescending lies. Maybe in another life, or in another universe, we’ll find a new way to say sorry. Or better, a new way of forgiving.

Weekend, around 5 in the afternoon, on our way home, we stopped by in a restaurant along North Luzon Expressway. After dining, we just sat there at the van while the kids play and ran around. My 2 year old niece, Miel, who shrieks in high commanding voice as her cousins leave her behind, fat legs and uncomfy Pampers just couldn't make up in catching speed, always finds herself at lost when the youngesters start to rumble as she was the youngest. She would yell and say “stars! stars! stars!” jumping, a finger pointing up to the fading sky above. This, her older cousins, would just ignore, thinking she’s making it up just to be able to catch up. The sun, after all, is still streaming its golden-before-dawn streaks of light. But as I look up, I saw them. There they are, stars, sparkling in their faintest light before the powerful sun. In a while, as darkness begins to unfurl, their beauty is unmatched.

___________

Tu vois, j’suis pas un homme
(You see I’m not a man)

Je suis le roi de l’illussion

(I am the king of illusion)
Au fond qu’on me pardonne
(After all, I may be forgiven)
Je suis le roi, le roides cons
(I am the king, the king of the fools)

J’ai fait le monde a ma facon
(I’ve built the world in my way)
Coulé dans l’or et le béton
(In concrete lined with gold)
Corps en cage et coeur en prison
(A caged body, a prisoned heart)
Moi je tourney, en rond, je tourney en rond
(Yes, I go round in circles, round in circles)

-from Je Suis Un Homme (I am a man) by Zazie

Paper faces

2012-01-05T11:18:00.000+08:00

He was wearing a faded red trouser and even from afar, I can see the tiny holes near the right shoulder, a black maong shorts that used to be long pants, and on his neck, a plastic sling bag that says Nike in front, with its usual huge check trademark.

He was crouched beside two plastic bag-full of garbage. On his other side were his stack of pirated DVDs he sells to some sleepy commuter like me waiting for a ride in that bus station at the howling center of Cubao. He was counting money, more twenty bills and few hundred bucks. He folded them a few more times then tucked it in the inside of his underwear garter.

As he rises, the orange ray of the halogen light hits the boy’s face. I noticed he was handsome, not too far from JM de Guzman’s boyish face, dark, one who always have this ready cute smile to anyone who approaches. He has this small black mole near his mouth, hair spiked atop, lean body and probably stands between 5 feet and 6 or 7 inches. He looks younger than me, 20 or 22, I supposed.

And then I had to wonder , cursed with an imagination that transcends reasons and logic, I saw the same boy wearing tight vintage jeans, a short sleeved polo with buttons open enough to boast his young budding chests. He’s to be seen strutting his stuff, flashing his youthful charm to loitering men and ladies of the quiet night.

When dark is over, he is to sit in some fast food restaurant, drinking coffee or perhaps some early morning breakfast, counting his money. This time, there are no more few twenty peso bills, but few hundred bucks and more of thousands.

He could pass as a masseur. He could be an escort boy, a boy toy of some bored family guy in his mid forties, a hustler or a con artist. He got the looks others would simply die for just to have them. So I wonder why he chose to sell pirated DVD movies.

I wonder why people choose to do things that they choose to do and why choose not to do the things that people don’t. I used to believe that we pattern this parallel to our definition of what’s good and what’s not. But I do not believe that people are naturally good anymore. In fact, I don’t even believe in my own goodness.

There is this woman who refuses to believe her husband is dead. For the rest of her life, she would lay on bed his morning clothes, prepare dinner and would wait on the door at night for him to arrive. But he never will for he really died in some stupid car accident in some curved road with a sign beside that says “accident prone area, beware.” Yet she will choose to believe in a promise her husband once said. “Forever I will come home to you.” So she will spend the remaining of her life waiting.

Maybe that’s why the handsome boy in the bus station chose to be a pirated DVD vendor. He chose it not because he’s good, or that he knows that selling pirated goods is just as wrong. Maybe because he simply believes he has to be a pirated DVD vendor. The same way that hustlers choose to be a hustler, that junkies choose to be a junkie or that writers choose to be mad.

I know they say it’s our choices that defines us. But I think it’s not enough. I think it’s our choices and the way we stand by it. How one stood his ground, that's what really defines us. After all, there’s not much of a difference between a pirated DVD vendor and a sleep deprived news writer.

________

Masquerade!

Paper faces on parade

Masquerade!

Hide your face so the world will never find you

Masquerade!

Every face a different shade

Masquerade!

Look around -

there's another

mask behind you.

Flash of mauve.

Splash of puce.

Fool and king.

Ghoul and goose.

Green and black.

Queen and priest.

Trace of rogue.

Face of beast.

Faces.

-Masquerade by Andrew Lloyd Webber from the Phantom of the Opera

We beheld once again the stars

2012-01-01T11:23:00.000+08:00

I write this when, I think, most of you are already asleep. The last greeting on my phone beeped and it’s already dying. The lights are dimmed and the last slabs of Buffalo wings were swallowed mercilessly. Outside, the air is thick with the stench of gun powder. Inside, there is a revolution going on.

When I was young, I used to think that bangs and smokes are brought to celebrate the New Year. For good luck and in a way, to say “hey New Year, be good to us, eh.”

We did everything, every charm, every tradition with tables pouring and the usual 13-piece fruit tray – we mastered them yearly. Yet tragedies always find their way no matter.

I wish not to be a killjoy and write you about hope, about carols and left and right parties. So let me begin first by telling you this:

Within the span of 2011, billions have died. 15, 842 of them fell down in an earthquake followed by a Tsunami in Northeastern Japan. In February, a 6.3 magnitude earthquake in Christchurch, Australia killed at least 182 people; 12 of them Filipinos. Many people also lost their lives in a series of Arab protests. In Syria alone there are at least 1, 300 casualties, 846 in Egypt, 219 in Tunisia, 200 in Yemen and 29 in Bahrain.

Last March, the People’s Republic of China executed Sally Villanueva, Ramon Credo and Elizabeth Batain due to drug related cases. And then, add up another one who was also executed last December 8. Just yesterday, a conjoined twin, actually a baby with a single body and two heads died out of complications.

And there are the storms. In May 6, Bebang came and claimed at least 48 people. September 24, Pedring swept away most of the towns in Bulacan and killed at least 83 people. Presently, in Northern Mindanao and some parts of Visayas, we’re still counting cadavers and as of recent count, at least 2, 000 are confirmed dead.

So congratulations to us! Not because we are not part of the figures above. But because we’re not, we have a daunting task at hand.

Imagination is what brings us storytellers to hunt for the next one. So it’s the same imagination we employ now. Imagine the dead. Imagine the suffered. Imagine the dispossessed. Sometimes you don’t need to put more effort in doing so.

Whenever I close my eyes, I still see and hear that wailing lady. They say she’s on the verge of losing her mind. She keeps telling story of a one stormy night, when flood suddenly surge into their home and her kids’ faces went all blue. Clutching each other’s hands, they traverse the mighty rain and the crossing mud. At some point, she loses her 7 year old kid’s clutch and everything went hazy. As she cries and narrates this story, the lady’s conjecture would be: “Ako ang may kasalanan kung ba’t namatay yung anak ko. Nabitiwan ko siya. Nabitiwan ko.”

It’s true that we cannot give them all faces. It’s true that we cannot help all who need help. But once cannot resist his own thoughts. So I write them. Or if you’re a friend, you probably are already tired of hearing almost same stories yet different names in it.

This I’ve learned: We look up at the stars and we see history. For those faraway, stars are long dead, but their lives remain alive, travelling distances of thousands of years to reach our night skies. And so the very moment of gazing, of wishing, is converging past and present.

This is where lies my hopes, my dreams and my convictions. The bangs and smokes are celebration, not to a new, but to a leaving year that brought so many tears and have claimed so many. It is in the same tales and the same figures that I am reminded, my story shall continue. Not because my story is that great, but because I have the task of telling people’s story that they may not be forgotten.

To a new year!

________

Ma la notte risurge

(But soon it will be night and we must rise to the stars)

Oramai e da parti

(Now is the time to depart this place)

Che tutto veduto

(For we have seen and experienced it all)

Ritonar!

("Keep moving" -return to paradise)

Vexilla regis prodeunt inferni!

(The wings of hell's monarch are heard nearby)

(We must leave quickly)

Ma la notte risurge

(But soon in it will be night)

Salimmo su, tanto ch'i vidi

(I climbed towards paradise with no thought of looking back)

De la cose belle che porta

(I passed through a small opening)

Ciel, per un pertugio tondo

(And finally saw heaven and the supreme light)

Quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle

(And beheld once again the stars)

-Riveder le Stelle (We beheld once again the stars) by Z. Randall Stroope

Tondo blood

2011-12-28T09:43:00.004+08:00

circa 2010 Tondo, Manila, self portrait 103

When I was a young lad, my cousin, Kuya Cris, would drag me along the streets of Tondo in Manila, introducing me to left and right huddles of guys in their drinking session under the streaming sun and often I would hear him say “Oh baka makita ninyo ‘to dyan naglalakad, walang tatalo diyan ha. Pinsan ko ‘yan!”

During then, I didn’t understand what he meant, even the occasional forced-drink of Tanduay and Gin from grimy glasses handed by some topless guy with sprawling tattoo marks, either on chest or in their bulging arms. But whenever I would snob the guys or would hesitate for the offered drink, Kuya Cris would nudge me and I knew I have to oblige.

Kuya Cris was a former drug addict. Every nook and canny, he told me, in Tondo, where crystal meth and drug sessions is to be found, he had a map of them in his mind. Because of that, he was and is still close to them bad boys. Drug pusher, addict, snatcher, hired killer, rapist – name it, he said, “I’ve been with all of them.” Some turned friends, others became enemies to watch out for.

Tondo is a familiar place since childhood. My lolo and lola, coming from Ilocos, lived there for a period of time. It’s the place where my mother and uncles were brought up. One of my uncles even became head of Tondo police station.

It is in this story that I remember what my Kuya Cris once told me. I was crying then because of some stupid reason, I was young by the way. It’s still fresh in my mind what he said that day and maybe, I'll never forget: “Lalaki ka at may dugo kang Tondo. Dapat matapang ka.”

To my surprise, it was the same line that was mentioned in the latest reprise of the movie featuring the late gang lord and modern day Robin Hood of Tondo – Asiong Salonga.

The story of Nicasio “Asiong” Salonga is not new to me. One of my uncles, my Tito Erning, is friend to Bong Salonga, son of the man himself Asiong Salonga. It is a curious tale, a story about a man who lived surrounded by guns, women, money and other gang lords while remaining popular to the brethren of Tondo; as if a savior, a Messiah that could alleviate poverty and ironically, even violence at its kingdom. The name Asiong Salonga created a mark in my young mind, and recently, I finally met him.

I am often amused by his story. Who wouldn’t? For someone whose serious child ambition is to become an assassin, who plays with toy guns with all the scathing sound of bullets firing angrily to an invisible nemesis, Asiong Salonga is a hero. A name that sends chills even to authorities, Totoy Golem, Toothpick, Erning, Zapanta – I’ve heard them all, and watching them in theater screen as the era of Tondo bloodbath and gangland violence passed by in front, suddenly I was a kid once more, reliving the former ambition of a macho feared image.

Allow me to digress a bit from my thesis statement, but the recent Asiong Salonga movie is really good. No, I wasn’t paid by anyone to say that. The photography employed is not just pleasing but tells so much about the story. Congratulations also to Manong Jesse Lasaten for delivering such awesome scoring to the music and Mr. Carlo Mendoza for the amazing cinematography.

So back to my storyline. I’ve lived with that warning. That having a blood of Tondo requires you to be brave, especially in the face of your enemies. Hide your weakness. Don’t cry. Suck it up. Avenge.

And then I became 18. And you all probably knew what happened. The gangster fell in love, and everything changes.

I lost the strut, the arrogance, the swag. I became a soft faggot. Someone who became understanding, someone who now bends his philosophies and pride to comply with some asshole, someone who acts to please the other one – I looked at myself and no more I could find the gangster. He died.

Maybe life really is ironic. Love killed him, now love will resurrect him. Maybe it’s time to sharpen the swords, pick up the bullets and let the roaring guns trumpet. I forgot that people may not have guns, but one mistake and you’ll have yourself killed by people around you. Worse, it’s the same people you trusted. Or the same people you gave your heart to.

Tell you what, literally, next year, I’ll be having my own gun. My uncle promised he’ll help me acquire the necessary license. He’s a former police official. Within our family compound, our house is the only one where guns are not kept. Most within our clan are police officers, that’s why; others just have them for protection. Uncle said it’s time for me to take the responsibility of acting as the head of house since my father is abroad working his ass out. Somehow, I’m flattered by this. Maybe finally, they’re seeing the man I’ve become. Finally.

A gun may not equate to courage, but sometimes it helps. I just want the old me back. I just want to live again with that mantra: “Pag may dugong Tondo, matapang.” I’m tired of getting hurt. I’m tired of crying. I’m tired of not fighting back. I don't know what this means, what will this declaration brings, but one thing is sure: I'm never going back to that softer me. Now I'm Désolé Boy - the gangster. Bang bang!

______________

Nilusong ang kanal na sa pangalan niya’y

tumawag alang-alang sa iba tsaka muna

ang paawat sa mali na nagagawa na tila

nagiging tama ang tunay na may kailangan

ang siyang pinangtatamasa lahat sila’y takot

makakapaso ang iyong galit mga bakal na may

nagbabagang tinga papalit-palit sa hangin

na masangsang nakakapanghina ang nana at

hindi mo matanggal na para bang sima ng

pana na nakulawit subalit sa kabila ng

lahat ay ang halimuyak lamang ng iisang

bulaklak ang siyang tanging naghahatid

sa kaniya sa katinuan at hindi ipagpapalit na

kahit sino man.

-Hari ng Tondo by Gloc 9

All along the watchtower

2011-12-23T12:00:00.000+08:00

self portrait 102

It’s been more than a year and a quarter since I thought I lost everything. And since then, I’ve been everywhere you could imagine. Been undressed by kings, been to the bottom of the seas, been to the kingdom of hearts, been to different bat caves and sometimes, even to the depths of a howling Inferno. I’ve seen things, great and bad. And what I understand is that there is little understanding of happiness in everything.

Happy are those who sleep with demigods, then those who pretend to be emperors. And then there’s the cabinet maker, those who lick their black mirrors and then those who see visions of future. Chief among these, I’m curious to the savage state of those who are drunk from the cocktails of romance.

This I pretend to understand, for I thought that happiness lies at the bottom of its crystallized glass. And so like Alice, I drank from the many strange bottles I saw. “Drink me,” the bottles said; printed in full bold colors attached to their necks. Neither turned me giant; capable of picking the tree of triumph. Neither turned me small; enabling me escape through the narrow hole leading to the illusive freedom of reality.

You see me and people tell many things about me. To some, I am miniscule rabbit; others thought I’m a glaring vulture. Consequently, these tend to equate to my idea of happiness.

I couldn’t blame them though.

This holiday season, there seem to be an additional present for every single one I get. Often you will hear people say “I hope you find happiness,” “I hope you’ll get hitched soon,” “I wish for you to find the right guy,” and many other variations of it. Honestly, it’s the same desire I silently wished for a distant time ago. It’s a silent prayer to no one in particular since I never really included it to my prayers to God.

I’ll tell you what most of you do not know. Strip of all names, all cloaks of grandeur and the high ambitions I speak off, I am, first and foremost – a kid.

A boy in his early twenties who has specific fixation over leather boots, who enjoys mini RC cars and glows every time an M&M mascot is in sight, is what lies behind philosophical speeches, high political commentaries and drama anthology worthy write ups. As my iBlogger friends recently discovered, I adore those wide eyed cuddly stuffed toys, swoons over giant wheels and tend to get nervous whenever a clown is in sight.

I am but a kid. And I may have wished for a romantic relationship, even frustrated myself over the idea, but I no longer lean on that kind of longing. I’ve walked the narrowest of the narrowest road and have seen one of the worst images there are, and at last I’ve learn to content myself in small things.

When you’re happy with the small stuffs, happiness is easy. Happiness not only becomes yours but you yourself, you become happiness.

I am my own happiness, so to people wishing me a boyfriend or a partner to gain happiness, thank you, but no more that I want one.

I’ll tell you my idea of happiness. Whenever I could run and play barefoot on the seashore, whenever my friends and I would take a bath and sleep together, whenever I see stars hovering over dark clouds, whenever I get new books, whenever I eat hand to mouth, whenever I listen to strangers tell their stories – that, I am already happy.

Bad decisions from the past does not make me any less of a person. Or being mistreated. Or being misunderstood. Or being misjudged, being mistaken and rejected. Or being single. I am as good as you are lovers; probably even happier than most of you are.

So long as there are free cakes to taste, so long as jokes would always come, so long as stealing one’s donut is not punishable by law and Timezone won’t be swallowed whole by the Earth, I think I will be fine. If not, I think this time, it’s best I teach my feet how to fly.

"There must be some way out of here," said the joker to the thief.

"There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief."

Businessmen they drink my wine, plowmen they dig my earth.

None of them along the line know what any of it is worth.

"No reason to get excited," the thief he kindly spoke

"There are many here among us who think life is but a joke."

"But you and I, we've been through that, and this is not our fate."

So let us not talk falsely, the hour is getting late."

-All along the watchtower by Bob Dylan

Rolling on cam

2011-12-16T11:13:00.000+08:00

Boobs

I can't say that I hate watching myself on television, but I must admit I'm very uncomfortable with the idea. Even with family home videos, it's too painful for me to watch myself on screen. The gestures, the voice, even the slight rise on my brows whenever I talk, feels so morbidly wrong.

My formal debut on television would probably be on the now defunct ABS-CBN debate show Y Speak. Every member of my family and friends back then in 2005 were able to watch it. Save for me. And then many more follow, obviously, as I was a former activist and the fact that I'm a broadcast communication student made the appearances more often than I would like to.

And then I entered Entertainment Television Group. And boy, my ordeal doesn't end with late night tapings, the derogatory words my Executive Producer shoving on me and the occasional tantrums of my pretentious actors and actresses. Whenever the paid talents weren't able to deliver their lines or simply dragging the entire production out of their crappy acting, or when the production cost is already skyrocketing, or a quick revision on script is need and the undying flashbacks, my director would often throw his headset, shout on top of his lungs and say "DB, take over. Wardrobe bihisan nyo na."

I didn’t and I won’t like it.

Now, it was our anniversary/Christmas party the other day and I know some of my readers here were able to share my nervousness as I was tweeting about my ultimately dreaded dance number. I already knew it’s going to land an item c/o our respectable reporter Sir Mario [Dumaoal] on TV Patrol. However, it didn’t occur to me that my face would be shown, in tight shot and in full more than five seconds, on national television during primetime news hour.

Of course it was hilarious for most people – except me. Instantly, I received tons of messages, SMS, BBMs, on FB and others telling me the obvious – “You were seen dancing like crazy on TVP man! Waddup with that?”

Friends, not only here in the third world but also those who are from Chicago, LA and Singapore didn’t miss my seconds of shame. What a joke!

I find it very ironic. For someone whose ambition’s trajectory leads to becoming a TV news reporter [and a popular one at that], being seen on the screen should be something I still need to learn to master. Maybe it’s still a question of confidence. Maybe it’s still an issue of not fitting with the society’s dictate of what looks good and not. Or maybe it’s just a habit.

But I will remember that being on television is not the ultimate goal here, or looking damn beautiful with it. I must remember that there’s a higher reason why I have this kind of ambition. For now, I’ll probably give all the fun to friends and relatives seeing my gorgeously hilarious face on screen.

Conversation of a prince and an outlaw

2011-12-12T11:04:00.000+08:00

Self-portrait, 101

This is a fairy tale.

