In the dark

  When news circulated that E-heads are gonna reunite in a concert, my heart stopped with excitement.

The
rumor spread like widfire, everybody was as excited as I am. People
criticized the gig as a viral marketing gimmick of Marlboro. But who
the hell cares– it’s the Eraserheads! they are gonna play those
momerable songs again, live! They are gonna be together again on stage,
those five whackos who succeeded to give voice to the sentiments of a
generation when it still has aimless vigor and devil-may-care attitude;
they gave life, laughter and tears, feelings, FEELINGS, and angst,
before things got tired, routine and jaded. They erased assumptions and
expectations. Then they broke up becuase they got tired themselves, but
now they are back… on a one time reunion concert.

Who the
hell gives a f*** if it took a couple million pesos from a cigarette
company to make this possible. The experience would be priceless no
matter…

The concert date came; i still didn’t have a ticket
and I already psyched myself that I wouldn’t be able to watch them
anymore. I got too busy the past weeks, and tired as usual to attend to
something to inflame my passion… anyway–

I was at work, on my
third meeting of the day, tired as hell and still with traces of
hangover from a couple of bottles the night before. I was expecting an
uneventful night, but things were about to take a fortunate turn. When
I was on my way home, I received a text from a stranger saying that she
has tickets for me.

It turns out, Danz remembered that one of
her co-workers has a husband who works for Ivory records, and this
co-worker, against odds, has two extra tickets left.

I quickly
met up with Danz’s friend, shelled out cash, which is another
unexpected element to this story considering that I was broke just days
before. An hour later, just minutes before the gates of the venue
closed, Danz finally arrived.

We got in, swam into a thick
flood of people all eagerly waiting for things to get rolling. It
finally came down to the last few minutes, the bass suddenly thumped like a
heartbeat in time with countdown: Five, thump, four, thump, three,
thump, two…

Lights were shut off; the crowds screamed,
clapped, jumped, cellphones were raised to capture video images, a
thousand camera flashbulbs sparked… and then the first few notes of
Alapaap played. The roar of the crowd was exponentially increased…

The Eraserheads are back!

They played on, the people sang with them, all were smiling, jigging their hips to the beat, and everybody was young again.

This
was history in the making; or perhaps, a return to when significant
history was made in each individual’s lives. It was a dive into
nostalgia with a smile, and everybody wanted it to last for as long as
possible. Everybody could almost feel the vigor return; they could
taste the youthfulness of days gone. Everybody almost forgot they
were tired…

Toyang, Dear Kim, Fruit Cake… With a smile…

Then
Ely Buendia stopped and kneeled with a very sad face. He heaved a
sigh… he was suddenly very tired. The lights went out on stage.

It
was then announced that Ely had to be rushed to the hospital, something
was wrong with his heart. The concert was then cut short.

I didn’t get to hear magazine, pare ko… or huling el bimbo.

It
was okay, but my heart ached for eraserheads, for ely, for myself, for
the crowd, for the tiredness returning. I ask, are they really gone
now, gone like the things that left when we grew up and became tired?

The concert didn’t finish… but maybe it is because it must not end. Not yet. I hope…

It’s two in the morning and the infant girl dreams of a wrinkled old lady gulping shot after shot of tequila in a pub filled with the dead, decrepit, and rotting.  She drinks until she’s smashed. Then, after sucking on a lemon slice, the wrinkled lady strips to her panties and begins to dance. The whole pub filled with moving skeletons and living-dead men begin to hoot and cheer her to go all the way. Before she could work her huge underwear off her sagging hips, at around five past two in the morning, the baby wakes up and begins to cry; and thus the nightmare ends.

A sleepy, overweight mother, who by now hates her baby, and wishes it dead, stuffs a bottle of milk in its mouth.

The infant returns to sleep. The mother utters a curse and looks as her child  returns to unconsciousness, with such unadulterated calm. Immediately she feels guilty for feeling such hatred to something so innocent and pure. She begins to cry for feeling helpless over things that she can’t even name.

The mother waits for someone to come and comfort her, just like how she came for her child. But there is no one around to woo her or give her milk; there is no one to put her back to sleep.

She is alone. Her husband left her for someone younger and prettier. She’s just too fat, haggard, wasted and old…. sad and old, and a little pathetic. She has nothing going for her but a monthly check for child support and a stupid baby who has recurring nightmares happening at the late hours of the night.

She walks out of the room feeling sorry for herself. She goes back to bed crying. Her tears drown her to sleep.

She then dreams of a mud bath with a talking blonde doll who keeps on telling her she is the prettiest girl on earth. She smiles as she snores, because in her dreams she is young and pretty and was allowed to swim in mud. Unlike now wherein she’s everything but… and the unseen dirt that has soiled her can’t be washed away by the usual soap and water.