And like any other tale, it begins with a once upon a time.

Once upon a time, there was a young prince like no other. He grew up to be a fine man though nothing really exceptional. His hair and eyes black as night, his skin as fine as any wood. He stands like a sentinel in battle and speaks like a politician in pew.

**

“I never really believed in fairy tales, sire, if you asked me. “

“But I came from a fairy tale, and you won’t believe in me?”

“That is neither here nor there.”

**

One day he heard of a famine brought about by a raging dragon, so destructing that he sets out in a journey not knowing how and why, though one thing is sure - he will fight the devil.

So he left the confines of his castle, rides his horse with his sword on the waist, and trails the treacherous road to the realms of the unknown.

**

“You mean you don’t believe me to be a prince?”

“Pardon my uncertainties but you don’t look like one.”

“It seems to me that you have turned yourself into a stereotype.”

**

On his way, he saw a few people. He met his fellow princes. While some are vengeful, others prove to be frauds. Soon he surrounds himself with friends. A noble, a priest, a virgin, a whore, a thief, a clown and a piper, to name a few. And all they set together to find dragons of their own to slay.

And then the prince chokes on the apple.

**

“I see no favor in dressing in capes and proclaiming I’m noble.”

“And yet I must look clean and well so the town’s people won’t suspect.”

“Well, you may pass on being a beautiful stereotype but my conscience won’t allow it.”

**

The prince slept for years. While he is aware of himself, he is neither dreaming nor awake.

And then at one fine day, he spits the apple chunk and rises from the crypt. He picks up his sword, joins his joyful friends and sets out again to find the dragon to slay.

**

“If only one could agree for a dragon-bait, it must be well.”

“And I goddamn refuse. I am as capable of rescuing you as you are of rescuing me. I’m an outlaw, not a hero. We’re our own dragons as well as our own heroes, and we have to rescue ourselves from ourselves.”

**

Once upon a time, there was a young prince. But the story does not end with a princess on his side, or even with another prince, or with a kiss or in a happily ever after.

In fact, it doesn’t end at all.

___________
with lines from Tom Robbins

The Massacre by the Ampatuans

2011-11-23T09:37:00.000+08:00

photo by Kiri Lluch Dalena

Stronghold of the southland. Lords of political dynasty. Executioners. They are the Ampatuans. On November 23, 2009, they committed the most gruesome slaughter of 58 men and women. Fathers, mothers, sons, children, lawyers and journalists – mutilated, buried under piles of rubbles and dirt and smashed vehicles. Two years after, the soil of Maguindanao continue to crave for justice, papers bleed inks of mourning and still, two years after, the glaring impunity persists.

I’ll tell you the same story told harshly two years ago. In the morning of 23rd of November, Friday, 31 media workers together with the women of the Mangudadatu clan trailed the road leading to the capital Shariff Aguak. This was after Ismael Toto Mangudadatu declared his intention to run for governor, challenging its kings, the Ampatuans, once his allies. Fearing for his life, he sent his wife Jennalyn Mangudadatu and the others to file his certificate of candidacy, thinking since she’s a woman, barricaded by lawyers and the rolling cameras of media men, she will be safe. Only death found them.

It is a murder, so evil, Philippines became the most dangerous place in the world for the practice of journalism. Men and women, children and mere passersby, stripped of their own identity, bodies disfigured, buried by the same backhoe with imprints of perpetrators names.

Two years after, 197 people were accused, 93 were arrested of which 64 were arraigned whereas 87 people were presented as witnesses by the prosecution. Two years after, only two main suspects from the Ampatuan clan have been arraigned. The primary suspect, Andal Ampatuan Jr. has not been arraigned for trial. Zaldy Ampatuan meanwhile appealed to the government to turn him state witness in exchange for testimony that could pin his family for murder.

Interior Secretary Jesse Robredo, in an interview for dzMM says more than half of the entire numbers of suspects are still at large. He admitted case’s progress is very slow. In the words of a certain Joker Arroyo, he thinks this case might take 200 years to be presented and resolved. And that might be true and all, but if we look at a family who lost both its father and mother, when we listen to a son reminisce how he found his daddy’s piece of finger, eye out of it socket, while still convincing himself of that faint chance that the body might not be the same daddy who use to challenge him for a push-up match, tell me, should we count those 200 days and wait what lies ahead?

But we do not see 200 as 200 in the same way that we don’t see 58 as 58. Along with them died universes, a family that lost its father, a mother who lost his son with a promise of a better home for her and a news organization that lost its most promising young journalist. Lamentably, the current Aquino administration shows little interest in helping these families. Communications Secretary Sonny Coloma once said, "we will seriously look into this concern because this was a commitment made by the previous administration and we need to revisit this proposal.

Today, everyone speaks of the same names yet the gavel of justice has not given its verdict. The ghosts of the Ampatuan's private army continue to march within the grounds of their territories, scaring the living, reminding everyone how heads rolled at the mention of few names and nods of them warlords. The roll of justice's wheel is slow. The country’s justice system is flawed.

It is hard to believe. Sometimes, whenever I listen to their stories, I had to shake my head, convince myself that this is totally unthinkable. This could not have happened. When you are twenty four, twenty two when the massacre happened, you believe that there are innate goodness people possessed. But when you witness the counting of bodies, 48, 49, 50 and then another more under a Toyota Vios, under a certain Adventure and several more under many vans, you realize, death is always there in a country once called pearl of the orient.

Two years after, we tell the same sad tale, we march under the same battle and we cry the same plea of searching. Writing and telling stories about this massacre will not give much, I know that, and I’m sure all journalists knew that. We fight, not because 32 among our colleagues are killed in that certain highway, but because we are Filipinos second and humans first.

The end is still far from sight, but if we stop now, even for a second, in doing what we can in this arduous fight, not only we are condoning the murder of our 58 brothers, we also allow the Ampatuans to continuously mock us, continuously massacre our hope and repeatedly defy our pride and goodness as humans.

These are the names of 58:

Noel “Bogs” Decena
Alejandro “Bong” Reblando
Daryl delos Reyes
Eduardo Lechonsito
Cecille Lechonsito
Mercy Palabrica
Wilhelm Palabrica
Humberto Mumay
Rey Merisco
Ronnie Perante
Jun Legarta
Val Cachuela
Santos “Jun” Gatchalian
Joel Parcona
John Caniba
Art Betia
Ranie Razon
Archie “Ace” David
Fernando “Ferdz” Mendoza
Daniel Tiamson
Jolito Evardo
McDelbert “Macmac” Arriola
Victor Nunez
Neneng Montano
Marites Cablitas
Gina dela Cruz
Ian Subang
Lea Dalmacio
Jhoy Dojay
Andy Teodoro
Bartolome “Bart” Maravilla
Napoleon “Nap” Salaysay
Henry Araneta
Bebot Momay
Genalin Mangudadatu
Eden Mangudadatu
Rowena Mangudadatu
Manguba Mangudadatu
Farida Mangudadatu
Farina Mangudadatu
Faridah Sabdulah
Concepcion “Connie” Brizuela
Cynthia Oquendo
Catalino Oquendo
Rasul Daud

It will be better than before

2011-11-21T11:02:00.002+08:00

And then I felt sad because I realised that once people are broken in certain
ways, they can't ever be fixed & this is something nobody ever tells you when

you are young & it never fails to surprise you as you grow older, as you see

the people in your life break one by one. You wonder when your turn is going

to be, or if it's already happened. -Douglas Coupland

Jokes are often my thing – save for life’s cruel jokes. They’re never easy and often they come unexpected. Take for example what I always say. I’m too lazy to write so I declined to take journalism yet now, I make my living through writing. Not to mention having this blog, which, by the way, brings me to my next point.

I was actually thinking of easing out my exit here in blogging lately. You know when you feel that you’ve already outgrown something? That’s how I feel as I stare at my blog, at this person called Désolé Boy which I incarnated more than a year ago. I was thinking it probably is the right time to make the curtain fall on Désolé Boy’s stage, take the final bow and leave quietly.

There could’ve been regrets on my venture here, what with the many terrible life jokes I was thrown with and a few destruction that almost brawl me. But when I think of the few accomplishments, like that one surprise from international best seller novelist Jonathan Carroll corresponding through this blog, the e-mails and short messages I get saying they learn things and was touched by my writings, and of course meeting my iBlogger friends, somehow, saying goodbye gets tougher.

So allow me to thank all of you, once more, especially Bino. If you’ll notice, I already got a domain of my own right now. From here on, it’s desoleboy.com. All credits must go to this gentleman, a very generous and a very good man I had the pleasure of meeting through here.

I was never envious of the idea that I’m the only one not sporting a dot.com address out of the bunch. I am, after all, just a small voice in this vast blogosphere compared to them. Two or three visit count and they’re enough to make me go back to the drawing board and compose my next post. I could never be as good as Mugen, or as witty as Mandaya. I couldn’t write about the high end life like Kane and got no sexperiences like Soltero. I will never be as interesting and as hot like Papa P and could never provide you a high literary read like Nyl do. Also, I remained single throughout the course of this blog so it’s the same usual frustrations and dreams and passion and craziness I always share here, unlike Alterjon. That’s why I want to thank those who stayed regardless. It’s always been my pleasure.

But we have to cut some ropes for a better, smoother sailing. Some baggages need to be thrown and some doors must be closed. Sometimes, few goodbyes are inevitable so we could have better hellos. Often times, I know one would think I’ve said too much, but like what this song says, please know that every word is true.

Like Jonathan Carroll, there was this time when someone asked me if my blog is addressed to anyone in particular. I found it hard to answer his query for I know his intent was malicious and he was referring to an old entanglement with a fellow blogger. So it was with great relief that I can now answer that question with conviction and dignity.

“This blog is my love letter to someone I haven’t met yet.”

______________

Many thanks again to Bino. Also to Carlo, Leah and everyone else and all the mentioned and unmentioned people in this blog. Thank you for the inspiration.

Thank you also to all the people who've hurt me in so many ways and in too many times. The tears you brought me are the continuous ink bleeding before my papers. May God grant mercy in all of us.

An aria from the catacombs

2011-11-19T22:42:00.002+08:00

I.

Somewhere along the calm of the night, someone is writing.

II.

Oh Helena, I am alone
Must you take me with Thee?
Must you and I take flee?

Carry me with you, Helena
to the bursting bliss of Thy Peace
where darkness never cease.

This tender madness,
this hideous duress
no more I could bear.

Oh why my goddess Helena
must the light be so cruel,
so illusive, so abusive?

Spare me from this bright abyss
such horror of sorrow
such despair that is tomorrow.

Lift me towards your darkness.
Save me.
Make me.

III.

…so our fervent poet wrote. The Moon, almost on its fullness, peers through in between of the blinds, joining the mild ghostly flickering light of candles. The poet writes furiously, running after metaphors and rhymes, afraid of them escaping his long-fingered bony hand before dawn arrives.

He quivers as the mild icy breeze of the Northern night whispers behind his ears. Loose pieces of papers spiraled in an invisible line. At once, they kissed the floor joining a clutter of pieces branded with strange lines and blackened dots.

The poet avoided the Sun in exchange for the Moon and the Stars. He writes at midnight thinking the darkened sky would hide him from the blinding brightness of sunshine. He hopes in darkness, he’ll be able to see better; that the deafening silence and calm of the night will carry him away from the many illusions of Light. In this, the poet becomes a creature of the dark.

For now, the last line was brandished. It’s almost dawn. Come dusk, the poet shall once again rise.

IV.

Good night tiny humans.

___

A little less past midnight, 20th of August, Laoag City, Ilocos Norte
photo credit: a shot of "Diary of a Time Bomb" (oil canvas, Diptych, 60 in x 96 in) by Ronald Caringal

Waking up, not on the wrong side, but on the wrong bed

2011-11-14T18:25:00.001+08:00

I was so drunk last weekend to the point of passing out for some unexplainable reason. Alright, let me at least try telling you.

I'm sure at some point before we have our iPads and Macbooks, we've all been drowned by pestilential virus in our PCs. Remove and all, we did try our best including thousands of tools from the very same websites that gave these parasites. But they just keep coming back, yes? And just when you thought you finally eradicated these morons, there it is, sheepishly sitting comfortably in our PC system, breeding every second ticking.

That's what happened. A virus which I thought I already deleted on my system, continue to persist, glaring arrogantly at me after months and months of hardwork and resistance. I just couldn't understand how it happened. So I let the vile of booze and wine went all the way inside my gastritic system. Another virus, yes.

It was not really my intention, to be honest. A beer tower just appeared out of nowhere while we're dining at Gerry's grill, Saturday night. The girls came. The boys did, too. Partyphiles are messaging left and right and we gave in. I gave in.

At 1 am, I was already drunk. We tripped to Eastwood and continued the party. I was leaning at the back of Angela's car on our way not noticing this guy beside. He was Angela's classmate in college we'll call him by the name Preston.

I was half annoyed, half amused by his interrogations about my job. He's a communication graduate too but as he said, not fortunate enough to land a job inside the industry. He's a call center agent of some sort.

At first, I thought he was just trying to break the ice but as we trash the dancefloor in Circa, I realised the dude wanted a fuck for the night. And I'm his target. I'm his fuck.

My phone was ringing off the hook courtesy of my mother. Yes, I was drunk, but I kinda know she won't sleep well not until I get home. I must admit I wasn't able to tell her I'll be going home late. So I told my friends I need to go home and asked if someone could drive me to Cubao where I could hail an FX to Malolos. As with any good friend who wants to keep company for the party, no one bothered to.

So we went to some odd place, a shady condo somewhere in Makati and the party heats up. Preston shared some doobi which I declined at first. I haven't tasted that shit since high school, my darkest years. But he won't take no for an asnwer. He bit my ear, licked my neck and went on with my bitter lips. The doobi triggered everything. I just got wilder and wilder and I couldn’t control myself anymore. And the rest, of course, is history.

But the "horror" came late Sunday morning. I woke with a jolt. I'm wearing a white shirt and a blue striped boxers, lying in a unfamiliar bed. And the worst of it, Preston was beside me ...naked from waist up.

I quickly got up and looked for my clothes. Apparently, Preston was awake and spoke.

"Hey, are you going?"

"Yeah."

"Angela said she'll pick you up. Why don't you wait for her?"

Everything flashed back and it hit me. Angela promised we'll sleep in her apartment. While trying to suit up quietly, I was screaming curses for my very thoughtful friend for dumping me in this stranger's bed. And what the hell happened? Why am I not wearing my clothes? Questions drowned me. Did we have sex? Am I devirginized by this bloke? F*ck, what if he gave me HIV. F*ck! F*ck! F*ck!

"Can you even remember me?" he asked at the middle of all these thoughts. He chuckled.

"We partied last night, right? But I must admit I can't remember your name. Peter?"

He laughs. I'm actually a sucker for name. And birthdays. And other important dates.

"Preston. And you're DB."

"I know I am. Listen, I'm sorry but I really have to go. Thank you for letting me crash in."

"It's nothing. Friends naman na tayo since friend mo si Angela and friend ko din siya college pa lang. That makes us officially friends," he declared.

"Alright."

I'm starting to feel better. I know I'm okay and by checking, somehow, I confirmed nothing against my normal mind happened. I felt no discomfort and everything was just my usual paranoia.

"Do you want to have coffee first? I'll make some," he blurted with his left brow slightly inching up.

I studied his proposal staring at his bare chest. The sight might not be tempting enough but the idea of coffee after a night of shits sounds irresistible. But I know if I agreed upon his invitation, it would lead onto something I'm avoiding in the first place.

So my dear readers, what do you guys think DB did? Did he dive again to the boy’s bed, this time fully conscious or did he keep his vow of chastity and quietly went home? Take your wild guess at the comment section. For a few special people, your answer might make or break our friendship so don’t fret!

Kidding. Nothing you’ll say will be used against you.

Don't fall in love with a writer

2011-11-07T04:07:00.000+08:00

I’ll tell you about it. Writers are like aliens. They string words of proportions to make people understand and see what their views yet behind all these, they have their own planets, they have their own language that even people of their own kind don’t get to fathom, at least most of the times. Writers are boring. They tend to look at the sky without particularly knowing why, or which part of the sky they’re staring at. They swoon over silver clouds while talking to a bunch of alter egos they always drag within them.

Don’t fall in love with a writer. They love weaving magic carpets of words that will lift your poor soul far beyond the fray and cacophony of heartache and strife and will carry you to a realm of fantasies and dreams. Still, remember that words are words and fantasies are fantasies and that essays are just essays.

Writers have the most deadly temper and the quickest switch-on switch-off mood. They are slaves to their emotion and can dramatize even a rusty leaking faucet. They justify everything in the name of their art. They read other people’s receipt and tend to eavesdrop at a couple having coffee nearby, not minding that you’re at his side, telling the most awesome tales of ants trailing the sidewalk. This, of course, is justifiable by saying “it’s research.”

Also, writers give the cheapest of cheapest gifts. They’ll dote you with cards made of milk cartons with a written four-verse poem that doesn’t even rhyme. They’ll bring you flowers handed to them by admirers and would sometimes write “I love you” in your arms. Because state of poverty, to writers, are major avenues of their calling. They look at themselves as creatively complex and hard to understand in a Pablo Picaso cubism sort of way individuals since suffering is art. And because life in the media industry can be a cruel and a fickle beast, they can’t accept just any job. It has to serve their purpose. It has to contribute to a general public and must live to their philosophy yet, still, pinch a nerve near the heart.

Even the most intimate details of your relationship could most of the times turn up in their writings. And although they are mightily concealed behind metaphors and allegories, you, of course, will still recognize them. It’s all about you after all.

Although they never really intend to insult you, they will sheepishly remind you that “your” and “you’re” are different and that “despite” is the right one and “despite of” is the wrong one. I’m telling you, they’ll notice the smallest of details about you as an orgy of your descriptions are banging wildly inside their heads. Yes, even the color of your socks.

Conversations with them are tough. They will talk about characters in books and art films as if they’re real, as if they’re someone tangible, someone he recently got a chance for a vis-à-vis over some tea and biscuits. Annoyingly, they have this habit of writing parts of your conversation on some dank piece of tissue paper. And like lawyers, everything you said is valid and can be used in favor or against you in future discussions.

Probably the hardest one to understand is their addiction to solitude. It might not be close to that of Ernest Hemingway’s seclusion, but a time alone is always a must. It’s not a snob. It’s not barricading. But in solitude, not only he is gathering his thoughts, formulating sets of theories, but also re-arranging himself.

But writers are one of the most romantic people you’ll ever meet. They’re lamentably passionate and will adore you for the most natural thing about you. For they don’t succumb to the societal dictates of beauty and form. You are an abstract masterpiece seen in a philosophical beautiful way. They are phenomenally too human that even their tears are sometimes trails of fluid words. They’re achingly martyrs and they can tell you in thousand ways how much you mean to them, how much they adore you and how much they love you.

So don’t fall in love with a writer. Don’t fall in love with me.

Ding dong the wicked witch is dead

2011-11-03T19:22:00.000+08:00

I wanted a life that forgets the horrors of the past. I want that something to completely wash away the cold temptress orgy of malevolent thoughts that invaded me for so long. I want them gone. The monsters, the witches and the ghouls, I want them gone below where they truly belong.

Once there was a wicked witch
in the lovely land of Oz
And a wicked old, wicked old, wicked old witch
That never ever was
She filled the folks in munchkin land
With terror and with dread

I have tried to convince myself they don’t exist many times despite knowing they really do. Surely, most of you don’t even believe their reality, but then again, they do. Eyes tight shut, I walked the daily taps of clock pleading for them to go away. They never did. I tried the many concoctions of potions and puffs and spells to scare them away. Still, they never did. And then at some point, like this very moment, they begun fleeing away, fading from the very same cloak of darkness they carry with them.

What I did? I return to my own self before they came. And so they died. And here I am, living.

But in all ironies of it all, witches may be staked and they may be burned and die but the horror stories remain imprinted in every leaf of pot’s tale that no one can evade. In spite of it all, do you know you can turn those tales of dooms into fables and legends and comedies?

I remember how veteran journalist Gus Abelgas reacted when asked about how he deals with death threats brought along by his profession. And he said he just let it be. “If someone is really gunning for your slaughter, you can do nothing about it,” he uttered seriously. The very same perspective comes with the many avenues of life. If one's keen on fooling and hurting you, you can never evade them. Always, there would come a time when someone will overpower you, someone who can push through the walls of your goodness. That, we must accept.

Courage and the goodness within you, very cliché, but all the same true, is everything you’ll ever need. You’ll be fine.

I could not believe it at first. How can there be goodness that lies within me when I believed they’ve been snatched away by demons masked as princes? Tell you what, every goodness might fly away from this world but your goodness for yourself will never get tired of being good to you, and with that, you can start building again for all the goodness that left.

Even a mutilated soldier can start again with what remains of his self. For as long as he still got his heart pumping kindness, his brain breathing conscience and his soul shouting justice, freedom is just around the corner for anyone. Even for me. Even for you.

Happy is an odd word for me to write. Survival is what I put in banners and ribbons and songs. Happy is not for my writings. I know it is selfish but happy is something I share to the innermost brethren of my existence.

But maybe Paulo Coelho is right. The words in my writings are tears that have been written down. Because tears need to be shed. Without them, joy loses all its brilliance and sadness has no end. So I’m leaving them all for now. There are just too many things to see, too many places to conquer and to many dreams to turn into reality. I have so much love in me and there are so many people who need them. I have all the youth I need, all the courage and every support one would need. So for now, I think I’m too excited to bother myself with written tears.

Nightmare’s over. Time to wake up.

Wake up, the wicked witch is dead.
She’s gone where the goblins go
Below, below, below. Yo ho!
Let’s open up and sing and ring those bells out.
Sing the news out.
Ding dong the merry oh
Sing it high and sing it low
Let them know the wicked old witch is dead!

_____

"Ding dong the witch is dead" by Barbra Streisand and Harold Arlen

originally from the 1939 The Wizard of Oz

Peace in P5 million

2011-10-26T17:48:00.002+08:00

It was very disconcerting to read in The Manila Times how President Noynoy Aquino handed a staggering P5 million to the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) Chairman Al Haj Murad Ibrahim in their last secret meeting in some shady hotel in the land of Tokyo Japan. It's as if like it was only yesterday when we threw criticisms as to the secrecy of such talk as we demanded the full disclosure of it. After all, we don't want another Memorandum of Agreement on Ancestral Domain glaring all of a sudden on our faces, just like what the previous Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo did.

First, the Malacanang won’t validate nor deny such story. Palace deputy spokesperson Abigail Valte was even quoted saying, "if President Aquino did gave P5 million to the MILF leader, it would be for social alleviation, education and other needs of the Muslim people.

But later, after torrents of criticisms and the rapid spread of the story in e-mail and text messages, Presidential Spokesperson Edwin Lacierda, in an interview over dzMM admitted that the MILF was handed P5 million pesos, but not in the so-called secret meeting of President Aquino in Tokyo, Japan with MILF’s Al Haj Murad Ibrahim and that the president did not hand the money himself.

Implying that the release of the story in time when the nation is incensed with anger over the killings of more than 19 soldiers and police elements in Basilan, Zamboanga and Lanao del Norte is malicious, Lacierda explained that the money was wired through Peace Panel Chair Marvic Leonen in a meeting with his MILF counterparts in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia last August. Apparently, the money is to be used for a so-called Bangsamoro Management and Leadership Institute and more importantly, it was part of the agreement of the MILF with the previous Arroyo administration.

But of course, media sources tell otherwise. The said money was said to be used for purchase of ammunitions and trainings of their armed men.

Not only the Palace is hiding again behind the shadows of Arroyo’s crimes, they are actually trying to make sense the giving of the P5 million which by the way came, obviously, from the national coffer. The defense used saying the money was used to fund trainings of young Bangsamoro leaders is either plain naïve or just blatant stupidity, again from the administration’s mouthpiece. Since when was when was MILF building schools, giving out food for the impoverished Muslims and promoting the welfare and Mindanaoans? If so, then they would be peacefully campaigning for posts on ARMM and not busy themselves by building cells, camps and communicating with the Jemaah Islamiyah (JI) which coincidentally functions as al-Qaeda's arm in Southeast Asia.

That P5 million appears to be a way of buying out some time for the government, like some cheap token so a carousel ride would keep on going for a definite period of time. And why was it given when the ceasefire agreement was not yet in motion? Why all this secrecy?

Isn't it painful to hear that the bullets that killed the 19 soldiers in the past encounter in Al-Barka, Basilan as well as the other soldiers and police in Lanao and Zamboanga came from the very same government they are serving?

This is why the MILF leadership and its numerous renegade groups are getting cocky. They see our president as "easy." And this is why there are silent cry for mass resignations as well as coup within the AFP today. The recipe of it all are present no matter how soft they seem to be as of now and another wrong move could lead the entire country crashing into wild avalanche which not even the entire Presidential Communications group can undo.

The status quo is no longer a political circus were men ride in colorful wagons trying to outshine one another. It is no longer a simple matter of overhauling the government's image and pin pointing of who's behind the agenda or not. Our sovereignty is being threatened and for so many years already. Don't we think it's time to live with our anthem "aming ligaya na 'pag may nang-aapi ang mamatay ng dahil sa 'yo"?

What the administration did is what you would call "framing the argument." When the president said "we do not want an all out war" against the MILF, he provided only two choices as to the matter: it's either you're pro war or not.

There are definitely many choices we could act on right now instead of thumb twiddling and creating raucous which could lead us to what Senator Miriam Defensor-Santiago called "a failed state." Like the temporary halting of the peace talk and the re-framing of the boundaries of ceasefire. Who are we talking to? What happens if not every demand of the MILF is agreed upon? Would there be another splinter cell the way the current MILF sprung from Nur Misuari's MNLF? Do these Muslim rebels even consider themselves as Filipinos?

In the larger picture, we are forgetting the other Filipino inhabitants of Mindanao like the Lumads, Christians and other Muslims as well. Mindanao is not owned by the Bangsamoros. There maybe contesting to this as to certain juridical territories but Philippines is owned by no less than the Filipinos. What the P5 million symbolizes right now is the buying of time by the president over the MILF and giving in to their demands. Are we to fear these armed groups and deny lasting peace and justice for our Filipino brothers in Mindanao?

For Mr. Conrado de Quiros, this is clearing thinking. Thinking long term solutions not by surrendering via certain amount of money and thinking for the majority of Filipinos. Thinking of the possible international implications of a government scolding its soldiers instead of the enemies and thinking for our last resort in case everything fails and being prepared for it. And most of all, we could not win a war with only a single ball dangling malignantly.

Now, there’s the rub for you.

The two year rape of Désolé Boy

2011-10-20T10:38:00.000+08:00

I was raped. I was raped too many a time that I already lost count. Sometimes, when I strip naked and see myself in the mirror, I still see the marks they've left. The scratches of their fingernails sprawling from neck to chest, the purple bruises from several hard punches and the scarlet scars of blades on my thighs, everything, still fresh as if its only yesterday, as if they were never really gone.

To admit the rape is difficult; living after is the toughest. To admit is to recall everything, how I cried and beg them to stop though they never did. To recall is to smell once more the acrid stench of induced drugs, their beaded sweats falling from their brows and how you shiver in plain terror.

In my country, the women are always the victims; the men, oblivious; the gays, the willing. In my rape, the goons are never really goons. They wore respectable clothes, in whites like demigods; some in their mighty horses and glorious capes, others bringing the entire band with them. They spoke the sweetest of words and the promise of eternities. They master the sorcery of lying with honest eyes and lure you with the false pretense of their self-confusion, pseudo-philosophical excuses and addicting illusions.

After they tore your clothes out, after they savage your innocence and suck out everything that is good in your world, after they’re satisfied and cooled down their libido, after you’re fucked – you become nothing. You try to escape, but there’s no more turning back.

Wipe the tears and move on. Look into the future and not what the past brought you. You’re young, you’ll find yourself the rightful one in the rightful time. What’s important is you learn after; move on.

So sayeth the wise. Easy, the words maybe; tough were they not to live by? The thing these wise men forget is that each bucket fills differently. And sometimes, if not most, nightmares would come. You wake up, crying out of dread, afraid to once again close your eyes, afraid that the horror only just begun. And their advice – move on.

The rape would begin with a predatory look. Then they would creep on you, only to smash you with an iron rod in the head so you can scream no more. They would tie your hands and feet to limit your moves. And their play finally begins. Kick, punch, two by two, a water hose stuck in your nose, chains, boots on your face, a baseball bat pushing in your anus. Then they would piss all over you, reminding you that you were good for nothing. And then you will ask the grey heavens above, "why can't I die?"

Raping someone goes with the same principle as massacre. My mother was raped, since I am a son first. My sister was raped, since I am a brother. My friends were raped, since I am a friend too. Now tell me, how can we all move on at once?

The most heinous of crimes are the ones that are unspeakable, those that are not tackled in courts and justice halls. We learn by this rape that not every rape include engorged penises forced into someone’s orifice. Sometimes, the rape involves men raping other men; an iron clad fist digging through your chest, piercing all throughout your soul.

Everyday, you see the same men living like the innocents do. They walk the same road as the victims, talk the same words the preachers do, rise the same time the sparrows do. They are oblivious, swimming in the fine lake of peace in their muddy clothes; the blood of their victims gushing away, fading with the sparkling crystal of the blind water.

Someday, Désolé Boy will write you happy stories. Those with happily ever afters and those that got singing mermaids in them. But for now, this is his story.

____

The title is inspired by Patricia Evangelista's article for Uno Magazine "The rape of Raymond Manalo." For other reactions on this article that you wish to privately address, you may e-mail me at desoleboy@yahoo.com. Suggestions are also welcome.

The mourning that never comes

2011-10-13T19:15:00.001+08:00

I could never mourn for Steve Jobs’ death, co-creator of Apple, as I never had any of his creations, like most of you do. I am, after all, nothing but a simple white collar worker who can’t speak of iOS updates or any application making the world squabble into mad frenzy in present state. In fact, I never knew the man before the massive reports on his death. But I do lament the fact that he passed away, not only because of his contributions to modern technology, but because a world died with him.

So I’ll mourn instead for simple people like me whose lives quietly lived though never had the chance to be heard the way Steve Jobs’ was, those who crave nothing but chance to live though denied, those who passed away that are not remembered and those who don’t get 10, 000 tweets per second, mourning about their death. This is for them.

Who would’ve thought that a Boy Scout’s uniform would mean so much for a kid like Ramsel? He was a 6th grader in Cebu, and in school, he was probably the subject of the other boys’ teasing for a mere crime of not wearing the honorable scout uniform. But Ramsel couldn’t do anything about it. His parents are away and he used to live with his grandmother and two other siblings. His teacher recalls him saying in Cebuano, “Ma’am, I want to be with my Mama and Papa.” The next morning, Ramsel was found hanging lifeless from a mango tree inside the school compound, a nylon rope tied around his neck.

Then there were stories of those who didn’t survive while simply trying to survive. Like the one that happened in Calumpit, Bulacan. As the flood surge into countless homes and fishponds and rice fields, Fred Tolentino, clutching a plastic-full of food for his trapped relatives, was overpowered by the raging water. He drowned.

The same fate met the three siblings from Iloilo. Eagerness to attend school despite the staggering distance from their home, brought demise, sending what seem to be an entire family’s dreams into crumbling dusts.

The teachers sent the kids home early to avoid the dangers the coming storm might bring. Michael, Mark and Marielle’s parents were late for fetching, so they opted to walk the muddy dirt road and braved cross the river. Sadly, they never made it. The waters of Nagpana River claimed the young lives of the three, as well as the other four. One body still isn’t found by the rescue team up ‘till now.

While others died nameless, others die without knowing their name. Just recently, a vagrant or what we locals love to call “taong grasa,” while trying to cross the wild traffic of EDSA, probably still lost from swirling thoughts that was never known, was crashed into death by a blazing Mitsubishi Pajero. But some stories cast a faint ray of hope in a clouded gray sky of misery. Like the one that continuously try defy death. Take Pao-pao’s story.

Pao-pao is a mischievous kid. He smiles like an ordinary kid would do. He jumps and run around like any other kid would do. At first glance, he looks like an ordinary 4 year-old kid, the one that smiles a lot and the one that loves playing with fellow kids. But Pao-pao was born with a congenital heart disease. His heart got two holes in them.

“We did everything,” Pao-pao’s mother, Mia, said. They couldn’t understand at first why Pao-pao, their first and only child after eight years of trying, had to endure such kind of suffering. At one point, Pao-pao was pronounced dead by the doctors after a serious attack. Only seconds later, his fingers miraculously moved, and he was revived.

Any time soon, Pao-pao is about to undergo his total correction open heart surgery; hopefully his last. “He seems to be fighting bravely,” Mia said. So she and her husband Joseph are also fighting bravely.

Mia got many dreams for Pao-pao. “When he grows up, I just want him to be helpful of the others and always God fearing,” she said.

I do not wish to belittle Steve Jobs’ death. But I find it more lamentable that every day, many people die of poverty, of injustice and of selfishness and no one seems to care. Their names might not be as huge as Steve Jobs’ but their lives are as significant and as great. We may not have iPhones, iPads and Macbooks but our stories are just as inspiring, though sadly, no one cares to listen.

Steve Jobs’ said, “no one wants to die.” “Even people who want to go to heaven don’t want to do to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it.” Reading this, I had a curious thought that maybe, Steve Jobs’ understood all lives are just as equal and just as sad as it fall into reality of death. I just wish more of his followers and sympathizers are the same.

____

With reports from dzMM and Philippine Daily Inquirer. Pao-pao's story is taken from ANC's Storyline. Watch Storyline on ABS-CBN every Wednesday after Bandila and every Thursday 9.30 PM with replays on Saturday 8.00 PM and Sunday 3.30 PM on ANC

For other reactions on this article that you wish to privately address, you may e-mail me at desoleboy@yahoo.com

Heartache

2011-10-02T19:35:00.000+08:00

More than a year ago, I left television production, where every day I had to deal with the Maja Salvadors and Coco Martins of the splendidly sparkling yet superficial universe of the local showbiz scene, only to try and become a serious journalist.

At the risk of sounding cliché, I thought I could serve more the people of this nation who paid for my four year education by giving them information they deserve as well as providing space for their stories than feeding them with tearjerker soap operas and morbidly deranged fantaseryes nightly.

Aside from the disappointments I gave my directors, producers and mentors and the abrupt slide of the digits on my BDO bank account, I thought everything is good.

People call us many things. Being a journalist, one day you’re the nation’s hero for exposing a huge scandal dragging the entire government only for the next day, you become the netizen’s target for their criticism for a few things that did not appeal to their tastes. Then follow your shrieking editors, your alarming deadlines not to mention your frantic mother calling you, asking why you’re not yet home at 9 in the evening.

In the end, it is not these trivial things that worry me. When you sit inside your service vehicle and eat with the rest of the crew while seeing the squabbling mob outside clamoring for a few packs of noodles and cans of sardines, you stop unknowingly, thinking about something that is totally unthinkable.

Sometimes, a certain interview would haunt me even to sleep. I would often wonder how Edita Burgos, mother of Jonas Burgos, is faring, fighting a tough battle of searching for a son for four years already. Whether he’s in detention by the army, or killed, or currently in the mountains being a rebel, Edita Burgos wants only one thing. “I want him back,” she said.

I’ve seen reporters cried silently after a devastating coverage. Like the one that happened two years ago with Ondoy and now with Pedring and Quiel. I watched those nameless staff, crews and writers working behind the cameras of news programs – the silent journalists, gather clothes and goods for families living in shanties and under bridges and victims of typhoons, still, away from the rolling cameras.

It is difficult to do a job that forces you to face a blunt reality. There’s more to seeing a smiling young boy running around the church, wearing an oversized muddy trousers, barefoot, than people would often think there is. What the picture often misses to tell is that the young boy’s smile came from a different world he inhabits, a mother that died giving birth and a father that scavenges the entire city to scrape a living.

They say truth must be accepted, although sometimes, one could not avoid but challenge its glaring fangs to try and ease out the clouds of miseries. Most ask, not a charity, but ears and time to tell their stories. Others just want to know that they have an ally in their fight for daily survival.

People asked me if this is what I’ve chosen in exchange of glamour and glitter. Truthfully, sometimes I don’t know how to answer this. What I’m doing, I know, won’t make any difference in the world, but I noticed when you seek out to help others, you end up helping yourself. Maybe because I see myself in them, these people, and in doing the very little thing I can, I see myself helping myself.

I have a terrible pay, there’s no security and no definite working hours. I’m not sure if I’m entirely happy and I’m also not sure if this is what I want to do for myself. But this, I think, is what I have to do for now. And in the world where money counts and beauty and fame matters, I think I’m more than willing to stay on the sidelines, this time for the real Maja Salvadors and Coco Martins of the streets and cardboard homes.

___

The title may or may not have anything to do with the entry. Although if you’re interested to know, my heart is literally aching as I type this. Dunno why.

Guns and roses

2011-09-21T13:38:00.001+08:00

In my country of Philippines, every day, every waking hour of our life, we are bound by the invisible lines of love. In our songs, television shows, movies, commercials, in our liquors and even in our women’s sanitary napkins, the word love is etched, blazing in full blood color of red flame. This is our fixation. This is our fate. And in times when metal bullets pierce our hearts, we realize, Cupid’s arrow is not that far from anybody’s smoking gun.

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” says so by a grieving housewife Shiela Macapugay after gunning her husband Abel to death in what the media dub today as a “crime of passion.” Like a scene from a primetime telenovela, Shiela confronted her husband publicly, in a popular Quezon City shopping mall, on the verge of their marriage’s melt-down.

“I said to myself, before I die, I have to kill my husband first. I just couldn’t accept the fact the he abandoned us for his mistress.”

But Shiela failed to shoot herself after killing her husband as mall security guard Ricardo Inamac intercepted which ended up him taking all the bullets resulting to his death. Shiela is now facing murder and homicide charges and is now in the custody of the police.

Days later, in a certain shopping mall in San Fernando, Pampanga, a thirteen year old boy would kill his sixteen year old male lover in yet again another crime of passion.

Past 3 in the afternoon yesterday, the thirteen year old boy, jealous of the thought that his lover is cheating on him, shot the sixteen year old boy straight in the head using a .22 caliber gun. In turn, the thirteen year old boy pointed the gun in his own head, pulled the trigger and dropped wounded beside his equally dying lover. Both are later declared brain dead after attempts to revive them in Jose B. Lingad Hospital in San Fernando.

In a span of a week, we are told of two love stories ending in demise. Every minute and every second around the world, love stories are born while other love stories would die. Some would survive the test of times as others are never given chance of their own love story. But could love really be the be all and end of all?

Probably, for the thirteen year old boy who shot his sixteen year old male lover, it is. The whirlwind romance that started in May via internet flamed into a passionate affair. For Shiela, it probably was the same thing.

We could blame many things here, like the boys’ youthful naivety, Shiela’s lack of better judgment, her husband’s infidelity, even his mistress. We could also blame the mall’s security agency, the shopping malls’ lack of better security plan or even the police for their loose regulations governing security providers. But this time, allow me to blame love. Yes, love itself. In these tragedies, let love be the responsible thus let all the blame goes with it.