She doesn’t want to wake up and was afraid to, but it is half past three and the cries of an infant girl flood the house, leaking wakefulness back into her senses. Yet again, one woman leaves a nightmare, while the other returns to one.

–

I wrote this in the middle of writing a difficult script for a TV show where half-beasts, half-humans fight against mortals for domination… ugh…

I just thought that I should write a story for her.

This is not what I had in mind. But this is what came out in that thirty minute coffee break, which is a much needed breather before I return to the ardious task of putting up a tv script of monsters that are men and men that are monsters.

- j

2 days ago, Cubao

I was amazed to find out that at December 26, three years ago, A day after Christmas, I wrote yet another thing about death… hmmmnnn…

He was hovering slowly within the labyrinthine cavern when
he woke up.

Serenely afloat, he carefully examined the creases on the
walls, the stalactites from above and the pearl beads of water falling from it. 

“Surely, this is a dream.” he thought to himself. He stared hard in hurried admiration at the
beauty of the cavern, because by the moment his hover began to pick up speed. While this happened the light in the cavern began to fade.

The place was a series of interconnected tunnels. Before
everything became totally dark he was suddenly sucked into one of the
holes. It was a vacuum. He was sucked and spitted out from one tunnel to
another. He saw nothing, he only felt his fast movement like a rollercoaster
ride on a lost cavern shaft set on hyper speed. 

After awhile, he no longer cared and actually felt at ease
in the darkness. His movement didn’t seem to matter either. His current condition
became the constant, there was no other option but to accept and enjoy. Only
then did a faint light loom far ahead. The light got nearer and nearer and he
collided with it. He woke up. He was a cow.

A “moo” was the sound
of his scream and this wracked him in panic. He tried to stand up, but he shook
and fell. His legs were wobbly. Goo covered his whole body, and then he felt
something warm licking his back. When he turned and saw the owner of the
soothing tongue, he took off immediately. It was a large white head of a cow. 

His legs being used for the first time were still shaky, and
he trembled, walking backwards, away from the white cow that warmly sought his
frail body.

His mind was set into turning and running,  but as he made his turn he caught a glimpse of the white
cow’s breasts. At that moment he stood still, unable to do anything else. An
irresistible urge burned in him. He walked slowly towards it, nuzzled under,
and started sucking. Immediately, he felt at peace. 

As the milk flowed in his mouth to his body, it washed away
everything he once was. He began to forget his past… all the papers and
research he must finish, the meetings he must attend to, the deadlines he must
meet, even when his car collided with another vehicle that caused his death. At
the moment, there was only the white cow’s breast and the milk coming out of it, the warm spreading sensation through out his body and a joyous anticipation
for the hill’s green pastures that began to fill his mind… everything else was inconsequential.

-

December 26,
2004

Just in case I die…

I want my body cremated. Make sure they do it well. I want
to be a fine gray ash when I leave the furnace. Then put my remains in an urn,
if an urn is not available, a shoebox would suffice. 

Put the container of my ash in the middle of my room and
leave it there for three days. During which nobody is allowed to say my name,
or even recall a memory of me. At the end of the third day go to a beach,
anywhere would do – though I prefer the drama of a ManilaBay sunset, and there, throw my
ashes to the filthy water.

Then whisper some thanks to the wind that the whole ordeal
is over. 

All the books and DVDs that I’ve borrowed ought to be
returned. The ones that are left are to be given to Lyndee, my youngest sister, with instructions
that she should take care of them with every bit of herself. If she is unable
to do so, burn all my books and bury the ashes. 

Every thing I have written should be deleted. The ones in
print, if any remains should be burned with my body. They go with me to the
netherworld.

If, however improbable, I have any property or money to my
name, I want them distributed to my siblings equally, including Ate Kaye, my cousin. A
portion of the money— an eighth should be enough— should be given to JT, a trusted friend, with
instructions of using it to buy drinks and pig ears for a party to celebrate my
life and passing. 

And if ever there’s someone whom I loved, I apologize,
because my love for you shall remain in this world. Strong emotions are far too
heavy to carry on the other side. Believe me when I say that I loved you truly,
and I here forth I leave you with a burden: for you shall be the only one allowed
to keep memories of me. You’ll remember me, every romantic detail and every
hurt, until your very last gasp of breath.

So goodbye… 

And since I have loved then I have lived my life. And if
only for that, I thank you all.

Now celebrate my loss, because truly— I am no loss, and I
write this only to annoy. 