This is me speaking, a man once and too many times burned by love, a certain Shiela Macapugay inside me pained by the thought of being abandoned by love and a mind of a thirteen year old boy whose only fault is nothing but to love in all honesty.

How could anyone say what they did was wrong when love does not recognize our patterns of what is right and what is wrong? How much is too much and how much truth are there in our realities? Are my rationales irrationals and yours the rational ones, you’ll say?

Maybe they believed they could run away from the pains of love through death, although, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in all those years of failure in love, it is the fact that you can never run way. Not ever. And as they say, the only way out is in.

There’s no use justifying what Shiela and the thirteen year old boy did. Maybe it pained them too much that all there’s left for them to do are more painful things. It is what a certain Allan Watts said, that things are as they are. Looking out into the universe at night, we make no comparisons between right and wrong stars, nor between well and badly arranged constellations.

We are but creatures condemned by love. Shiela, in the brutality of her chosen ways, the impulsiveness of a certain thirteen year old boy, are all but victims. Some will say they’re victims of poverty, of shallow values, of youth and of selfishness. I’ll say they’re nothing but victims of love. Are they not that much different from us?

But for now, we pray.

The letter I would love to read to you in person (In memoriam)

2011-09-15T11:17:00.001+08:00

"There's a line in 'Aguila' where a Moro secessionist is told his cause is lost. He replies to him that winning doesn't matter, it's doing what one feels one should do. That's wisdom for you."

-Alexis Tioseco, 1981-2009

My beloved,

Like the many other days before I met you, I was lonely. But then I saw you sitting comfortably on that couch; such ease that really caught me. There was rain that day when we met. That mild drizzling outside, I always find beautiful, captivating without really giving so much effort. And you before my eyes, it could not even match that beauty I used to admire.

You came from a different world. I know, sometimes, you suspected that was the main reason why I was so drawn to you; because I’m dying to create this convenient escape from the mad industry where I dwell. I am telling you now it is far from being true. I could enumerate thousands of reasons on why I fell in love with you despite my hesitance due to many recurring issues brought upon by my previous delving into the intricacies of love, but nothing in there would say that I’m using you as a convenient escape from my job.

But I have to admit that being with you, or just by talking to you in the phone, is yes, an escape but not from my field of work, but away from this entirely crazy world, going to a universe where everything is nothing but your love and your tempting lips.

My dear, you know how I pleaded for you to love me back that one day you said there’s no more “us.” I regret the fact that my rhetoric won’t work on you, that despite my effort to become your handsome Viscount, I was always the Phantom to you. I do not know and I probably would never know what really went in your mind that day, but I thought you were only just curious what lies behind my mask and when you saw that ugly part, you just ran away without looking back, scared.

I was lonely again. I have mourned my loss of you. I was reduced to many questions on why I could not be enough for you. I blamed myself for not being the best looking, the best thinker – just being the best with anything, just with anything, so you could finally see me worthy of you. But you didn't. And I wasn’t. I was never the best in your eyes.

I wished I could stop. Stop from still caring about you, stop from thinking about you, stop loving you – or just simply stop, stop with anything that goes your name with it. But now, I realize why I could never do so. It’s because once you decide to love someone, you already tore out a piece of your heart unknowingly, handed it to that person and despite whatever that might happen from then on, you may never take it back no matter what.

So this is why I want to read this letter to you in person. For the last time, I wish you would take good care and respect that piece of me you have in you. It’s yours and I swear there would never be a time that I would regret I have given it to you. You will always be special to me.

It is painful to see you happy with someone else, I must admit, but somehow it comforts me to know that you are happy and being loved the way you deserves to be. You have truly found your match. I wish the two of you nothing but happiness. For now, I really must go and take care of mine.

Yours,

Désolé Boy

___

This post is inspired by Alexis Tioseco’s “The letter I would love to read to you in person” that appeared in Rogue magazine.

Alexis and Nika’s love story ended too soon when on September 1, 2009, the two were shot and killed by 3 suspects in their home at 39 Times Street, Barangay West Triangle, Quezon City.

I write this today, two years after, when justice is still not served, to inspire me to continue believing in love, in my art and in my country, despite countless reasons not to do so.

Authorities are still on the hunt for the couple’s househelper CRISELDA GESMAN DAYAG, one of the prime suspects of the murder case. A warrant has already been issued for Dayag’s arrest.

Alexis and Nika’s friends and relatives are offering P1 million peso cash reward for information that could lead to the arrest of the suspects.

For any information, you can contact them through the following numbers:

+639477211901 | +639053758861 | 02-5263747

Thank you for inspiring us Alexis and Nika. We'll forever miss the two of you.

The four merry gentlemen

2011-09-12T09:14:00.000+08:00

I was looking directly at the Shadow’s eyes, delirious of the pleasure engulfing as It thrust in various invading rhythm. The world was shaking, twirling as it spiraled in multi-colors and scent. In one hulking ripple, the Shadow groaned and let out a gasp of air as It collapses gently beside me, eyes shut.

I stared at Its heaving chest, unsure of what’s going on inside.

“I love you,” I said without knowing what it meant or how I would I want it to mean. It was barely a whisper.

The Shadow did not answer.

“I love you,” I repeated not knowing why I did, still without knowing what it meant or how I would want it to mean.

The Shadow did not answer.

___

“Hello,” it was 2.30 in the morning, which would explain the hoarse tone of my voice and the blatant taste of irritation that goes with it.

“Who is this?”

“I am Destiny,” said a heavy-airy voice on the other line.

“Who is this again?”

“I am Destiny, and today is your lucky day.”

“What?”

“All you have to do is say ‘I love you’ and I’m all yours honey.”

“What?”

“Just say you love me.”

“Fuck you.”

___

“Désolé Boy, I would like you to meet Heureux Boy.”

It all started with that introduction and since then, we've been going out a lot for the past weeks. [This would explain my trouble at home since the household is becoming stricter on me lately, I can barely understand why. But of course, I can always find a way.]

Everything is going smooth between me and Heureux Boy. Just one thing, though. Aside from our fascination with anything French (look at our names, silly) there is nothing more that is common in our list of interests.

He hates my writing. Except for news and commentary articles, he said they were nothing but opéra interminable or in English, endless runs of operas.

In retaliation, I would often sneer at his naivety. He’s too simple minded and I would often find myself hating his guts. I mean, why would you even bother bite at a grocery cashier’s attempt of conversation?

It’s not that I am jealous or anything. I’m saying this because that’s how he would often accuse me and of course I would deny it vehemently. Consequently, he would laugh hard and I would become more annoyed than ever.

But truth is I love being with Heureux Boy. One time he asked me, “do you love me?” It puzzled me since I’ve never seen him that serious, like all the puns left his goofy face at once.

“Of course I do,” I answered truthfully.

“One day, we’ll go to Paris and we’ll live there forever.”

“Tu promets?”

“C’est promis.”

___

Have you ever been in love with a Donkey? I've been in love with a Donkey once. Now, if you are thinking that this is a metaphorical Donkey, I’m gonna have to break that theory of yours this early on. I am talking about a real wild Donkey here. It’s true and in all seriousness, I’m telling you now that I've been in love with a Donkey. Once.

It’s not too different being in love with a Donkey from being in love with a human. As a matter of fact, I once dated a Pig, but that’s a whole ‘nother story. Anyway, the Donkey has been a good companion at the beginning. It would never give me the usual “donkey-sneer,” you know how donkeys seem to have this usual irritating face that feels like they’re sneering at you? It never showed me that. I was pleased.

The Donkey’s herd is composed of great donkeys. Gentleman donkeys, I prefer to call them. They are far from being handsome, as no donkey ever looked good in human’s eyes anyway. But I’m fascinated and some were really good to me.

One night, finally, we decided to push forward our relationship and have sex. I stood there naked in front of the Donkey and for some unknown reason, it ran away and never came back. A few days later, I received an e-mail from the Donkey telling me how ashamed it was. It said it never wanted to have sex in the first place and it realized that night that it doesn't have any romantic inclination towards me.

I was devastated. But what I've learned in this whole Donkey love affair is that donkeys will always be donkeys. At the end, donkeys belong to the wild and that humans, like me, deserve the city.

I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong but from the last I've heard, the Donkey just broke up with another human and is now dating fellow donkeys again.

Thanksgiving

2011-09-08T21:52:00.000+08:00

A year ago today, I was dying. I could still feel it like it was yesterday. The needle pricks, the endless parade of doctors and nurses, the dizzying attack of new blood entering the body – they’re all there. A year ago, it did not matter that I am who I am. It did not matter where I work, where I’ve been to or what I have. All that mattered is that I was dying.

Now, a year after, I am sitting in a restaurant surrounded by the most important people of my life; family and friends that a year ago, I thought I would be leaving permanently. The distant noises of my playing nieces and nephews, the chatters of my friends and cousins – just by hearing them, just by mere looking, gives me so much pleasure, unimaginable.

I had to tighten my grip at the thanksgiving mass as I was on the verge of bursting into tears. I look at the altar and saw the endearing face of the Holy Mother staring at me. And then I remember:

First day at the hospital, I was shaking madly from cold, screaming as my body was getting number and number. I was having visions; everything was blurry. Mama was calling for the nurses, she was frantic. Scared, I guess. She was alone with me in my hospital room and she didn’t know what to do. Then I felt her warm embrace as she handed me a hard beaded thing. It was the rosary I always keep with me wherever I go. “Pray hard,” she said. “Ask Mama Mary to help you.”

Days after, on the 8th of September 2011, when Catholics hail the Holy Mother for her incarnation in the world as the child Mary, I was officially released from the hospital. I was healed.

When your life depends on platelet count and injected IV drugs, you’ll think there’s nothing else to see but the pain of it all. That amidst the acrid smell of constant vomiting and seemingly countless drops of dextrose above your head, life already turned its back on you. But when you see people praying for you, distant relatives wiping your body with wet towel to ease the fever all throughout the night or when friends who can’t come regularly call to check, you’ll begin thinking “what the hell did I do to deserve all these goodness?” Apparently, what I didn’t see for a long stretch of time is that all that ever mattered are these people who are willing to love me when I least deserve it. That time I thought: from here on, I have the responsibility to take good care of this life, not just for myself, for God but also for these people who care so much about me.

So how do you say thank you to those whom you owe so much? The special pasta I cooked for the neighbors, the expensive flowers I offered at the altar, the dinner party, the thank you notes and calls I made, this blog entry I’m writing right now – I could only do this much. But how could I truly repay Mama, all my relatives, my friends and especially God?

And then I was reminded of what Elizabeth Gilbert wrote. That we must all give up trying to pay back the people in this world who sustain our lives. In the end, maybe it really is wiser to surrender before the miraculous scope of human generosity and to just keep saying thank you, forever and sincerely, for as long as we have voice.

As for me, I think I wouldn’t mind spending the remainder of my life doing all these stuffs whenever I could, always being grateful to those whom I owe my life to, probably even up ‘till on the other side.

Deo Gratias!

___

[click here] to see what happened a year ago

No escape from reality

2011-09-05T10:21:00.000+08:00

We all knew the story. A flying seagull once noticed a mouse, asked where its wings are, mouse didn’t answer since mouse only understand fellow mouse. The seagull thought the mouse is deaf and lonely, pitied it and took the liberty of picking it up on its beak for a ride in the skies. After a while, the seagull grew tired and carefully deposited the mouse once more on the ground. Mouse was left in gloom for many many days, for it had known the heights and seen a vast and beautiful world but was taken from it abruptly and unwillingly. In time, it grew accustomed to being the simple mouse again, thinking that the miracle of flying that occurred to it was nothing but a grand dream.

There could be debates as to the story, question like whose fault was it really, the underscoring of the mouse’s vulnerability and delusions and the seagull’s arrogant meddlesome intentions.

But now they don’t matter anymore.

I’ll tell you what matters now. What matters is that I was that mouse for a very long time. I was the same mouse; alone and in gloom. But I was never mad. I was never angry of the many seagulls that came picking me, though I could not blame those mice who chose hatred afterwards. Choosing to hate is always easy. Hatred, sometimes, is best to mask the mortifying scars of loneliness and sense of defeat. I chose the road less traveled. I wallowed in my own demons, have dealt with my own rejections then walked away quietly, watching happy seagulls fly happily from afar.

I write this today, not because I want to recount the story of the seagull and the mouse, condemn seagulls or earn sympathies for the mouse. I am writing this now when it no more matters who are the mice or the seagulls. I am writing this in the point of view of a boy, once a mouse in a story, to prove that his story did not end in just getting “accustomed to being the simple mouse again.” Because after all, the mouse learned that he can meet the skies even without seagulls. That's the reality now. That is what matters now.

Alongside the muscular men of Tondo are tattooed broken hearted boys who drank mouthfuls of silver cleaning solutions with a sheepishly written note in their hands. Others jumped out of their hotel rooms while the passionate gunned their very own hearts. It is a cruel reality and many did not survive. But I did and this is what it is all about.

So let me apologize if the article today appears self-indulgent, as it was written by a boy who once braved the growling seas and fought malignant fat clowns attempting to call themselves knights. This time, allow me to pompously write, tell myself and the whole world of how proud I am of how I’ve triumphantly slain those multi-headed dragons while remaining gorgeously handsome in black leather boots and vintage maong pants.

It was T. S. Eliot who once said that humankind cannot bear very much reality. And I think I know why. It’s because reality is fundamentally painful. It is painful to see the heights and see the beautiful world in your very eyes only to find yourself, once again, sitting in a dank muddy ground, inhaling all the ugly truths sprawling before you. But then it is also asked, how do we know that the sky is not green and we are all color blind?

I saw the world, the seas and its amazing dwellers, the bursting green of leaves and the flaming bonfires of mountains – I saw them all through my tears. Surprisingly, they are beautiful. They are real. Now, the tears had dried up, I look at the world and I still find it beautiful, surreal, but very much real.

Maybe that’s what reality really is. People are born, they walk, they fall in love, they fail, they triumph, they fix themselves, then they walk again, fall in love again, got led on, got broken again, fix themselves again, then walk again for more. And that sometimes, seagulls would come to pick defeated looking mouse for a ride in the skies only to drop them again on a deserted land, hungry and empty handed. But it’s not about what yesterday has taken away. It’s about what you are willing to risk again in exchange of another visit to the skies, either with another seagull, or this time all alone just by yourself. To rise from ivory towers and golden pantheons despite being as minuscule as the mouse and with no flapping seagull wings, that, I think, is now my reality.

___

Désolé Boy | Year 1, Seq 1

Désolé Boy – Indeed | Year 1, Seq 2

Désolé Boy – Nothing Really Maters | Year 1, Seq 3

Désolé Boy – Anywhere the Wind Blows | Year 2, Seq 4

Désolé Boy – No Escape from Reality | Year 2, Seq 5

-photo credit to Xander of A Boy Named Xander

People of the nine

2011-08-30T19:50:00.002+08:00

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.

___

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

___

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

2011-08-23T11:20:00.000+08:00

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.

___

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

___

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

___

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

2011-08-22T09:10:00.000+08:00

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

2011-08-08T10:03:00.000+08:00

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

___

image sourced from Robert Alejandro's Facebook

Broken hand

2011-08-04T07:58:00.000+08:00

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.

Prey

2011-07-30T11:37:00.002+08:00

In an attempt to once again engrave in films another strong socio-political issue, Direk Brillante Mendoza is out for another masterpiece “Prey” (to be released internationally as “Captured”). Based on real life chronicles of 2001 kidnapping of Gracia Burnham and husband Martin Burnham by the armed rebel Abu Sayyaf Group, the film will star Canne Film Festival Best Actress Isabelle Huppert, Raymond Bagatsing, Ronnie Lazaro, Sid Lucero, Rustica Carpio, Angel Aquino plus special participations from Coco Martin, Joel Torre and Ms. Anita Linda.

After seeing the stills from Direk Dante’s Facebook, I just can’t help myself but be thrilled for its proper release. Right now, the team is under extreme pressure of post-production. The world premiere is set to be next year 2012 with still no exact date.

Isabelle Huppert with PUP-College of Communication's pride Dr. Rustica Carpio

Oh by the way, it's Direk Dante's birthday today. Happy Birthday Direk!!!

___

photo credits: sourced from Direk Brillante Mendoza's Facebook account

Mga huling luha

2011-07-28T14:26:00.000+08:00

Sinabi kong para sa ‘yo,

bawat patak,

bawat dausdos,

bawat pamimisabis nitong mga luha kong

tila walang hanggang ulan,

tila walang hanggang alon

na hindi matighaw-tighaw

itong aking pagka-uhaw

sa iyo.

Ngunit sadyang magtatapos ang gabi.

Sadyang aahon ang araw.

Kikilos ang mga tala’t liliwanag ang langit.

Pagka’t walang awit at tula’ng

hindi nagtatapos,

hindi nauupos.

Ngunit sa huling pagkakataon,

sa huling sandali ng gabing ito

hayaan mo akong lumuha,

hayaan mo akong ipagluksa,

ang aking nabigo’t,

nadurog kong puso.

Paalam mga luha, paalam.

Sa aking paghimlay,

sa pagtatapos nitong buhay

itong mga huling luha

sa ‘yo pa rin iaalay.

This is my entry for Iya's "Luha mo sa pa-contest ko"

Romance of the young

2011-07-26T12:05:00.001+08:00

Like every love story, it all started with a once upon a time.

Once upon a time, a young boy fell in love to a young girl with a magical voice. They met behind the curtains of a famous theater house, a certain day in the month of November.

Clutching his banduria on his left hand and an unknown book on the right, the boy’s hurried steps echoed around the hallways. He’s already late for his rehearsal. As sweat trickles down his anxious face, he heard a woman’s voice singing a very beautiful kundiman he never heard before.

“♫Ako’y isang ibong sawi…na hindi makalipad…at sa puso’y may sugat…wala pang lumingap.”
(I’m a bird in vain…who cannot fly, no more…and my heart is wounded…with no one to care.”)

Every note exudes a decalcified lonesome, as if a bird trapped in a porcelain cage lamenting in deep agony.

“♫Inabot ng hatinggabi… sa madilim na paglipad… saan kaya ngayon ang aking pugad?”
(“Caught within midnight…in a dark flight…now where to find my feeble nest?”)

Like being pulled by invisible lines, the young boy changed course to find the woman singing. In a turn towards another dark alley, he found what he was looking for in a corner of a deserted little theater’s backstage.

The voice came from a young girl, about as young as the boy now in deep awe of such breathtaking beauty parading before his eyes.

“♫Sa mata mo’y may isang… langit ng pangarap; sa puso mo’y mayro’n kang pugad ng paglingap.”
(In your eyes, a heaven of dreams; in your heart, a nest made to care)

The young girl’s flowing dark hair was kept all the way to her back. She was wearing a plain white dress which skirt long enough to hide her knees. Her voice, ethereal; loud but soft, as if whispering through the boy’s ears.

The girl felt the presence of the young boy behind her. She stopped singing and the world once again fell into tragic reality.

“Sino ka? (Who are you?) the girl curiously asked. She noticed the banduria in the young boy’s hand and realized who the young boy is.”

“Hinahanap ko yung mga kasama ko. Baka nakita mo? (I’m looking for my mates. Maybe you saw them?)"

“Hindi eh. (No, I didn’t)."

“Yung kinakanta mo kanina…ang ganda. Ano ‘yon? (You were singing a while ago…it was beautiful. What was that?)"

“Yun ang contest piece ko para bukas. Ibong Sawi ang pamagat. Ang hirap nga eh, nagkakamali pa ‘ko. (That’s my piece for tomorrow’s competition. Its title is Bird in Vain. I’m still having a hard time singing it.)”

“Ang galing mo nga eh! (But you’re brilliant!)"

“Gusto mo tapusin ko? (You want me to finish it?)"

“Oo naman. (Of course.)"

And the young girl, once again, casts her spell though her magical music.

“♫Kung ako’y mamatay sa kapighatian (If I am to die out of deep pain)
Sa puso mo lamang, muli akong mabubuhay (Through your heart, I shall once again live)
Sa puso mo’y mayro’n kang pugad ng paglingap (In your heart, a nest made to care)
Kung ako’y mamatay sa kapighatian (If I am to die out of deep pain)
Sa puso mo lamang, muli akong mabubuhay (Through your heart, I shall once again live)"

At that moment, the young boy knew only one thing – he’s in love. The young girl in plain white dress, the young boy has no desire at all but to touch her, to prove to himself that she was indeed real and not another surreal hallucination like the characters in the book in his hand. The sensuous crystal music, he will die the moment it falls into a pit of rest.

“Ang ganda. (It was beautiful.)”

“Salamat. (Thank you.)”

For a moment, the young boy and the young girl said nothing to one another. For the young boy, we knew it was love, but for the young girl – forever we shall never find out.

“Alis na ko. Baka hinahanap na ko. (I have to go. Maybe they’re already looking for me.)" And the girl turned her back to the young boy. )

“Sandali! Pwede bang malaman ang pangalan mo? (Wait! Can I have your name, please?)"

The young girl paused for a moment, as if weighing whether to give in to the boy's request. Then she broke into a wide smile.

“Aizel.”

And she hurriedly left, running towards the dark alley, away from the confused boy.

The young boy never saw her again. Yes, he desperately looked for her but she vanished without a trace. The music never left him though.

Years later, like this very moment, the young boy would close his eyes trying to summon an image of the young girl he once met. She never came back yet her music always comes. It never left.

And so like every love story, this story also ended with a happily ever after.

And they live happily ever after.

___

Author’s notes:

A banduria is a native Filipino string instrument and is part of a collective ensemble of Rondalla while a kundiman is a genre of traditional Filipino love songs.

Ibong Sawi by: Jose Corazon de Jesus (aka Huseng Batute) music by: JM Buencamino
English translation is not official and is only provided by the author

This is for you Aizel from that young boy you once enchanted.

Zombadings, The 'Gay-la' Premiere

2011-07-24T12:58:00.003+08:00

It was exactly like what Raymond Lee said in his speech before the screening. As if it was only yesterday when we all sat at the same theater to watch Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros at the first ever Cinemalaya. Now we are already at the seventh year of celebrating Filipino's artistry in independent film making and somehow, you couldn't help but stop and feel proud. So it was rather fitting, says Raymond Lee, that they're going to screen first their much awaited film in a festival that started it all.

Zombadings 1, Patayin sa Shokot si Remington is one of the most hilarious Pinoy made films I ever watched so far. The entire film is a full riot with a provocative goal of not just to entertain but also to educate people in matters concerning the LGBT sector. It's no exaggeration to say that the entire Tanghalang Nicanor Abelardo exploded last night out of the perfect blend of comedy provided by the legendary Roderick Paulate, Mart Escudero, Eugene Domingo, John Regala, Lauren Young and the rest of the gang.

No worries, coz I'm not putting any spoiler here coz I want you guys to watch it on its official theater release this coming August 31.

Among the casts, Mart Escudero was probably my least expected to perform well but he proved me and other cynics like me wrong. He gave a stunning gay portrayal that is comical but while remaining subtle and realistic. Sabi nga ng isang kaibigan, hindi niya binakla yung pagkabakla ng role niya.

Wala pa ring kupas si Roderick Paulate! He's such a great actor that even his one word lines would knock you off your seat. Ever wonder what happened to former Seiko star Leandro Baldemor? Now you'll be able to see him in this film if you missed him during the 90's plus a treat from our Vice-Governor, also a former sexy actor, Bulacan's Daniel Fernando. And for the first time ever, I have no criticism to say against Marian Rivera. It was a cameo appearance but it was morbidly outrageous.

Noon ko lang nakitang punum-puno ang buong CCP Main Theater. Walang lumaylay na eksena that you'll laugh every second of it. It's just sad that a lot of people weren't able to watch it since tickets are sold out everywhere, but its just a premiere anyway.

The last part was very touching especially for most of us gays who are not just accepted by this hypocritical society, but also even in our own households.

The fun didn't stop when the credits started rolling. The lobby is just filled with ecstatic air! Foods are everywhere, promotional pins are distributed by half-naked hunks, casts walking around talking to everybody at may nag-iinuman pa sa gitna ng CCP Main Lobby! How insane was that? Siyempre hindi ko pinalagpas ang pagkakataon na maka-nomo. I took a double shot of the fiery Lambanog.

It's simply a party-party atmosphere that night, like a massive reunion where you knew almost everyone even only by face and you get to be introduced to some amazing people. Frederick Peralta is simply a darling, I can't believe the famous fashion designer is the humble person shaking my hand that night. I feel so privileged. Binabawi ko na rin ang mga sinabi ko against Direk Rafa Santos, haha. I know right? He's kind a very quiet person. Actually, I just melted in front of him, haha. It was also my first time meeting Mart Escudero as he's an artist from the rival network. He's a very charming young man, sabi ko nga sana magkaro'n pa siya ng magagandang projects like this. But I digress.

Sabi nga ng pelikula, kaya negatibo ang hatid ng salitang bakla ay dahil hindi maganda ang pinanggalingan nitong salita na ang ibig sabihin ay duwag. Pero sa dalawampu't apat na taon kong pagiging bakla isa lang ang masasabi ko, wala pa akong nakilalang duwag na bakla. Walang duwag na bakla!

So there, I hope I convinced all of you to watch Zombadings 1 Patayin sa Shokot Si Remington. We all know it's been tough and the production went through a lot for this film but it was definitely worth the wait. So there! It's out in the theaters this coming August 31 plus I think there will also be a special screening at UPLB this coming August 2 and 3.

Congratulations to the whole staff and casts especially to Direk Jared Castro and Sir Raymond Lee.

The old art house

2011-07-19T14:47:00.000+08:00

It was nice being around the company of people spanning from almost a decade of living. Being dragged around, being introduced to a friend of a friend, a classmate of this and that and acquaintances of an acquaintance, while actually doing the same thing.

In this industry, it is both happy and sad to say that most of the times, the quantity and quality of people you knew matters. But in this same hypocritical system of socialization that I luckily found few people who never fail to put a happy ending on my fucked up days.

Who would have thought the days would come when old rivals become friends? When former competitions are just distant tales and old smirks would turn into a chorus of laughter?

As Jay, Eduard, Nina and I make our way inside the Tanghalang Nicanor Abelardo, I noticed this gang of oldies talking animatedly in a mixture of Tagalog, English and Spanish. I urged my friends to sit in front of them and they willingly obliged. Turns out, most of them did cameo appearances in the film we’re about to watch.

The film tells a story of a once illustrious family and the spanning web of conflicts and secrets at its core. Celia, once the darling of Philippine opera, in her last attempt to rouse her comatose brother Gaspar and persuade her niece from selling the ancestral house, gathered all her friends from the old art house to once again sing operas and kundimans and relive their faded glorious past.

The film ended and proceeded to the usual chatters after where you go around and shake hands to congratulate different people and take pictures with some important people. There was National Artist for Literature Bienvenido Lumbera, the real life soprano who played Celia, Miss Fides Cuyugan Asensio and actor Tony Mabesa. The usual mixture of Tagalog, English and few Spanish once again filled the ecstatic air.

Not too far from them, I was still watching curiously the gang of oldies seated behind us inside the theater now engaging in exchange of banters with other groups of oldies. Others while aided by a cane still stand in a kind of strut, every wave of hands a reminder of aristocratic descent.

Soon, everyone started leaving. As we wait for our ride, my friends are still engulfed about the film and the people we came across by.

“Pag tanda natin, promise we’ll be like those gangs of oldies?” I blurted out of nowhere.

“But we don’t know how to speak Spanish! Enroll muna tayo sa Instituto Cervantes” Nina joked and everybody laughed. It was me who spoke again.

“Course not. ‘Pag tanda natin, we’ll also do meet ups. And then we’ll talk about the films and theater plays we watched, the competitions and productions we went to together, then we’ll sing once more the songs we sang in the old days. That would be nice, yes?”

“Tama! Bibirit pa rin ako ng I Will Survive kahit nasa wheelchair na ko.” It was Eduard’s time to break the ice.

“But you know DB, I think it was you who once said while we were all drunk at Coco’s house that night, you said we’ll be young forever.” Nina said.

“I said that?”

“Yeah you did!” Everybody agreed.

“I forgot.” I said, but I was lying. Truth is I remember that instance my friends are referring to.

“Tignan mo, ngayon pa lang para ka nang matanda. Memory gap! Haha.”

We can’t be young forever, I know that, though it’s always a comfort to believe that way. One day in the near future, we might be the next “gang of oldies” the youngsters will notice in a gathering like that, reliving the old days, laughing and talking about the golden moments of our prime.

But for now, Nina is going on in a blow by blow account of her latest steamy “quicky” with their engineer in their office’s stock room, Eduard talks about watching Zombadings this coming weekend while Jay laments the fact that we don’t have free tickets for the coming all-star NBA exhibition game.

These stories, with the occasional puns and jeers and swearwords, I would still love to listen to them not only when ancient lines start appearing on my face and when standing still in a strut is only possible with the help of a cane, but I hope even when we finally left for the other side. Now that would be awesome, yes?

Days of Teddy Bear

2011-07-13T07:37:00.000+08:00

You’ve shown me there’s nothing to be afraid of during night. That darkness won’t swallow me whole, not as long as I keep you within my arms. But days of Teddy Bear are over. You see, I’m a big boy now. No longer I’m afraid. No longer I’m scared. The days of Teddy Bear are over. I’m letting you go now my Teddy Bear.

I won’t pretend it’s not hard. I won’t hide that I’m sad. Because even if you won’t hug me back Teddy Bear, just you lying there in my arms is comfort enough. Thank you for listening. Thank you for being my Teddy Bear.

I’ll miss the days of us playing tea party Teddy Bear, in my room, just us. But children outside are calling and my heart is yearning. I have to go now Teddy Bear, I have to. I will run outside even the mad rain is pouring. Never mind if I’ll get dirt. Never mind if I’ll get hurt. I’ll just stand anyway and run again. You see, I am brave now Teddy Bear. I’m brave enough to let go.

The days of Teddy Bear are over. I know the coming nights will be darker. I will cry Teddy Bear, but I will try. Goodbye Teddy Bear. I’m letting you go now. Goodbye.

Car crash

2011-07-11T08:48:00.001+08:00

Galing kami kahapon sa house blessing ng pinsan ko sa Meycauayan, Bulacan. Puno ang sasakyan namin at madami kaming kasamang mga bata, puro mga pamangkin ko. Pupunta muna daw kami ng mall para makapaglaro saglit ang mga bata at samantalahin na rin ang pagkakataon para mamili.

Papalabas na kami ng intersection, nasa unahan ako naka-upo noon, nagulat na lang ako nang ang kuya ko, ang driver namin, eh nag dire-diretso sa kabila ng paparating na pulang Adventure sa kaliwa namin na mabilis din ang takbo. Napasigaw din ang isa ko pang kuya sa loob “ihinto mo.”

Pero huli na. Dire-diretso ang takbo namin, mabilis. Dire-diretso din ang takbo ng Adventure, mabilis. Ga-hibla na lang ng buhok ang pagitan ng dalawang sasakyan at magsasalpukan na ang mga ito ngunit nagawa pa ring umiwas ng Adventure. Salamat na lang at wala siyang kasalubong na sasakyan sa kabilang lane.

Pare-pareho kaming nakahinga ng maluwag. Akala ko tapos na ang trahedya. Nun pala, nagsisimula pa lang ang lahat. Nag-cut ang Adventure sa unahan namin at dun ko naisip na siguradong may away na magaganap.

Bumaba ang driver ng Adventure. Bumaba rin ang kuya ko, ang driver namin. Bumaba rin ako at sinundan ko siya sa kabila ng pagbabawal ni mama at mga tita ko. Kasalukuyang minumura nung kabilang driver ang kuya ko.

“Putang ina mo papatayin mo ba kami? Kasama ko buong pamilya ko tarantado ka!”

Bagama’t may galang ang pagsagot, hindi pa rin maikakaila sa tono ng kuya ko ang natural na angas na sadyang likas na yata sa pamilya namin.

“Pare, kaya nga humihingi ako ng dispensa. Buong pamilya din kami sa sasakyan, madulas lang talaga.”

“Eh gago ka pala.”

Dun na ko sumali sa diskusyon.

“Eh ‘wag naman kayong mag-mura. Pa’no tayo magkakaintindihan niyan kung mura lang kayo ng mura.

Sumagot ulit yung driver.

“Eh gago yang driver nyo eh. Tadyakan ko pa yan.”

Dun na ‘ko hindi nakapagpigil.

“Eh isa ka pa rin palang tarantado eh. Gago!”

“’Tang ina mo ang yabang mo ah!”

“Talagang mayabang ako tang-ina mo taga (kumpanyang pinapasukan ko) ako. Ano?”

Inakmaan niya kami ng suntok at napa-atras naman ako ng kalahating hakbang. Ang hindi ko alam, nasa likod ko na pala ang isa ko pang kuya.

“Putang ina mo sige subukan mong kantiin yang pinsan ko basag yang mukha mo. Pulis ako!” sabay labas ng kanyang tsapa.

Bumaba ng konti ang boses nung driver ng Adventure. Sinilip ko ang laman ng sasakyan nila. Isang babae sa unahan na palagay ko eh asawa nung driver tapos dalawang batang babae sa likod at isa pang babae na mukhang nasa early twenties. Sa loob-loob ko, ang tapang nito ah. Nag-iisa siyang lalaki kung makasugod naman akala mo isang batalyon ang kasama.

Natapos din ang gulo at dumiretso na nga ang pamilya namin sa mall. Habang nasa coffee shop, tuloy pa rin ang diskusyon namin sa nangyari at napapa-isip talaga ko.

Una, ang hirap pa lang mag-angas kung alam mong ikaw naman talaga ang mali. Mali ang kuya ko, inaamin namin yan. Nasa intersection kami, kami ang palabas at sila ang nasa National Road, kami dapat ang nagme-menor para mag-abang. Isa pa, nakakahiya mang aminin pero naka-inom talaga ang kuya ko.

Pangalawa, naisip ko, pa’no kung ako lang mag-isa. Hindi ako pulis at siguradong bugbog ang aabutin ko. Makatawag man ako sa mga pinsan ko, matagal pa bago sila makarating. Madami patalaga ‘kong dapat matutunan sa pagmamaneho.

Pangatlo, pa’no kung natuluyan kaming maaksidente. Baka patay na ‘ko ngayon. Baka patay na rin ang kalahati ng pamilya namin.

Bagama’t nakalimutan na rin kahit papano ng lahat ang mga kaganapan dahil sa paglilibot, pamimili at paglalaro ng mga bata sa mall, hindi pa rin dun nagtapos ang lahat. Pagdating sa bahay, ikinuwento ng lahat sa tito ko ang buong pangyayari. Ayun, pinagmumura’t pinagalitan ng husto ng tito ko ang kuya habang naghahapunan kami.

___

Author's note: Strong apologies to my readers who can't understand the Filipino language. Rest assured that the I will go back to writing in English for my next posts. Thank you for understanding.

People won't be people

2011-07-09T11:50:00.000+08:00

I want to live on top of the sea and just live under your spell. Every morning I’ll prepare you a chicken stew and you will be happy. We’ll listen to the sound of flying fish landing on our table. I will be there with you. I will be there with you, it’s true.

There’s a world under every forest mushroom, where dancing and crying and swearing are not sins. It is true. It is real. I’ll bring you there and we’ll dance, we’ll cry, we’ll swear and spit at the coconut trees.

No one shall find it. No compass will work at all. The maps are written on my face. The maps are written by my nails.

My name is Einar and I wear rice straw for hat. I live by myself; married to myself.

___

title from the lyrics of "Atlas" by Battles

Joey

2011-07-04T11:56:00.000+08:00

“Ano, syotain na kita?!”

Those words continue to reverberate days after he threw them on me. I dated Joey not because I’m specifically looking for something romantic that day and as shameful the intention might sound, truth is I just need a scratching post then. I was in heat and I need some cooling down. Turns out, Joey is a good guy after all. And the "date" ended quite a bit different than I expected.

The "mind-boggling" question came while we were strolling within the grounds of Araneta. It was actually preceded by my answer to his query on how many relationships I have been to which I answered truthfully – I haven’t.

There was no hint of seriousness in his tone. He said those words the way someone would say “tara, kain tayo” or “halika na.” So I just laughed at him after he said them thinking it's just one of his out of nowhere ruminations designed to amuse me. But as I catch a glimpse of him, I noticed he was staring. And there I saw, behind the casualness and spontaneity of his question, somewhere far from them, there’s a faint mark that told me the guy somehow meant it.

How would I describe Joey? He’s not the best looking guy out of the thin line of people I went out with. He has this natural air of what I would like to call “slight-arrogance” which makes me giggle most of the time. He is very spontaneous and opposite his “slight-bad-ass-image,” I’m mortified to find out that he won’t smoke and that he rarely drinks. Both, of course, are few of my registered vices. He's 30 years old and is working in a field totally different than mine or as my friends would put it, "out-of-our-world."

I would be lying if I’d say I don’t like Joey. I like him and the fact that there are lots of things that are not so common between us just make it feels so right.

But the thing is, I'm writing this down because I’m confused and I don’t know what to do. I like being with him and having those nightly telephone conversations with him, but I have to admit that I’m scared. I’m scared to hear those words again from him, but not because I don’t like him but because I feel that such kind of relationship isn’t right for me right now.

I know, I’m silly right? After writing all those blog entries agonizing over the fact that I’m Single-Since-Birth and how everybody treated me like trash, here I am, turning my back from the rice grains running after me. Yes, I fear to hear him say “ano, syotain na kita?” again, but I also fear that those same words won’t come again.

Am I so used to being alone that I finally learned to live my life with it?

They say when you’re unhappy with your life, you become more selfish with it. Am I unhappy? Am I selfish?

This is me once again in perpetual scenario building. This is me afraid of the very same game I got addicted to but had always left me losing - gambling. This is me afraid.

In the same way that when things get rough, confusing and out of grasp, like Selma, let me imagine I'm in some musical production where every problem, every feeling, could be summed up in songs and moving pictures...

♬Well I've been afraid of changin' coz I built my life around you. But time makes you bolder children get older and I'm getting older too. Well...

and because in a musical, nothing dreadful ever happens.

Selma

2011-06-29T12:42:00.001+08:00

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

2011-06-28T00:35:00.001+08:00

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

2011-06-21T08:00:00.000+08:00

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

2011-06-16T10:38:00.000+08:00

“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

2011-06-08T22:50:00.002+08:00

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?

2011-06-07T14:09:00.000+08:00

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.

Home

2011-05-30T11:12:00.000+08:00

I’d like to talk to you about Ilocos with its spectacular dawn, its vast green landscapes where screaming cows chase arrogant goats and the majestic chorus of crickets and bull frogs harmonizing under the night sky. I’d like to write about their three-storey market, the sing-song sound of my cousins calling me manong or adeng, the sprawling river of cold clear water and my future inheritance which include a vegetable farm, a rice mill and a vacant lot where my future rest house will someday stand proudly.

I’d like to talk about Vigan where history clashes calmly with present modernity, my beautiful Barrio Rioeng in Laoag City where my ancestors once floursihed and Batac where the Marcoses would always be Lords. I’d like to regale you with different stories about my cousins – a gang of humblest and simplest people who are the greatest friends I’ll always have. There was nightly inuman sessions where mixtures of Emperador and San Mig Light drowned those who are in the circle. Or sometimes around midnight, we would walk arm-in-arm within the streets of Laoag town proper where we would eat humungous empanada and feast over mouth-watering bagnet, the best I ever had in my entire life.