I just am, and now I am gone, never to be…

                                                                                              -

                                                                                                December 26,
2004

The woman, a prophet, was in a severe stage of emaciation
when I found her. She lay in a dingy and obscure part of the alley, groping at
her cane as if it’s the last vestige that connects her to this world. She looks
far worse now than when she last spoke to me in another dream years ago. 

Her throat had a constant rasping sound when she breathed.
She couldn’t open her eyes. It made her appearance less frightening; the cover
of her lids, locked by a green paste, made her white-filmed eyeballs unexposed.
This though, did not lessen her terrible form. She looked more pathetic than
ever. 

Although, this is just a judgment I’ve bestowed on her mere
façade. In truth, in spite her total blindness and decrepit state, she sees
everything and feels everything of this world; her soul has reached a point of
grandeur unimaginable.

In truth, if compared, I am a hundred fold more fragile than
she is.

“I tell you again,” the words struggled out of her frail
body. “Choose love, it is the only right choice in the miserable plane of
existence where you and your kindred belong.”

“But I refuse to be foolish. Foolishness is love’s favorite
child. It leads to hurt. I refuse to be hurt.

“If I choose it, I’ve surrendered myself into weakness once
more. Can’t you see the strength that exists within me? Don’t you identify the
power I could muster? If I succumb once again, it’s as if I’ve betrayed my very
evolution towards my destiny.”

“You are foolish for not choosing. Foolish, that’s what you
are.”
“I am strong”
“Foolish and weak… only the strong could understand the
choice I proffer.”
“But I refuse to be weak.”
“And arrogant too, in your weakness.” 

She gurgled and spat out a wad of dark green goo,
stained with red. She caught her breath and continued:

“The arrogant refuse to admit their ignorance, because it
always hurts to know. To know is to love, you foolish boy. Be wise. Choose
love, travel the path and be purified.” 

“And end up like you?”

“Perhaps, or more!” She snorted to loosen the disease that
ravaged her body. “Leave me. I’m weary of your stupidity. You think you
understand, but in reality, you revel only in the vagueness of your blurred
truths.” She then leaned her forehead on
her cane, becoming as still as death, lost in her ancient tiredness. 

I walked away, hearing the gurgling sounds of her breathing.
I’ve now thrown myself to the pulpit of no return, having chosen love all over
again in my weakened state.

My heart beat a little faster as my body slowly dissolved to
the land of the waking. Thinking, how much better it could have been if I could
persist in consciousness, possessed completely and utterly by love, and at the
same time able to exist without fear of its inevitable lash. 

But alas, I am not strong. I couldn’t understand nor grasp
the message. And I am weak and so afraid.

I am awake.

“Nowadays, you are either blurred, aware, or lost… but
sometimes you are all three."
    - Jared to Rejegel; in their conversation at
Hellespoint after the suicide of Ro.
 

-

Later at the MRT, I opened the paper bag containing the book
I just purchased. I flipped through the first page and read while I leaned on a
bare wall and stood without care while waiting for the train.
 

Shortly, through the first paragraph where the character
Ludvicko suddenly found the lost memories of his childhood, the train arrived.
I was not able to get in because of the thick flood of people that poured in
and out of the doorway, making my goal, which is the same as theirs, impossible
to achieve. I was left behind because they were determined and I wasn’t. 

Like I’ve said: this day, I took my time.
 

I slowly walked through the length of the platform, which is
now emptied of people, now all crammed up inside a train car, with gloating
faces, as they looked at me, proud that they were inside and I wasn’t. I didn’t
care. I just walked to an empty bench, sat down and resumed reading.
 

My eyes rolled through the paragraph where the character
Ludvicko stood by the window and stared at the courtyard where he spent most of
his youth. The images in his head were vague, but still they exuded a feeling
of nostalgia for the young man he once was: a man who lived in a time when time didn’t amount to much. He remembered the youth who could just sit on
a marble bench and be content. Pleasure is merely the strong flood of breeze
through his nostrils; adventure is the stabbing pain in his sinuses as the
pungent scent of autumn leaves suffused with rot, moistened and chilled by the
thick morning fog, surged in his airways.

Now, Ludvicko has changed: the personas he should assume,
the places he must go to, the things he wished to possess, were all that
consumed him and his days. But ten years ago, while sitting in a bench,
Ludovicko forgot that he had to be somewhere else. Because it happened that he
sat on a bench and decided to stay and relish the joy, which he found in the
glum countenance of the morning sky. He
stayed and lost himself, or perhaps the opposite happened. That maybe in
such moments could he only become himself, because then, his purpose is no
longer dictated by something that must be done, but rather, he was driven by a
fundamental force— some sort of desire that’s untarnished by the presumptions
of what ought to be, and what must be done. He was just sitting and breathing.
For him, that was enough.
 

Then and there, in the empty marble bench, under the
twilight of dawn, he became fully aware that he is alive and existing. He just
is. And he had no need to rush into things, because he thought that things
wouldn’t go away, or maybe he thought, it wouldn’t even matter if they do, as long
as he stayed, or rather – existed while sitting in that lonely marble bench. It’s all
he required to be happy.
 

Then I lost Ludvicko. So I stopped contemplating him and
instead began searching for him in the first paragraph of the book. He was no
longer there.
 

Let me clarify to you that the book didn’t speak of any such
things that I mused. The book didn’t tell of Ludvicko the way I told of him.
I’ve reinvented Ludvicko. I’ve forgotten the Ludvicko in the book. In fact
there is no Ludvicko in the book. He went by another name and he is not at all
similar to the Ludvicko I’m speaking of. This is my Ludvicko; the Ludvicko who
remembers things that he had lost. This Luvicko is mine. And I did not find him
nor did I rush to create him. He came to me and asked me to own him. This
happened because at the moment when my butt met with the flat space of the
bench, in this empty platform, all through out, I took my time. And such things
happen when you do that.
 

When you are not rushing for things to happen, things still
happen, though you wouldn’t care if it happens to you or not. And if it does,
then it does; that’s all there is to it. If you take your time, it wouldn’t be
any of your concern if an expected event occurs ahead or with delay, because
you know that it will occur in its own time. And you don’t even have to wait;
you just have to know. The universe takes its time with you, and things fit
perfectly.
 

It’s just like dancing. When you dance, you take your time,
you move in time. You begin to own time, and then it owns you back. It’s just
like embracing something with resolve, and somehow, whatever it is, it almost
always tenderly embraces you back.

I was thinking these thoughts when an odd character, a
small, thin, creature pranced in front of me. He looked like Golumn. He sat beside me. I looked at him once; long
enough to make him know that I was aware he was there. I prepared myself in
case he decides to grab my book and scream “my precious” out loud, jealously and
victoriously, while running away as fast as he could. I was a bit suspicious.
He seemed to eye my book with interest and this is “my precious”, not his.
 

He had successfully intruded my solitude. I wanted to kick
his face.
 

“Is that Kundera’s new book?” Was how he began the small
talk, and he really did speak in English. Oddly, we talked in English all
through out the speak-easy. I had to emphasize this fact, because it’s not
often that a complete stranger, ugly as he is, would speak to me in English in
a train platform, late in the night, and ask about authors and books.
 

Considering the oddity of the conditions, the situation
became worthy of my time. I decided to answer his question and thus our flimsy
conversation began. “No, it was his first, before Farewell Waltz. Or was it Life
is elsewhere? * I’m not sure.” “Is
he a historical writer?” “No, fiction.” “Yes, I know, I mean…”
 

“He’s not a historical writer, though he uses historical
events in some of his novels.” I said flatly, not taking my eyes off the page.

“Are you a book worm?”  “Excuse me?” “Are you a
bookworm?” I squinted at his question
and asked: “What’s your name anyway?” “It’s Juris.” “Jules.” And we shook
hands. “What school do you go to, Juris?” “AMA, and you?” “I don’t.” “Why?” “I
just don’t.” “But why?” I shrugged.
 

“So are you a book worm?” “No, I just read.” “I’m a book
worm.”
 

He was quiet for a while, then he began again: “Do read
Philosophy books.” “Yes, some.” “Who’s you’re favorite?” “None, I read Ayn Rand
recently.” “O, what book? Was it Atlas
Shrugged?” “No, Fountain head.
Great book.” “I read Jolstein Gaardner, but he’s new, I also like Heidegger.”
“Kundera is philosophical as well,” I said.
 

He drew out a hanky from his pocket and wiped the sticky
balls of spit that gathered at both corners of his lips, and then he spoke: “O
yes, Kundera writes about philosophy, I’ve only read Unbearable lightness of Being, and I’ve also seen the movie. They
were despicable; horrendously ugly. Bleech!” “It’s my favorite book. The
movie’s alright,” I said.
 

He stopped. At this point I wanted to see if he would
retract his previous opinion of the book. I’m glad he didn’t, he said: “I find
him too honest. Kundera is an honest writer.” “I think all authors should be.”
“But he’s too vulgar.” I shrugged.
 

I was quiet and then he talked some more: “When I read
fiction, I want it to be fiction. I mean, I don’t want to read something that
will give me a sense of reality. Fiction should feel unreal.” “I just want to
read.”
 