But I’m too tired. My body, mind and heart are tired. We were filled with sorrow as our Tatang Tano, my grandmother’s brother, passed away. His final great act, gathering us all under a single roof where once a kind soft-spoken lolo lived with his pomada and an old rumbling calesa. I’m too weak remembering a huddled family mourning over the loss of its patriarch. Too weak from remembering the faces of my aunts, uncles, cousins and many other distant cousins embracing, waving goodbye as tears swelled from their eyes, a deep sadness flooding their faces.

So for now, I’ll tell you about this boy resting inside his white-walled chamber in Bulacan with its wide open capiz window as he try his best to put a tattoo in his mind about his promises…his promise of returning to his beloved Ilocos where once again he could exchange jokes and Ilocano swearwords with his cousins, jump altogether in wild rivers and walk under the wild night sky of Ilocos.

For now the boy will rest and more stories shall follow. But as he takes his rest in his home in Bulacan, he would always think of this home he always have in Barrio Rioeng, Laoag, the majestic chorus of crickets and bull frogs harmonizing under the night sky, the sing-song sound of his cousins calling him manong or adeng, his future rest house and the midnight walks and food-tripping so that way, he will always be home away from home but always nearest.

on my shirt: Ilocano [ I-lo-ca-no] - brown race. Filipino dwellers, hardworking from the north.
Adventurous, courteous, hardworking, courageous people.
Wise spender (aka. nasalimetmet - saan nga kuripot). Producer of garlic,
tobacco, basi, presidents and eminent Filipinos.

-photo taken by a cousin

One year of Désolé Boy

2011-05-22T12:26:00.000+08:00

On this day, Désolé Boy turns one year old.

There was nothing special that day. I put up this blog and incarnated the person that is Désolé Boy because I was too desolate that time. I had my first full blown sex. I was in love. I was broken.

“Yes. I fell in love with the same guy. I fell in love with a stranger. I fell in love with a one night stand.”
I am your Désolé Boy, May 22, 2010

I would write entries thinking no one is actually reading them. I would write for no particular objective. I would write then for my own pleasure.

Days and months passed, I learned the alleys along the world that is blogging.

On Sequence 1, you were introduced to Désolé Boy. The new guy emerged, the world knows little of him. Sequence 2, Désolé Boy fell in love with a blogger and you witnessed him become more désolé than he already is. The letters bore witness to his pain and struggles, and so are the readers. Sequence 3, you saw him emerged from the hell hole of his unrequited love. The longing for that special someone still swelled though his heart already healed; it was well. Désolé Boy, finally, moved on.

“I survived the war but I did not win the battle
The guns no longer in anger, the canons now tamed.
The air is silent, the deceased scattered.
Look! A mighty soul in standing.
He is not alone.”
Denoument, September 26, 2010

There were few attempts to have this blog murdered which would mean the death of Désolé Boy. Now, after a year of blogging and sharing my stories, I am thankful I never did.

Come 2011, I decided I would be less emo. I was, after all, called one, a drama queen, drama personae and many other names pertaining to my drama antics. I hide behind my metaphors and tweaked some of my sentences to make it "happier." But the Black Swan would always reveal its real feathers, and so I continue to be the Désolé Boy that I always am.

“I’m sorry that I can’t write fairytales like most of you do. I apologize that you discovered I’m not a prince charming; for disgusting you after seeing that I’m just a pauper with only his tin cans to boast.”
Space Oddity, March 9, 2011

One hundred and thirty one entries. One hundred and fifty three followers. One year of blogging.

What can I say but THANK YOU for allowing Désolé Boy a space on your laptops and computers [or your mobile gadgets, so to speak.]

I sincerely hope that in one way or another I was able to move you through my writings because that's where a writer's true worth lies; where Désolé Boy's true worth lies.

Here’s to another year of blogging. Cheers!

Metaphors

2011-05-19T22:21:00.000+08:00

His name is Francesco. He is a man fearfully acquainted with the secrets of nature. His eyes like a morning dew at the tip of a bamboo leaf, twinkling as the early sunshine kisses its face. His breath, like December’s mist, cold but warm in comfort.

Whenever he takes me to his arms, the world gets smaller. In his arms the world is us.

His name is Francesco. And I am his.

let me call you again with your name, the way you want me to.

Fading yellow

2011-05-18T11:45:00.000+08:00

The president’s laziness has been the subject of talk not because it is gossip but because it’s a fact not only witnessed and observed by us, media people, but alarmingly also being reported by people within the confines of the Palace itself, even before the celebrated columns of Ramon Tulfo and Ernesto Maceda lambasting the president.

“Night vices” like late night computer games and trips to the hottest gimik spots within the Metro, the likes of Republiq in Pasay, are far from being figments of reporters and critics imagination. There are the Palace households who are well aware of it and a whole host of people also enjoying the same establishments that reported the same thing.

But this is not to re-write what the others already reported but to stand in defense of those media personalities the Palace are now calling “liars” and “tabloid-makers.”

Understand that not everyone in the industry of news media are Conrado de Quiros and Ricky Carandang. It’s funny that the Palace is now pointing their spears towards the same Yellow media that not only helped create his previous campaign but also helped his presidency begin its sail. Perhaps the delusion that Noynoy’s presidency is brought upon by records of achievements and impressive government platforms should stop at once. It is not. Noynoy and his messianic presidency is created by a poorly written history of this nation, the media and the series of propaganda set upon by more intelligent people.

His defenders, the likes of Justice Secretary Leila de Lima and his team of miscreant traitor watchdogs, could put up all the huge words to drown the reports of “laziness” but the image of Noynoy being under-performer and under-achiever is branded in scarlet bloodstain in the name of all the women he dated every night and the stench of his stubborn cigarettes.

De Lima, now on top of lists to be crowned as next Ombudsman, defended his boss saying “that the president is hardworking.” We could probably give him the benefit of the doubt but not with left and right news of the president dating different women nightly, news leaks of him tripping to Subic to join a club of Porsche loving bachelors and his irritation on working beyond four in the afternoon.

Carmen Pedrosa of Philippine Star, on the other hand, said that the attacks are “personal” and that “these should have been considered before he was elected.” Yes it is personal. It is personal because his demeanor speaks for the nation as a whole. It is personal simply because he is the president of this nation and there could be a lot more problem than who to take out for the night to thousands of jobless Filipinos and the merciless rise on oil prices.

Noynoy Aquino’s slacking record both during his stints on Lower and Upper House are known to everyone yet he managed to gather a staggering million of votes. Maybe because presidency is not about records of achievements. Maybe because presidency is about honesty. Maybe because presidency is about staying true to their promises. And maybe because presidency is not about growing balls.

The talk of laziness persists not because editors, news desks and columnists insist on it but because the president’s work ethics speak clearly for it. The story persists because there are reports of "appointment papers remaining unattended for months,” “planned projects taking so long to get-off the drawing board” and how “so much official time and resources are spent going after political enemies.”

It’s barely a year and we all know a lot could happen that’s why we have articles like this; we demand improvement. A shift from the righteous path is what the president is famous for, maybe he should start re-tracking his leadership trail and stop being such a stubborn brat. Dealing with the squabbling factions within his administration won’t solve the nation’s problems neither is referring to the previous regime from time to time nor hiring a “big time crisis PR man for a makeover of Noynoy's image costing a fantabulous amount.”

To critique is not to dictate and never to hate. It is to participate, to speak-up and to engage. Noynoy already proved his worth to the millions of Filipinos who voted for him, its time he earn the nods of those who did not believe in him a year ago. The job begun on that fated morning of June the past year and will continue for the next five more years even when the singing fades, the yellow blended with red and heroes stripped of their memories.

___

-with reports from Manila Times, Philippine Daily Inquirer, The Philippine Star and ABS-CBN

for comments and other reactions, e-mail them to desoleboy@yahoo.com

Landian sa Santacruzan

2011-05-16T10:05:00.001+08:00

Nakareceieve ako ng text message mula sa isang kababayan dito sa Bulacan nung isang araw at tinatanong ako kung pwede daw ba 'kong maging escort nung pinsan niya na sasagala sa isasagawang Santacruzan/Flores de Mayo sa barangay namin. Siyempre pa, nasuya kaagad ako sa ideya na mag-e-escort ako. But let it be noted na hindi ako out sa amin at kilala akong isang certified na "Lakan"at hindi isang "Lakambini."

Ang ginawa ko, nag-text back ako at sinabi kong "magiging busy ako kasi ako ang magmemake-up sa mga pamangkin ko na kasali sa Santacruzan."

Totoong kasali ang mga pamangkin ko pero hindi totoong ako ang magmemake-up sa kanila dahil hindi ako marunong pero ako ang naghanap at pumili ng mga gowns at suit na isinuot nila.

Last Saturday ginanap ang Santacruzan at masasabi kong nalampasan nito ang mga expectations ko considering the fact na barangay level lang naman yun. Pero hindi ko akalain na magiging extra special yun dahil sa kanya...

Sa simbahan pa lang pagdating ko, papasok pa lang ako eh namataan ko na siya. Pinapaypayan niya yung partner niyang hindi naman kagandahan at mukhang na-late ng isang taon para umattend ng inaguration ni Pangulong Noynoy (look at her flowing yellow gown, silly!)

Sobrang cute niya sa mga paningin ko ng gabing yun as in nagha-hyperventilate ako. Nabuwag lahat ng mga preferences ko, unang-una na dun ang "age limit." Never akong pumatol sa ka-age ko or worse eh mas bata sa 'kin. Ang minimum requirement ko eh 30 years old pataas at ang ceiling naman is my father's age which is 47 or 48.

Tuliro na ko the whole night. 'Di ko alam kung iilawan ko ng lusis yung mga pamangkin ko, makikipag-chikahan sa mga kababata ko sa barangay o pupunta dun sa hulihan ng prusisyon kasi andun sila nung partner niya. I like his smile, the nerdy looking glasses, yung mataas na hairline niya and his bubble butt. Sexy ang loko sa personal, promise!

Ang daming naging challenges sa paglandi. Una, siyempre dapat doble ingat kasi one wrong move eh siguradong headline ang kabaklaan ko sa dyaryo ng mga barangay tsismosa. Pangalawa, sobrang na-guilty din akong lumandi. Santacruzan is supposed to be a religious activity eh naturingan pa kong Marian devotee tapos dun ako mismo lumalandi.

Pero keber na sa lahat ng reasonings ko. Sabi ko, siguradong kapag pabalik na sa simbahan ang prusisyon eh rowdy na ang crowd at dun na ko siguradong makakadiskarte.

At hindi nga ako nagkamali...

Habang ang lahat ay nakatingala, admiring the beauty of the bonggang-bonggang fireworks display sinimulan ko na ang aking maitim na balak. Bwahahaha!!

Nagpakilala ako and I used the ancient pick-up line: "hi, I think we've met before coz you look family, I mean familiar..." Natawa siya at yun na, yun na ang start of something new. At "nag-duet" na nga kame ala Troy and Gabriela.

And since men don't kiss and tell, I'll leave the rest to your imaginations guys...

However, since yours truly is still a boy, ikukwento ko nalang siguro senyo sa YM ang lahat-lahat, hehe.

Sunday Piece 014: Noble Truths

2011-05-15T08:39:00.000+08:00

The gist of [Buddha's] basic analysis is given in the famous sermon at Benares . It consists of the "Four Noble Truths"

[1] Existence is unhappiness

[2] Unhappiness is caused by selfish craving

[3] Selfish craving can be destroyed

[4] It can be destroyed by following the eight fold path, whose steps are: (1) Right understanding; (2) Right purpose; (3) Right speech; (4) Right conduct; (5) Right vocation; (6) Right effort; (7) Right alertness; (8) Right concentration.

-from "The Teachings of the Compassionate Buddah" by Edwin A. Burtt

Face to face with Osama bin Laden Part 2 (Inside the Philippines)

2011-05-14T11:14:00.001+08:00

The more horrifying scene would be Osama bin Laden in flesh, stepping within the Philippine soil itself. It happened almost two decades ago, in 1992.

“Bin Laden presented himself as a wealthy Saudi who wanted to invest in Muslim areas and donate money to charity. Then President Fidel Ramos even allegedly authorized the use of C-130 airplane to fly bin Laden from the capital, Manila, to Mindanao. Others said bin Laden allegedly met with several government officials who helped him purchase property and set up bank accounts. -Ressa, 2003

Bin Laden inside the Philippines could only mean one thing, his war against the United States of America is once again spinning fast; a huge step in what would later the world will dub as the 9/11 attack.

I felt sad that once again the extreme level of poverty of the country is used for these men’s plans and so once again, we are helpless. And the worse, we are clueless.

It was here in the Philippines that the plan to attack the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York was set in motion. Soon to be high-jackers actually trained here. And for finance, members of the al-Qaeda cleverly used women from the red light districts of Manila. They courted them, gave them all the promise every Filipina dreaming of catching some foreign prince to whip them away from poverty would want to hear. Every count of dollar means a favor like opening a bank account and transferring of money using the names of those poor women. The girls did so obediently. But the papers of the accounts they opened, they never saw it again. So are the guys.

Philippines became a haven for terrorist plots. Not only the 9/11 attack but even the plot to assassinate then Pakistani Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto. While in preparation for the United States attack, more al-Qaeda members entered the country through the back door that is Basilan, known to be headquarter of the Abu Sayaf Group. Together, they plotted more terrorist attacks and sad to say, some of the plans were actually realized later. Like the bombing of a church in Jolo in 1991, the bombing of Fort Pilar in Zamboanga City that killed five people and even an assassination attempt during Pope John Paul II’s visit to the Philippines in 1995.

Most of the bombings are made just to test the bombs created by al-Qaeda experts. Not only that they are concocting those elaborate mixtures of chemicals within the bounds of our country, they are actually testing them on us.

“Intelligence officials now know that two al-Qaeda members were inside the Abu Sayyaf base camp on Basilan Island one day after the September 11 attacks. Yousef spent only a few weeks in Basilan in August and September 1994 before deciding to do his own bombing. He returned to Manila, established contacts with the members of the network in place, and began to fine-tune his bomb plans. Yousef was an expert and an innovator; the bomb has set off at the World Trade Center in 1993 had been used only once before 73, 000 explosions recorded by the FBI. In Manila, he developed and tested what became known as his specialty. -Ressa, 2003

And so the Philippines is sitting on a series of well orchestrated time bombs.

Face to face with Osama bin Laden Part 1 (Target: The Philippines)

Yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone

2011-05-11T15:24:00.000+08:00

Betty is finally getting her famous braces off, but before that, she gets knocked unconscious and gets a peek at what her life would have been like if she would have never needed braces. Apparently, while a portion of her life falls into places that she always dream about, the larger part turned out to be all messed-up and a total nightmare.

Betty: I can’t believe that I’m in cahoots with Wilhelmina. How can having perfect teeth change me this much?

Betty’s New Dentist: Let me break it down to you. Having braces is hard right? People make fun of you and it hurts your feelings which made you compassionate. Pretty-Teeth-Betty, people fall all over her and went in her hand.

Betty: Everything is so screwed up. Claire and Daniel hate me and Wilhelmina and Mark love me?

Betty’s New Dentist: Oh, Mark doesn’t love you.

Betty: What? He couldn’t have been nicer.

Betty’s New Dentist: Well not to your face.

Betty: This is terrible. It can’t stay this way. It has to change. I have to change it back.

___

I had this idea of arranging a one-by-one friendly meet-ups with most of the guys who dissed me. The benevolent purpose is to ask these gentlemen of their reason(s) on why they rejected me. Of course I know it sounds crazy but I thought maybe this little experiment would actually help me the next time I decide to go back to dating scene, maybe help me formulate a few do’s and don’ts, maybe help me become more "dateable."

I thought about it long and hard, proof that I'm serious with it and I already told one of them guys about the plan. But as with Betty’s epiphanies, I realised I don’t need them. If things about me did not agree with those guys’ preference before, then maybe their rejections are probably the most right thing that should happen.

Maybe if I didn’t get all those “no” from them I could have ended up being the new town whore, or maybe half of my friends wouldn’t exist or worse, I could be very fat and ugly now! One rejection that would go gone missing could lead into something fatal.

Those rejections made me doubt myself even more, I must admit. I still do and still have self inflicted issues on matters of confidence but I’m actually surprised at the rate of how I’m dealing with them lately.

Betty, despite realising her braces are part of herself that brought her to where she is now, still decided to have them removed by the end. That’s what I’ve been doing now. I’m removing my braces not because they caused me shame and pain but because I have to move forward and leave them with the past where they belong. My braces, I mean those rejections, would always be part of me though I’m not wearing them anymore. And I will always be very thankful that once I have them with me. I will always remember that once, there was a boy who despite his young age braved all those rejections, a boy who still managed to smile beautifully even with those braces/rejections on.

___

On a different but still related note...

It's like somebody I know died. I received so many condolences on Facebook, Twitter, on my cellphone and even here on my blog (di ba Papa Jay? Hehe) though ninety percent of them are actually concealed gloatings.

Lakers lost.

But it's all good. 'Di naman ako napipikon. All I can say is...

Live. Love. Lakers! See you next season!

Manifesto 01

2011-05-02T23:58:00.000+08:00

Almost one year in blogging and I still feel like a newbie. News surprises me the most learning how this community seem to span on a sprawling web of connection varying from friendship to sex, love to hatred and a duo to clanship. It amazes me, really, and often times after amusement comes the realisation that I belong nowhere here; a drifting paper with skewed letters in it.

There are few instances where the demolition of this blog seemed to be the only logical thing to do especially during my fatal entanglement with a fellow blogger which ended up me doing the three I's of Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat Pray Love, only it doesn't mean Italy, India and Indonesia but rather Iyak, Iyak and Iyak (cry, cry, cry). But that was all gone and finished, although a few tabloid makers seem to be sucking out the few details but I think I'm cleverer and those I'm referring to won't get anything more other than those slip of few people's tongue.

Second is when I digress from my so-called noble reasons writing here. Why do I write? Do I want to entertain you here? Do I want popularity? Am I simply looking for hook-ups? Or as Wanggo Gallaga said, am I contributing to this massive array of senseless "self-promotion - putting up bits of information that nobody is really interested in?"

Here's why I blog (though I know I'm far from being called a true-blooded blogger). This blog will continue to stand because of a promise I once made. This blog will continue to stand even if it means no more than three people reading and commenting on it. This blog will continue for as long as there are readers who would argue about my thoughts, relate to my drama concoctions and dream about a handsome Désolé Boy, far from the reality his mirror dictates.

I will blog because there are voices banging on my temple. I will blog because I want to plagiarize the present, alter the past and choreograph the future. I will blog because I am responsible for giving you The Désolé Boy. I will blog because I want to and as of now, I know that I need to.

Should Désolé Boy cease to exist, it would only mean one thing – the writer is at last free.

___

Let this be a reminder to myself of why I draw pictures of creatures I'm seeing in my dreams.

John Paul II and the people of Malolos

2011-05-02T11:23:00.001+08:00

MALOLOS City, Bulacan – Joining the entire faithful of the Catholic Church in celebration of the beatification of the now Blessed John Paul II are the people of the Diocese of Malolos led by its bishop Most Reverend Jose Francisco Oliveros D.D.

Bulakenyos burst into tumultuous applause as Pope Benedict XVI in Vatican City pronounce the formula of beatification; a step closer to a declaration of sainthood.

The Malolos Cathedral in 1999 was declared by no less than John Paul II to be the 10th Minor Basilica in the entire Philippines so that its official title became the Catedral-Basilica Minore de la Inmaculada Concepcion or the Minor Basilica and Cathedral of the Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception.