“If you’re a bookworm like me, you should check out this
Afghan writer and his book kite runner,
they are adapting it on film. They’re shooting it already.” “Yeah, I read about
that in TIME.” “O you read TIME too. I don’t like magazines, of whatever sort.
They’re stupid. A waste of time.” “TIME is a waste of time.” “Anyway, this
Afghan writer is an Asian author.” “Afghan, Asian… okay.” “Asian authors are
the best. Do you like Asian authors?” “I read Murakami. Japanese. Asian.”
“Yeah, have you ever read his non-fiction?” “Underground— not yet.” “I don’t like him. His writing is
disgusting” “I love Dance, dance, dance.”
“How about Kafka on the shore?’” “Not
yet, I’m planning to read it though.” Then he blurted: “I feel lost when I read
him. And I don’t want to feel lost.”

I shrugged and flipped a page.
 

He was about to explain how Murakami made him feel lost, but
as his vocal chords vibrated producing the sound of his word’s first syllable,
a bald man suddenly sat on the bench, at the very space that separated us. That
ended our conversation and everything was quiet for a while. I continued
reading.
 

After a few moments, Juris stood up and awkwardly walked
away and sat himself at another bench at the far end of the platform. I looked
at him to see if he was seated beside someone else. He was. I thought of the
probability of him striking another small talk with another stranger. Then the
thought left my mind. I was about to recapture Ludvicko but the train arrived;
its cars were rather empty, considering how stuffed and suffocating these
trains could be.
 

I took my time entering the train. When I was finally
inside, the door beeped and closed behind me as if on cue.
 

The train moved in a rickety hum. I kept my balance as I
remembered the painting that I saw earlier at the mall gallery. It depicted the
sight I’m seeing now: a vivid picture of people with spent faces and sagging
bodies, contorted with fatigue; their hands held on to the rail, it’s as if
they were on a rally with raised fists, passionately advocating an ideal. In
reality though, with the way they looked, they appeared too tired to be
fighting for a cause, instead their faces spell out a common desire to lie down,
rest and go to a better place. Somewhere better than where they stand, better
than here on the train, better than where the train is taking them. I don’t know where,
but after two stops, an old woman carrying an infant came in. That was when I
noticed some of the faces change, as if they remembered something pleasant from
their past. It might be that place, perhaps. 
- 

Part 2 of 3, of ‘A baptism to the
solitary doctrine’, -030607

*Note: The book that
came after the book that I had was LaughableLoves.

BECAUSE OF THE BEATING BLACK HEART

Me monkey, he says,
and me have no name. Ya see, me just like to bounce and be all cute and fluffy.
He says that me not at all pretty, but ugly. Sordid— was the word he used. Me
not like that at all. Ya see, me not ugly or sordid. Me say, is all just on how
you want to see me. Everything is different for everybody, is always like that.
And me, when me look at m’self in the mirror, me like what me sees, ya see.  

Sef— he doesn’t like
hiself, that’s why he sees me ugly, he sees the world as he sees hiself… me
couldn’t blame him, ya see… he’s infected with something vile, that’s why…

He sees souls, that’s one of the things he
does, ya see. And he could see his own, and he not like it.  

You have to know
something about Sef, you see, without his sweater one sees that his chest
misses an entire breastplate, exposing his heart. Not pretty at all, unlike me.
His black heart is ugly and it has stopped beating a long time ago…ya see, but
not until recently.

Poor Sef, He’s now forgotten
how the beating heart is like, and he is beaten by it over and over, now that
it has begun to beat again. Poor guy suffers. And now me here to amuse him…
even if me can’t do much, me try my best. Actually, me like giving him pain,
but in a good way, you see.  

You see, me like
biting toes. Although, me bite him to distract him from suffering. Me good
little creature, you see. The end justifies the means, me believe in that. Sef
doesn’t, he’s changed, ya see. He only believes in the insignificance of
things… although, in spite this sad belief, his heart starts pumping again, ya
see. Me suspect it’s because of this fairy— a lady with blue light. She changed
him. He changed hiself, ya see… for her.

Changed for the
better? Or for worse? Me don’t care. Me just like to bounce, chase the spinning
Ferris wheels, me like to bite toes. Even so, me still have a purpose,
everything has, me believes that… you see. 

And Sef’s heart— now
that it’s beating again— has a purpose too. Me prays though, (me prays when me
don’t understand things) that it’s all for good, whatever ‘good’ means. (Means
different for everybody, you see). Still, the end justifies the means. But what
is the end that could justify the means… who are we to judge?

Me not a judge, me
just odd monkey-like creature without a name. And Sef is just a useless demigod
with a beating black heart.

-

“Quit it monkey… who
are you calling useless? You do know that I can read your mind?” Sef
telepathically spoke to the creature. “And
what’s with the ‘yah see’ and ‘me instead of I’ speech gimmick. I know that you
know how to speak properly.” 