Today, a Mass of Thanksgiving to be concelebrated by the bishop and members of the Malolos clergy will be held in the Cathedral at 6 o’ clock in the evening.

Also, a one day exhibit will be held at the lobby of the Basilica Minore Office featuring memorabilias and relics of the late Pontiff.

A vestment of Pope John Paul II handed to the former bishop and now Bishop Emeritus of Malolos Most Reverend Cirilo Almario Jr. during the Papal visit in 1981 will be put into display.

Bishop Almario said the vestment was given to him by the Pope’s secretary after the mass.

“I was very surprised to receive it and I am very thankful and honored. That is why until now, I am really taking good care and preserving this vestment,” he said.

___

published May 1, 2011 for a certain publication and is of course written by yours truly

Pamamaalam

2011-05-01T09:38:00.000+08:00

Minsan ako’y nangarap

Buhay ay puno ng buhay

Pag-ibig ay walang-hanggan

Kalangita’y mapagpatawad.

Noo’y bata ako’t walang takot

Mga pangarap gayon na la’ng nasayang

Wala ‘ko anumang pangamba

Bawat himig akin nang inawit

Subalit may dumarating

Mga kampon ng kadiliman.

Baka ikaw ay sakmalin

Hanggang magkagutay-gutay.

Kasiping siya sa tag-araw,

Ang alay niya’y ligayang tunay

Ang puso ko’y hinamak niya

Wala na siya sa tag-ulan!

Nangangarap pa ako

Siya’y babalik sa aking piling

Subalit sa daigdig na ito

May unos na di kakayanin.

Ang lahat ng pangarap ko

Iba sa aking dinaranas

Ang buhay ko’y impiyerno na

Ngayon pangarap ko ay patay na.

"Nangarap ako ng isang pangarap"

-halaw sa orihinal na salinawit ni Pete Lacaba, "Sa Panaginip Ko" mula sa orihinal na awiting "I Dreamed a Dream"

The metaphysics of singlehood

2011-04-26T11:15:00.000+08:00

I am single. I’m single in a country with the loveliest sunsets and the most romantic men the world has ever seen; where the word “love” is etched on pack of noodles and where February comes monthly, hence the term “monthsary.” You look at the police blotter and you’ll see files dubbed as “crimes of love” and if you’re lucky, you’ll find in the middle of a crowded street a dancing traffic aide blowing kisses to irate motorists – Manila’s very own King of Hearts.”

It is hard and painful being at this state of singlehood especially when billboards around you advise you to wear pastel color underpants and you'll find “The One,” the love of your life. (Just to make sure, I did buy and wear one but still nothing happened.) It’s hard to take note of all the pick-up lines the primetime teleseryes invented with Sam Milby teaching you how to say “mahal kita” in full American twang.

It is difficult to hide in my khaki long sleeve polo, tight worn-out jeans and black leather Wrangel boots when everything in me yells about me being single. The furious red pimple on my right cheek, the sprawling stretch marks on my ass and the threatening nails of my feet rambling for a decent pedicure – all spelling out a single word: SINGLE.

I never really dated for no one could put up with a person like me. I would shamelessly write down our conversation in a damp piece of Starbucks tissue paper, lock eyes with you while reciting The History of the Kingdom of Negros and correct the use of "s" in your verbs. I'm afraid whenever the temperature would go low and I would have to constantly piss under the falling sky while consulting the half-eaten moon for its approval.

There's a revolution inside my personal nation and the uprisings focus on one main ancient issue - romance. My Executive Secretary insisted on buying a Porsche because it equates to being single. The only problem is that I've been scraping from a two hundred peso budget a day plus the elusive coins under my mattress and filthy drawers that I couldn't even afford a single orange.

Let me tell you why I’m writing about my singlehood. I write about me being single because if I don’t, I would turn mad. I write because I’m 23 and still single in a country going mad about love and I thought I should be part of that madness no matter what. I write because I’m protesting against God that I’m a virgin yet nobody finds me holy.

And because writing is all I can do. I don’t have bulging muscles to flex, no dashing smile to flash away or an 8-inch dick to fire you up on bed. I write to point out that I’m single, and always been, and it is pointless because I am binded by the letters of this world's pornographic standards, rejections and self-loathings within the twenty three years of my existential suspension.

I am single. I’m single in a community who constantly tells me that I am single. I’m single and I don’t wanna care anymore if my taxes would be spent for your condoms and whatever other things I’m not allowed to touch. I am single. I’m single and that gave me the authority to get drowned in Margaritas and Tequilas, kiss the doorman at the local pub and flirt with a Catholic deacon on his way to priesthood. And because I am single, I’m allowed to end this post without finality, although in the tradition of every literary piece, I have to provide some form of ending notwithstanding. And so to ending, of this post but not of singlehood, I give you three dots and a smiley in the hopes that it will haunt your living spirits from here on.

. . . =)

Face to face with Osama bin Laden Part 1 (Target: The Philippines)

2011-04-23T12:59:00.000+08:00

Leaping through the pages of Maria Ressa’s “Seeds of Terror” stirred my interest over the man named Osama bin Laden, so elusive that I had to ask, what do we really know about him? Yes we all know he’s to be held accountable for the “9/11 attacks” in US, one among the top of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s list of Ten Most Wanted Fugitives, founder of al-Qaeda…the list could go further and further.

But how far can we understand his notion of jihad, the creation of an extreme radical Islam and his battle against the imperialist country of the United States of America and others whom he/they called “enemies of the Islam?”

The Osama bin Laden that I pictured reading Maria Ressa’s book is a god-like creature with his eyes all over the world that I felt like even at this point that I’m writing an article about him, he’s watching me, giggling over my naivety and my dumb effort in trying to study the organization he created, the al-Qaeda and the sprawling network of its arm group here in Southeast Asia, the Jemaah Islamiyah .

I know even before that al-Qaeda has been using the idea of Muslim persecutions to recruit new mujahideen (new recruits). Ever heard of the saying “slaves of today are the tyrants of tomorrow?” The al-Qaeda, with its leader Osama bin Laden formulating strict ploys of brainwashing and sweepings of Islamic digression, continue to dominate the world of terrorism.

Former president Joseph Estrada was right after all waging an all-out war against the MILF. But really, do we still need to question where the MILF stands? Just as crazy, the thought that if the Bangsamoro ancestral domain succeeded would mean more training camps for terrorists here in the Philippines.

“Years before that (August 24, 2001) and until today, thousands of Islamic militants, Filipinos and foreigners, have learned terrorist techniques in more than twenty-seven camps set up by the MILF in the southern Philippines."

Ressa, 2003

Now, if I pictured bin Laden giggling over my naivety in trying to study his al-Qaeda, he must be laughing madly of the Philippine government’s continuous denial of the existence of terrorists and even more terrorist camps within the country.

In my opinion, Philippines got directly involved under former president Corazon Aquino’s rule. Ressa wrote, “[i]n 1988, bin Laden sent his brother-in-law Mohammed Jamal Khalifa to the Philippines to set up a financial infrastructure of charities and other organizations. Khalifa married a local woman and integrated into Filipino society, often asking politicians and Manila’s elite to sit on the boards of his charities.”

That was when the Philippines have been placed in the palms of Osama bin Laden. The September 11 attack in the United States followed and so is the series of bombings like the one that took place in Bali, Indonesia in 2001.

In style, the sweeping chaos of transition from Marcos dictatorship to Aquino’s idea of democracy pave way for al Qaeda’s infiltration of MILF and the Abu Sayaf Group. But while Abu Sayaf got an indirect linkage with Osama bin Laden, the MILF remained to be its stronghold receiving direct funds from the al-Qaeda. The MILF of course denied this vehemently.

To present, President Noynoy Aquino followed the track of his predecessor Gloria Arroyo. The Philippine government is currently on negotiation table with the leaders of MILF, a solution they say that would create a peaceful co-existence of Muslims and Christians in the country. Obviously, President Aquino like President Arroyo is in denial of the existence of al-Qaeda forces within the country. But as of this writing, no formal statement from the Palace is issued because nobody ever asked and probably nobody would tell the president. I wonder how Osama bin Laden is reacting in this another bite in his well played charade.

But the more horrifying scene would be Osama bin Laden in flesh, stepping within the Philippine soil itself. As a matter of fact, it happened a few years ago.

...to be continued

Franco

2011-04-19T11:34:00.000+08:00

It’s the blazing month of April, and while summer means sand and sea-side party to most of us, to some it means grieving.

Today, allow me to write about my father for the first time in this blog. Also, this story that took place almost two years ago in a summer like this, when a three-year old boy Franco braved the waves of Mindoro’s waters then forever left with only his smiles and dreams to remember now.

I would’ve called my father’s car “DB’s car” if it was here, but his car trails the foreign roads of Bahrain and I only heard about it over countless telephone conversation, the same way young Franco called his father’s Innova “Franco’s car.”

Unlike the boy who would grow up to become the Desole Boy, Franco rose to be a delightful and mischievous kid, a very expressive one. A bright sunny day and you could hear him say, “I’m happy” and the days when he couldn’t play to his delight would mean, “I’m sad.”

Unlike DB’s dad, Franco’s dad loves him so much, he said he’s willing to exchange his life just to allow his son live.

It was supposed to be Franco’s first big family trip. They took a boat from Batangas port to Puerto Galera, a ride that little did Franco’s dad know would take away the life of his beloved son.

Twelve people, including 3 children and a Japanese tourist, were killed after a large motorized outrigger capsized near Mindoro Island on Saturday, the Philippine National Police (PNP) said.

Chief Supt. Luisito Palmera, police chief for Region 4B (Mimaropa), said in a text message to reporters in Manila that the MB Commando 6 sank at about noon near Verde Island, 85 miles (135 kilometers) south of Manila.

Palmera said the boat sank when one of its outriggers broke.

The victims were identified by rescuers as: Beta Berdin, 2, Sta Mesa, Manila; Albino Pablico, 55, Sta Cruz Manila; Gregonia Pabliko, 58, Sta Cruz, Manila; Anton Cruz Eugenio, 2, White Plains, Quezon City; Franco Eugenio, 3 years old, White Plains, Quezon City…

-report from GMAnews.tv, “12 killed as motor ferry sinks off Verde Island” May 23, 2009

Young Franco probably said “I’m happy” that day. It was sunny after all and he got his whole family with him. His father pumped the little boy’s chest for breath, for hope, for life.

“I’m sad,” Franco’s dad said. “I’m very sad.” His Franco died.

Many times I should’ve died like Franco. How many times have I missed death? Twice, thrice, I couldn’t count anymore. All I know is that there’s no father beside those hospital beds I’ve been to, no weeping father praying for Death to spare me, no father feeling sad at the very least. The only thing that came is money; money to pay the hospital bills and meds; money to buy his presence and bribe for a wife who took all the pains.

Helicopters are another favorite of Franco. His father said Franco always dreamed of riding one. Now Franco got his wish.

Franco’s dad held his son’s lifeless body when the helicopter took off to bring them back to Manila. “Franco, here’s your helicopter ride,” his dad said. Only it was too late. Too late for Franco. Too late for his dad.

How many times had I watched my father left in an airplane. Always, I waited for that airplane to come back, that airplane that would bring a father to our household. But it never came. And I'm already tired of waiting. I don’t wanna hear the line “here’s your airplane son” anymore. It’s too late. Too late for him. Too late for both of us.

When Franco’s dad finished telling the story, he said “remember Franco…remember this, and hold on to your Franco.”

“Pa, I am your Franco.”

____

In memory of Franco Eugenio and all other Francos out there... like me

part of this post based on Patricia Evangelista's interview of Franco's dad

Blood Brothers

2011-04-16T09:30:00.000+08:00

The 9th of April

There won't be any prelude or beginning for this post.This is, after all, a story that started probably from the previous lifetimes, of course only if you believe such things. But really, who knows? There's would be no coherence, no logic and everything is spontaneous. And in the manner that it has no beginning, the ending is also nowhere to be seen.

More or less 15 minutes to 30 minutes before 4 in the afternoon

1 message from Alterjon: just got off sa train. san ka?
Reply: coffee bean & tea leaf
Reply: san ka na? am juz here sitting. red checkered top
1 message from Alterjon: look behind you

And there he was. Did the usual meet and greet and what do you know? It's like I've known him far long before. He complimented how tall I am. I then remember how I refuse to be the onii-chan whenever he calls me such, and at that point, I thought there’s no point denying the obvious. He’s so little!

The exchange of banters begun. Talked about pains of previous attempts in love, you probably would expect some drama sequence, but no. Nothing like that. The only drama we had is “hair-drama.” You see, in about the same time he shaved his head, I also shaved mine, well not entirely, but part of my head when I had a mohawk. And yeah, for same reason but for different persons.

Hanging out with him is like hanging-out with myself, a better version of me I would say. From books to sex, writing, movies, jokes, felt like we could talk about casseroles and empty shoe box and things would be just as fun.

A few minutes past 7 in the evening

We’re in a department store and he was busy finding the right size that would fit his size one body. On the background, a saleslady was promoting Wow Magic Sing, belting with her beautiful rendition of “Ang Tipo Kong Lalake.” I was grinning while I watch the saleslady sing and had this epiphany that I’m in love with the lyrics of that song. I looked at Alterjon and saw that he’s grinning too while silently singing. I shook my head and laugh.

Between us, I noticed he’s the more congenial. He would smile at the cashier and politely answer to their queries as oppose to me being the snob with my always ready smirk.

“Maybe that’s why I’m still this single. There's no venue for me to meet guys,” I said out of nowhere.

“Well, anywhere is a venue. See that guy, he checked us out! Stare back, smile and say hi.”

He could do that. I can't. Or maybe I could?

Between 20 to 30 minutes past 8 in the evening

Hungry at last from long walks and the seemingly endless conversation, we ended up at the best place to squash that hunger --- food court. I didn’t understand why he picked the other store from another saying “mas maganda yung kulay nung mga pagkain sa kabila” but all the same, the hundred peso dinner could match those at Via Mare and Mairon. Even better.

In those events that you trail the letters of our blogs, you may probably accused us of being emo-tards. That’s no true. And here for proof, I give you Alterjon’s powder blue striped pajamas with printed little bunnies and DB’s pink velvet slippers that squeak whenever he jumps as feathers fly in all directions.

Behold, your happy twin bloggers.

Around 10 or 11 in the evening

I am thankful Tanduay Ice is not available anywhere in Metro Walk and he wouldn’t drink anything other than that. From being the first two customers of O-Bar in Ortigas, we became the hottest dancing pair it has ever seen!

The guys around watched, envious. Some even tried to get in our little circle to no success. It is, after all, a night made for us, the night of confirmation, the night when the gods gave their nods and said “they are indeed brothers.”

After draining the last drop of booze, after that last song, when we hugged in the dance floor before leaving the party behind us, I silently said a prayer to no god in particular. Two words: thank you.

Almost 2 in the morning

Who would’ve thought walking from Ortigas to Shaw Boulevard could be such bliss? No, we’re not drunk, we decided on that. The paths are just clearer. He said the stars looked at us that night jealous as our voices and laughter filled the empty streets of that part of the Metro, want to know why? Because only stars like us can do what we did.

And so next time, we’ll dance like tomorrow is ours.

Give or take 20 to 30 minutes after 2 in the morning

1 message from Alterjon: Not a second bored. It was definitely worth my Saturday. Kudos my brother, we deserve the world, we’re good people, fuck those assholes. Take care.

Reply: Take care too. Remember that from now on, u hav a brother u can call anytime u need him. We’ll have more adventures, I promise.

14th of April, almost a week after

Doesn't everything seems bigger when looking back? I would be more than glad to give you a blow by blow account but some things better remain between us. I'm just proud about this friend who writes so well, whose smile so warm and contagious and wears a lady's pants because its the only thing that would fit him

This is for you brother... and everyone out there who can relate to Alterjon and Desole Boy.

Searching
for a home to rest
back in the wilderness
yearning
for your light and winds
We carry a bundle of scars
We carry a bundle of stars

Searching
for a home to rest
back in the wilderness
yearning
for your light and winds
We carry a bundle of tears
We carry a bundle of dreams

The picture beside the poem is just too cheesy, yes? Just go [here] to wash away some "cheese."

Live Curious

2011-04-11T21:08:00.000+08:00

____
Ignorance is BORING!

Inspired by National Geographic's Live Curious campaign.

He's lovin', touchin', squeezin'

2011-04-04T12:28:00.000+08:00

I’ll tell you where I am. This is a private resort somewhere in Antipolo owned by two former classmates in Ateneo de Manila who got bored and converted this former family rest house to a money-making entity. There are two wide swimming-pools surrounded by tall mango trees and some other cross-breeds. Nearby is a pond where fat Japanese Kois are whirling happily and a pair of swan floating majestically.

House music fills the upscale air, a glass of vodka sitting on my side and Mikey, the thirty-ish co-owner of the resort was telling me how he was forced to shop with his girlfriend in Hong Kong the other week because apparently there’s a massive sale in H & M and some other brands. I could barely understand what he’s saying since I was too busy eyeing my friend Angela at the far corner of the cottage flirting with a guy and I am calculating inside my head the possibility that she would take him home which would mean I have to find another ride after.

“…San Sebastian?” Mikey is still talking and I only catched his last two words.

“I’m sorry, what was it again?”

He leaned forward and I felt his breath on my left ear before he said “Are you a graduate from San Sebastian?”

“No. I’m from PUP. You know…a state university…”

“Really? Eto sigurado na ko, masscomm ka, right?”

“You said that because I’m working for ___. But no, I’m a graduate of Broadcast Communication. Ha!”

“What’s the difference?”

“A lot!”

Actress-TV host from a Spanish-Filipino clan who married hunky six-footer basketball player was also there. She’s very pretty and kind, which I did not expect since she appears to be this mataray in television. Then there was this gay radio and TV personality who seemed classier than what I expected him to be, GMA7 director from some gag show who also got tangled with few starlets and a girl who according to Mikey is a daughter of a politician.

At some point, I was talking to this group of struggling female models. I call them “miniature Karens” and yeah, you have to watch Mean Girls to get that line. I know three of them. One is currently a girl from The Price Is Right and two of them are former brief-case girls from Deal or No Deal. But all seven girls were hanging in every word I’m speaking about the story of executed Filipina Sally Ordinario Villanueva. They couldn’t believe how Sally got involved in a well syndicated drug cartel unknowingly and how Tita Cacayan gave her the infamous bag that contained hidden drugs.

One girl exclaimed, “Ohhh Emmm Geee, did she died (sic)?”

“Yeah. All three of them last Wednesday,” I simply said.

Now, this must be a terrible joke of fate. Almost a year ago, I left this exact scene I despised yet here I am, laughing my ass off stupidly with a dozen people who are all strangers a day ago and still. These people who are blithely unaware that Jonas Burgos “went on holiday” without notice and that deputy presidential spokesperson Abigail Valte doesn’t fully understand half of what she’s saying, I thought I’m through with all of them.

How could I fit well? My world is with the vagabonds and scavengers, with Ate Sol in her invisible household in the side-street of Escolta and the kubol of rallying fired ABS-CBN IJM employees. I want to sweat it out under a bloody sun of protest, eat hand to mouth from a transparent plastic filled with rice and a piece of daing and study the forensic of film-making in the slums of Tondo. I'm from Idaho, for Rico Puno's sake, not from Hollywood!

I did not go back home in Bulacan that night. Angela and the guy she's tongue-wrestling with disappeared all of a sudden without the bitch telling me to go find another ride.

But guess what? I did find another “ride” that evening, if you know what I'm saying.

I'll tell you where I am now. Tomorrow I'll think about principles and the constitutionality of condom-use but for now, I need to focus in pumping my new found "ride." This is where I am.