“It’s the way I speak to myself, in my mind, it’s my
mind-voice… you’re clueless… not only that, and voiceless as well. Hehe.
Powerless. Hahaha.” The odd monkey
bounced in front of Sef, changing colors with each bounce. “If not only for the
gratitude, which is a given, of you being my creator, I would have left you a long time ago. But I
won’t. I won’t quit on you because I’m grateful. I am good, good as odd things
like me can be. So quit badgering me, we’re at the carnival… almost… la, la
lee, la lei.”

Sef shook his head. The monkey is indeed amusing for what it’s
worth. It is a distraction, his distraction, and the creature knows it. 

A distraction from what then… Sef smoothed fingers on top of the hole in his chest. He felt the soft vibration of
his beating heart over the woolen cloth of his sweater.

Just then a hand grabbed Sef’s shoulder. A hand owned by a
black, towering figure wrapped in a cloak of darkness. The hand held his
shoulder in a firm grip, while the other held a dagger, glinting in spite
its black blade. 

“How are you, Sef?”
Asked the black figure, in a grim voice that reverberates.

The monkey hid behind Sef’s leg, terrified of the familiar
darkness standing before them. Sef couldn’t speak for his voice still hasn’t
returned.

“Xero,” said Sef in
his mind. 

“I have come for you…
I’m here to save you from your damned heart.” 

Xero lifted the dagger and aimed for Sef’s chest. Sef closed
his eyes and remembered that he had to be somewhere; he was supposed to meet a
friend that could provide a cure for his condition. Just then, he burst into a fit of black
flame, and he was gone.

The odd monkey turned white, flicked its lids rapidly,
puppy-doggy, and cute in the oddest way. Xero looked at it and put down the
dagger, casually hiding it underneath his cloak.

“Take me to the carnival.” The monkey said to Xero, while
smiling in a weird pleading way.

Xero didn’t have lips or a face, although he might
have one during another time or form. His face might just be been hidden under
layers of darkness. This time around though, he only revealed his sharp eyes.
And at that instant, they were smiling eyes. “Let’s talk.” He said to the monkey, which by then had begun to
shake nervously.

                                                                                                                     TheCURSEDseries022807

Apparently Sef was on the brink of something, as he stood by
the ledge of the bridge –beside the invisible monkey— watching the traffic of
filth floating in a slow crawl on top of the black water top. He stared long at
the stream of grime and refuse, as if extracting some truth in the images of
rot, waste, and death contained in the septic river.

An eyeless doll, which bobbed in the river surface, caught
his eye. Sef watched as an oncoming barge tramples the little figure causing it
to sink underneath the onrush of tidal trash.

Quickly, when the giant garbage carrier had passed and the
scrap and rubble had resettled from the chaos of the waves, Sef scanned for the
doll. He spotted it as soon as it floated back up, seemingly desperate for air.
It was greased and blacker than it was before. He smiled sympathetically,
mourning the fate of the plastic girl; while the invisible tiny monkey, sitting
beside him, laughed at its ridiculous fate.

Something was dying inside Sef; the monkey though, appeared
overjoyed.

Sef’s fists tightened inside the pockets of his windbreaker,
expressing the monstrous ravage that’s taking place within him. His face
though, was effectively concealed under a stoic yet resolute veil. One could
surmise that he is happy in his melancholy; no one would suspect that he wanted
to end… not himself, but something else— a passion that in another time would have
given his life meaning. At that moment, though, this particular emotion’s
function was transformed as a catalyst for a grim realization,
affirming the truth behind things sad, dreadful, and dreary: that all things,
with absolute certainty, would end up in the black currents of Styx.

“Jump, jump, jump,” The invisible monkey taunted Sef with its
tiny, sharp and shrilly voice. “Go do it, you know you want to. Jump. Jump…”

“Shut up monkey. I
already did.” He said telepathically. He couldn’t speak, for he had lost
his voice. He lost it the day he fell in love.

The monkey wheezed in disappointment and nervously used its
tail to pick on its jagged teeth, as a way of distracting itself.

Sef smiled having silenced the haughty odd creature. He pulled
a cigarette from his pocket, took two long drags and flicked it in the river. He
trained his sight at the spinning filter, making sure he would capture the very
moment that the ember fizzles over the blackness. He saw the exact meeting of
grime and flame, as the living red-coal dot was blackened and extinguished. It
happened just as he had pictured it, and he felt proud that that image was
stored in his mind: the moment an ember dies as it suffuses with the dark
waters of refuse.

He lit another cigarette and coughed hard, still he
continued to puff, not to punish himself but to surrender to the inevitable,
inescapable pain. His down trodden, defeated eyes, contrasted by a resolute
smile said it all. He no longer cared to suffer. In the heat of the midday sun, wrapped by a sweater, he began to
walk, staring at his stunted shadow, while smoking and coughing. His back
turned from the glaring sunbeams.

The monkey was by then singing and jiggling its hips. It
stopped mid-way at the chorus of an Elvis song, noticing that Sef had left his
spot. Its big bulging eyes looked at him, and scuttled to a start. It rolled
its hard scaly tail and used it like a spring, trailing behind Sef in an
irregular bounce.

Sef stopped and looked around him. He noticed the world
shift into a shape that portrayed his inner demons. The drab gray streets filled
with vehicles expelling soot from their mufflers, the obtrusive sun cooking
rotting road kill into a cake of asphalt and dust, people, tons of people, with
tired, sad, faces swimming in their routine lives, through the gray humidity of
the metropolitan sky. All these that he saw connected to each other, combining
into a huge frightful beast, which frightened even the monkey who quickly hid
behind Sef’s back.

Sef closed his eyes. The fight has begun.
Demons must be exorcised.

How come the external universe manages to become an
illustration of what one feels inside? Are emotions and passions the only fuel of the seeing mind, which in
turn dictate how things ought to be? That perhaps, the world
is indeed objective, only interpreted relatively, differently by the subjective
perception of the feeling man?

I am arrogant to assume that the universe bothers, and
enjoys while doing so, in putting together things to illustrate my grief and
loses, my incessant suffering of all the tiny deaths transpiring in my body, my
fear of the blackness that is spreading in my soul, the
deterioration of all that I hold dear… does the world sympathize? Or does
it mock me in my sorrow? Sef’s jaw clenched tightly, his nails dug deeper in
the small of his palms. He wanted to cry and scream. He was losing it. He was
losing the fight. If only he had his voice it would have been easy. If only he
wasn’t cursed, he could’ve cried and screamed. He would have won.

But he couldn’t cry
because his insides felt too cold, and screaming was impossible because he had
lost his voice. All he could do was laugh— a rough, raspy, voiceless sort of
laugh. And that saved him.

When one realizes that the
vile and despicable things that one usually opts not to see doesn’t really go
away but remains where it is; opportunistically waiting for the time to strike
at one’s most vulnerable state. And when that moment comes, escape is near
impossible, and self-destruction becomes an utmost probability. These demons of
the human condition are unforgiving. They will do nothing short of severing
one’s spirit, quashing one’s hopes, and crippling all the things magical and
divine within one’s soul. After, when they are done, one would have wished
that one had never existed at all.

The gods, though, gave men
a gift to even up the odds, a means to survive such an attack. It is the gift
of humor.

The only effective
recourse over the monumental thrashing by life’s demons is laughter. And
because of this, Sef laughed some more. Thus, he had survived the onslaught
within him. The inner wrought is finally over and at last a heavy burden is
lifted from his soul, the demons were for the meantime stalled. And true enough
the world begins to take another shape. That was when he began to hear from afar the rumbling echo of a roller coaster; the soft chimed songs of a merry-go-round,
laced with the happy laughter of children. He smiled once more and became a
little less pained. The world smiles with me, he thought.

“Carnival, carnival, la la
la… I want to go, I want to go. I want tah…” The little monkey hopped about. It
clambered up Sef’s face and flickered its enormous lids, puppy-doggy, and cute
in the oddest way. “Please, pretty, pretty…”

“Turn pink first, she wants you pink… remember…”

The weird monkey closed its eyes and concentrated until pink
began to spread all over its brown oily fur. It opened its eyes and looked at itself and was proud of what it had achieved. “Let’s go, I’m pink. I’m as pink
as pinks go, so let’s go, please, please… pretty…”

It hopped and skipped around, climbed on posts, and spun and
pirouetted. It was excited and wanted to show it to the world, not
considering that it is a world where the fluffy creature is invisible to the closed mind.

Sef nodded. “Of all
the powerful invisible things I’ve come across with, you’re the one I get stuck
with.”

The monkey ignored Sef’s exasperated sigh. “I wanna go
there, carnivalla, loo la lee la la, we hafta, we hafta, we hafta…” It spoke
with its tiny, unpleasant voice, while it spun sideways, shook, and wiggled its
butt, embraced its tail and looked cute in the oddest of odd ways. “I am now pink. Pink as pinks go, and pink as
pinks can be. We hafta, you promised… I am pink.”