Maybe what they said is true, that I am truly back. Yeah, maybe I'm back. Oh yes, I'm back!

originally titled "Still at the point of a turning world"

Much I write about nothing

2011-03-31T06:37:00.000+08:00

Today I would write about nothing. Have you read one, an article about nothing? I haven’t, and so if you already did, please spare me the slap that this wasn’t really an original creation of my shrieking mind once again espousing the term brilliance. This is obviously not a rambling post, a manifesto or a pseudo-intelligent commentary. Just plain nothing. And as the cliché goes, proceed if you’ve got nothing better to do.

Nothing. I look at my cell phone, a black Nokia C3 with scratches on screen and fading characters in a key pad with its nine peso load, and thought that if it is indeed the measure of today’s caste, my head would be chopped first. Ten-tenenen-ten-ten…ten-ten, it ranged. It was a message from Fully Booked that my reservation for this book I’ve been salivating for is on due. I checked my wallet and aside from ATM receipts and ID’s, there was nothing there but a mocking two US dollars, one thousand Korean won and two happy faces of Sergio Osmena.

Nothing. Had I have the money, bongos wouldn’t be banging rapidly in my head and I won’t be found in my room with a mounting laundry on the floor of underpants and suspenders while shooting pigs with bullet birds. I turned the dials of my radio, probably the one from Nikola Tesla himself, and there was Datu’s Tribe rocking like the first time I saw them in a mob. I turned it off. I don’t need more emo-schmucks. I, after all, got more dramas than you could possibly imagine and I don’t need to listen to anything more than that. Maybe that’s why no one bothers to read this blog. Enough is enough, the f--- saying goes.

Nothing. True, it must be selfish that I shopped for new bed sheets and black satin curtains and complain about the bad state of my personal nation where it could be paradise for Butchoy, an eight year old kid with his bag of toys that contains soda crowns, a gnome figurine about sixteen centimeters tall stolen from some barren family garden and a half-used notepad, whose only wish is to eat in what he called a "styrofoam plate with small partitions" in it. But what could be done? I learned to raise my fist in rallies wearing my black Giordano polo shirt and dreamt of ostracizing black witches and wizards of this blue-red-and-white kingdom but was lost from the inertia of dazzling strobes and cups of caramel macchiato.

Nothing. I blog in the middle of gossips, perpetual judgments and happy faces with smiles as wide as a Tarsier’s to no certainty as to why I’m still contributing to this idiosyncrasy of constant self-promotion, no, not on the verge of narcissism as it goes, I believe, way beyond that, and yet continue running on a treadmill like a rat. Was it the magnetism of half-naked bodies? The shameless sexual innuendos? Or the delusion of finding the right love in a wrong place? I hope not.

Today I write nothing and gave you nothing. Nothing, that in the hopes that when tomorrow inevitably pave its way, I could give you something bigger than my man-boobs and my exploding tummy. And before I rant once more about me being “undateable” and how I’m this rejected package of everybody, I would cut loose. Tomorrow I will sue everyone who fabricated lies about me and drew malignant caricature of me in drag. But today, I will masturbate to Elton’s video with his beautiful face in it imagining how I could strangle his smooth neck as I shove my d--- in his mouth, pray the rosary in three languages then go to Quiapo with my tin cans and beg for conscience and coins with my fellow passersby.

For the love of Jet

2011-03-29T06:35:00.000+08:00

It was only years ago when I discovered my love for jet ski, and starting then, I never miss an opportunity, if there's any, to take ride on that “water scooter” and fire away in the open sea.

Last year, I think, was the peak of my fascination. When Donald, my American cousin in law, learned that I also love jet skiing, he paid for a whole day rent of two jet skiis in Subic. If I'm in love with it, he's obsessed with it! Ang nangyari, ako ang nagsawa at his expense.

DB enjoying the calm sea with a raging fever. This was a day before I got hospitalised for Dengue

Jet skiing gives me a glimpse of freedom. It’s the ability to maneuver whichever and wherever direction you want, claiming the sea like a wide open universe to conquer all for yourself. You look back and you see how far you are from where you came from until it's almost gone. The water gushing on your face, like sprinkles of blessings from the goddesses, admiring and envious of your courage for taking what’s rightfully yours.

Jet ski. Escape. Freedom.

This baby is a Yamaha VX Cruiser with 1052cc displacement

So, how about a ride with me? C'mon! I promise, you'll be safe...

____
"Freedom is the only thing we must demand in life. For all good things stem from it."
-Miguel Syjuco, Ilustrado

Paalam, hanggang sa muli

2011-03-27T08:06:00.001+08:00

Ikaw na bayan ng mga magigiting, ng mga sampagang kay yumi, lupain ng Silanganing pangarap. Ikaw na pinagmumulan ng mga sundalong unipormado ng dasal, mga sundalong nagmamartsa sa mga tulay na lupa ng karagatan, gumagawa ng mapa ng pagkamit, armado ng mga larawan at ngiti, pinatatapang ng gutom at kamangmangan.

Sa ilalim nitong nagdidilim na langit, mula sa pulang lawin hanggang sa aandap-andap na dilaw na araw, patuloy ang paghabi ng mga samu’t-saring kwentong dumadaan sa iisang imprentahang nagmumura ng lintik. Nilulunok ang laway bilang pamatid uhaw; patuloy na lumalakad upang marating ang kawalan.

O pangarap. Pangarap ng de-kuryenteng gasera na walang nakasusulasok na usok na nanunuot sa tungki ng ilong. O pangarap. Pangarap ng de-susing manika, ng ma-kremang hamon, ng mamula-mulang keso de bola at kalesang may makina na pinatatakbo ng hanging amihan. O pangarap.

Humudyat na ang kampana ng kamatayan, kasabay ng imno ng kalayaan sa kumpas ng mga dumadagundong na sasakyan ng Edsa. Hayaan mong umawit ang mga uwak ng kanilang pasasalamat. Hayaan mong bilangin ng aking rosaryo bawat butil ng tadhanang dapat sana’y nanging mga oyayi’t kundiman. Taniman ng rosas ang nagyeyelong kumunoy. At sa mga mamula-mulang niyebe, ibulong mo ang biro ng pamamaalam kasabay ng isang awit sa himig ng pasyon.

Sa muling pagsasama-sama, iinom tayo sa saro ng dugo ng pagkabigo, pagtataksil at pagkukunwari. Tatawanan natin ang mga pang-aalisputa ng mga enkanto't diwata. Sasayaw tayo sa ibabaw ng mga gusaling binubuo ng mga palapag ng pagpapatawad.

Araw lamang ang lulubog. Araw lamang ang mamamaalam. Ano mang sikip ng mga eskinita’t lansangan, may tala pa rin ng pag-asang pinakikislap ng pag-ibig at paghamon. Ito pa rin ang parehong langit. Ito pa rin ang parehong buhay.

At sa araw na yaon ng paglaya, mamanahin namin ang mga luhang hindi lumuhod sa kapalaran. Muli, ilalagay namin ang aming mga kamao sa kaliwang dibdib para sa bayang nilisan at marahil tunay ngang bumigo.

Paumanhin sa inyo, mga biktima ng pulang buwan. Sa katapusan ng isang madilim na bukang liwayway, nawa’y mabatid ninyo na minsan…may isa, dalawang pusong nakinig sa inyong mga kwento. Mga kaluluwang nakababatid na minsan, may mga matapang na sundalo mula sa isang bayang dating tinawag na Perlas ng Silanganan na nangarap hanapin ang buntot ng bahaghari sa lupain ng ilusyon at pantasya.

Mananalangin ako hanggang sa huli. Mananalangin kami.

___

Para kina Sally Ordinario-Villanueva, Ramon Credo, Elizabeth Batain, sa kanilang mga mahal sa buhay, sa daang-libong mga manggagawa sa ibang bansa, sa mga kapwa ko Pilipinong nananatili sa ilalim ng isang bandilang nakagapos at sa bayan kong minsa'y naging Lupain ng Pangako.

I refuse to grow up

2011-03-25T09:15:00.000+08:00

You dance with your straight male colleagues ala-Masculados as the Batasan PA played "you don't have to be rich to be my girl" with crumpled papers and ball pens flying at your direction from a giggling crowd of press. Managed to whip up a revenge-sex and I'm feeling devilishly triumphant like some villain from a primetime teleserye. Bought Maria Ressa's "Seeds of Terror" and threw coins on a wishing fountain without anything in mind. All these, thanks to the all-great Flying Spaghetti Monster and Elmer, the Greek God of Glue.

In a few days, I will lose my job. I was reduced to the last bit and was insulted by the salary offer since the company cannot carry more the burden of my very small rate. It's always been like that, 80% of experience and 20% of your skills, not minding the fact the you do charity in your own job by doing four positions like news desk, reportorial, technicals then writing, all at the same time. I will lose my job because that's what they want to so I would like to call it an elaborate lay-off. I could do nothing. I'm not a regular employee, all ten of us, as with the thousand case of many media practitioners.

I tried bringing up the tears. I, after all, learned to show compassion for the struggling organization and I did my best to try and keep-up with the fast pace of competition.

I tried bringing up the tears like I used to but all I can muster is a hefty laugh and my crazy shenanigans. Tomorrow I will refuse to do my job and dance away with my Peter Pan friends at Republiq. Next next week I will empty half of my bank account to buy that camera I've been lusting for so long and I already said yes to a trip somewhere in Visayas to take it on a test-drive with my gang.

I failed, I know and I'm waiting for that huge sound of thud to come so I could cry and run to mama and look and sound miserable. I know I could call a few people and tell them what happened and in a month or two I'll get another job, probably. But why am I not having those meltdowns like before? I don't know what I'm expecting or even looking for but something is terribly missing.

Like before when a guy I dated would never call back after. Like then when I lost in a declamation competition back in high school. Like then when my father left to continue his work abroad. Like then when a classmate accidentally broke my mechanical pen.

Friends didn't say "you can do it, hold on" but instead, the fuckers just laughed and said "that's what you get from being so idealistic." Mama didn't say "it's alright anak" but said "kumain ka na, punyeta ka 'pag nagkasakit ka na naman magbabantay na naman ako sa ospital." And what else? My goddamn father called me and said "come here, my boss wants to meet you." You're probably wondering what's the punchline so for your information he's in Bahrain and it fucking martial law there! Goodness!

It was my bestfriend who told me what's happening.

"Bes," she said "that's what you call maturity. And alas, you meet him for the first time."

"Oh boy! Really now? But I refuse to...."

She just shrugged.

When I thought about it, I think I refuse to be mature. Being a child, a kid, is always easier. You think of the things you thought you need. Then you want it. Then you go for it. If you'll have it, you're happy. If not, you moan, you rant and the universe will conspire to deliver it to you because poor you would never stop crying, tears and slimes oozing from nose and mouth and then that's it!

And that, I think, is how it should be! I am kid for fuck sake! So what the hell is happening now?
___

On a lighter note, since I'm a proud uncle, thought I'd share this to you guys.

That's my niece Gabby from Korea. Her mom, my cousin, sent this via Facebook.

Don't worry Gabby, uncle is smiling!!

Romancing the pain

2011-03-21T03:08:00.000+08:00

For once, aamin ako na hindi ako okay sa paraang walang ligoy. No confusing metaphors and diversive poetic verses.

I am not okay. Patung-patong na kasi. Pero hindi ko kailangan ng awa. Salamat, pero 'wag na kayong maawa sa 'kin.

It's so painful. Ang sakit pala kapag ibang tao ang nagsabi sa 'yo na nakaka-awa ka kahit alam mo na rin naman sa sarili mo na nakaka-awa ka naman talaga.

It might sound egoistic,selfish and all haughty and proud, I don't care.

Whatever happened in the past, I think I managed to pull myself together well, pride and dignity intact. Huwag naman sanang kunin sa 'kin yung mga nalalabing yun. Yun na lang ang meron ako. Ibalato ninyo na sa 'kin yun.

Kung ano man yung meron ngayon, kung ano man ang meron sila, hindi na 'ko kasali dun. Nasa ibang aklat na 'ko. Wala na rin ang mga nakalipas na pahina. Lahat yun, pilit ko nang kalimutan dahil sawa na kong magalit at ayokong makasakit.

Iniisip ko na lang pinagbabayaran ko na ang mga ginawa ko noon. I know I did things, terrible things during my rebellious years, but I changed. I know I'm far from being good, but I'm trying. I'm trying...and here's what I got --humiliation [and lies].

And so, I thank those people who instead of saying "kawawa ka naman" said "nah, it happens dude."

Hindi ko na rin alam kung dapat ba 'kong magpasalamat sa mga taong nagsabi sa 'kin pero sige na nga...salamat na rin sa inyo.

Maybe next time I'll finally get it right. But for now, I'll sleep. So that tomorrow I could face my mistakes with the little pride I've regained myself.

Until then...see you my friend.

2.35am 20th of March│Désolé Boy en route to Mount Olympus to meet Elmer, The Greek God of Glue

___

I am me. I am fine.

Don't pity me.

For a soldier, his pride and honor are his greatest shield and weapon. With the countless struggles, which include rejections, persecutions and physical defilement, in the twenty three years of my life, a lot has been taken from me: a normal family; my manhood; a comfortable life; different chances.

But all through that, I managed to grasp firmly with my pride. Because like what this general who chose to end his life in his own hands said: living without pride and honor is a tragedy bigger than death itself.

I am fine. Don't pity me.

I am me. I am happiness.

To pity someone is to look down upon that person. Compassion and mercy are what it should be, because for compassion and mercy to happen, one must either descend to that person's miserable state or lift him up away from that cauldron of hell.

I am fine. I don't need your pity.

I am me. I will conquer forever.

I will be fine.

12.17am 21st of March│Désolé Boy en route to Purgatorio with Dante and Virgil

When the saints go marching in

2011-03-18T12:14:00.000+08:00

A man pasted a placard on his bicycle with his wife's name on it. He roams around, making his way around the rubbles, riding his bike, carrying few photos of his wife kept at the inside of his jacket, asking anyone he comes across if they happen to see her. Anxious passersby with their hurried pace shrug, others shake their heads. And off he goes again.

A family was reunited after three days of search and nervous waiting. Tears gushing in ther faces, they rush to one another then wrap themselves in tight embrace. They couldn't believe it. At the verge of losing hopes, they find peace in the midst of a stricken land at the return of their loved ones.

A father was talking to his wife on the phone, line was disrupted from time to time. He consoles his wife and says not to worry, That he's taking good care of their son well. They were safe and are waiting for the rations to come.

Kono Bokuke is looking for his employees. They were at his store when the rushing sea water devastated their town. Days after the quake, he jaunts one evacuation center to another searching for his people who might've escaped the wrath of raging tsunami. And he succeeded. He found one..two. And still, he longs for more of them. At the end of the day, he wonders, will it be possible for him to rebuilt his business?

Sieco Sato is looking over a space where once his house stood. He recalled as he watched from afar how his 30 years of hard-work that built his house were swept away in an instant, then crushed. He left, head and shoulders down, shaking his head.

***

I'll tell you what I tell people who ask me about the recent tragedies of the world with all the fear of catastrophes and prophetic doom.

I tell them, that the real tragic and most horrific scenes happen everyday. And you know what makes it more gruesome? It's that we are either too busy with all our selfish shenanigans or we simply don't want to care.

Twenty-five thousand people around the world die everyday because of hunger. And then look at our unfinished dinner plates. Look at the wasted bulk of rice at NFA's bunker.

Sabi nga ni Ricky Lee, ang Pilipinas ay isang napakalaking bunganga ng pagkagutom. Nakakita ka na ba ng taong kumukuha ng maiinom sa kanal para mapatid ang kanyang pagka-uhaw? Alam mo bang nung isang araw sa Bagong Silang Caloocan, may isang tatay ang inaresto dahil sa panggagahasa nito sa kaisa-isang anak na trese anyos na dalagita?

Nababalitaan mo ba na kahit nagtapos na ang administrasyon ni Gloria Arroyo, mahigit dalawang dekada matapos ang Edsa revolution, marami pa ring mga aktibista ang bigla na lang nawawala at dinudukot sa mga iba't-ibang mga probinsiya at nayon? Alam mo ba na ang tagapagsalita ng Pangulo, si Abigail Valte, mali-mali at parang hindi alam ang mga sinasabi at ang media pa ang nagtatama sa mga pahayag niya? Alam mo ba na sa kulang dalawang-daan na suspek sa Maguindanao massacre, isa pa lang ang nababasahan ng sakdal?

Kapag ba tinanong kita kung ilan lahat ng brutal na pinaslang sa Maguindanao massacre, makakasagot ka ba ng hindi tumitingin sa Google o sa dyaryo? Kilala mo ba sina Sally Ordinario, Ramon Credo at Elizabeth Batain?

Behold! These, I think, are also tragedies! We are in the middle of a violent cataclysm, killing us all one by one, and the worst of it? We are deeply unaware or unfazed by all of it.

I'm not saying that all the problems of the world could be solved or should be solved. But maybe, or at least, we should try. We should at least try and start caring.

Eh nakakabili ka nga ng iPhone at Blackberry eh. Kabisado mo nga lahat ng applications at mga blog ng ini-stalk mong bloggers. Why don't we become an active member of this world, worthy of every grace it's giving to us?

You may probably say that I'm a dreamer. And it's alright. At least I'm not the only one. Right John Lennon?

***

Marapat nating iwaksi mula sa ating
Kaluluwa ang lahat ng takot at silakbot
Na dulot ng nagbabadyang panahon.
Angkinin natin ang katiwasayan
Sa kahigitan ng ating damdamin.
At marapat nating pakaisipin na
Anumang darating ay tanging-laan
Sa atin bilang atas ng daigdig
na puno ng karunungan.
Ang sumulong ng may wagas na pananalig
Na hindi nakasandig sa layaw ng buhay.
Pukawin natin ang sariling kamalayan
Sa tuwing sisilay ang umaga
At sa bawat pagdatal ng dilim.

Rudolf Steiner
salin mula sa Ingles nina
Necias Chavez Pataunia
Maria Abulencia

mga panalangin

Republiq

2011-03-15T09:41:00.001+08:00

It’s again my first and this time--- its Republiq baby!!

Probably one of the top coolest hot-spots to stomp it out on the dancefloor nowadays, the crowd there is super dope! I mean, c’mon, it’s a haven for partyphiles like me. The sight of grinding hot girls is just too much (for some reason, I like me some girl on girl action =p).

The space is huge, music is awesome, what else could you ask for?

Another thing I proved from partying there is that I’m abusing Facebook too much. It’ so creepy when you started seeing familiar faces grinning at you who used to be just small display pictures on the net.

One is a long-time crush, print and TV commercial by the name of Z. Another is a photographer/model who offers photo-shoots for what he says “a very affordable and high class standard.” He’s good, honestly and he gave me a tiny “kilig” moment there. He caught me staring shamelessly at him but instead of raising his eyebrow he raised his glass to me like saying “cheers” then winked.

I went there, actually last Saturday (no party for me this weekend since I’m feeling a bit under the weather) to welcome a friend, Angela, from her month-long exile in Singapore.

Angela came back from whoring around that city and I was a bit envious. She resigned from ABS-CBN like me, but then unlike what I did (jumping onto the next job) she treated herself for a vacation after.

I missed her so much that I couldn’t contain myself so I kissed her on the lips. We’ve been friends since we both started our career in the network. I even owe her my life as she was the one who dragged me on the sands of Boracay after passing out from obsessive alcohol abuse on some party back then (the excuse is that. I’m broken hearted then..and still. Lol) all the way up to our hotel room. Dun niya 'ko talo. The bitch never get drunk!

Anyway, I hope you guys could check it out one of these days. I wish I took some pictures but my cousin borrowed my cam and I couldn't grab Angela's photos as it would risk revealing the persona of DB. But still I assure you you’ll gonna have great time with your friends and the people there. It’s a perfect place to leave all the drama behind. Believe me!

photo credit: wheninmanila.com