“If only she could see
you. You would have made her really happy… ” Sef said under a weak smile, as images of her smiling face  filled his thoughts. That was all that he really wanted. And
because of this severe desire to make his love happy, Sef was thrown into the
broken state of being one of the accursed hopeful damned. “If only she could see…”

“She will, unless we fall on the river and I become black…
not pink… pink as I am now, as what she wanted… as what you…”

Sef shrugged and headed for the source of the carnival
music, finally leaving the bridge behind. The pink monkey hopped beside him,
excitedly dreaming of things happy and grand: spinning in Ferris wheels,
booming with the fast rattle of a roller coaster; and in its tiny head, these
thoughts are played over and over, along with the innocent laughter of children.

THE CURSED series, 012407

In the middle of the kiss I realized that Cryssle indeed didn’t have eyes.

Although the sockets where the optical balls should’ve been were not empty, in fact it had everything.

When she sensed that I had discovered this – that the black slots in her skull contain brilliant super novas in mid explosion, universes (or multiverses) in the verge of collapse, some are in the initial stages of creation, while others are merely gravitating, slow spinning galactic whirlpools of stars, sparkling –she closed her lids, turned and went back to the black lagoon that she rose from.

It was because of our kiss, which shouldn’t have happened. So now she’s walking away.

We are the same; our souls are kindred, our hearts, too, are alike. That is why we couldn’t mesh.  It’s because we are the same, two screws of the same grind.

A screw needs a hole for it to be a screw and the hole needs something to fill it up, for it to be a useful hole. Us, we are both screws with big holes inside our souls.

Hence we are screwed, not screwing. 

    “Wait.” She says after successfully lighting another cigarette held by the pout of her lips. “A hole doesn’t need a screw to be useful; actually it ceases to be a hole when it is filled up… with a screw or with anything else for that matter.
Filled up, a hole ceases to be anything. A hole is a hole precisely because it is hollow, and when you fill it up… hey!!!… aherm… do you understand? You’re not listening.”
     “I am… I’m just figuring out where you don’t get me… You know, I believe, and this is just my opinion, mind you, that everything has a destiny, that a hole’s fulfillment comes at the day it is filled up.”

    “Now that’s just being sexist. You see, you used screws and holes as metaphor for the relationship of two people, in a way of saying that opposites attract… etc… but the sexual innuendos in your example are apparent… don’t get impatient, I’m almost getting to my point… okay, here it is… fuck it, what I’m saying is that you think that holes should be filled up…”

    After a couple more exchanges, which then leads to this reply: “I didn’t say that a vaginas purpose is to be filled by a cock…?”

    “Screw and hole… hole and its destiny… vagina and cock…what were you thinking? You know, Freud said that the subconscious… ”

    “Fuck Freud!!! — You, shut up, you’re confusing me… give me another one of those hideous cigarettes. Why do you even smoke this… this shit stick? It tastes like wood. And yeah, I’ve smoked wood.”

    “Pfft.”

That’s when I noticed a creature clinging on her back. Later, I figured out that I gave it to her. It’s a small creature about 8 inches tall, with big eyes and a large mouth filled with sharp little teeth. It looked like a tarsier with an armadillo’s tail. The color, though, is indefinite for it could turn brown and light green in a snap. Last I checked it had learned to make itself white.

I know there’s a hidden message behind its varying pigmentation; it’s not for camouflage… that’s certain. It is my suspicion though, that it is its way of relaying a message, like a Morse code or something. I just haven’t been able to decipher it yet; it’s a very draining process to read entities and right now I just don’t have the energy.

Anyway, the little thing would watch over K for the meantime. It would help out in sorting through her confusion. It would help me sort her out… she confuses me. Well not that much, truth of the matter is that everybody is confusing if you think about them enough. Not that I think of K often, actually I hardly think of her. I don’t think that much of the people that I love.  I hardly think of people at all. It drains me.

The reason why I think about her— sorry, but I’m not talking about K any longer, but rather of Yena, that attractive girl with a scandalous laugh— is because while I don’t love her I am still attracted to her in spite her lack of pretty. I only became aware of this when I scrutinized her face long and hard, that besides her finely shaped, pert breasts, her face resembles that of a gerbil, which oddly has the capability to laugh like a hyena. Further more; I suspect that in spite the fact that she could speak excellent English, she’s as stupid as a peanut. I don’t know why peanuts are stupid, but they look stupid, so there. Anyway, considering all these, Yena isn’t attractive after all. She thinks she is though, but I’ve already mentioned that she’s stupid, so, so much for what she thinks.

    “Is that it then? You lambaste people just because of a rejection. And you feel  your rationale could stand, which is based on your narcissistic belief that someone like you doesn’t deserve to be rejected. Even if, in truth she isn’t ugly at all, still you would make yourself believe that she resembles a rodent… and for what… to quench that bitterness that you are feeling, to make things easier, to preserve the ego that you’ve built in your psyche, to be able to deal with yourself…”
    “uh… yeah.”

    “O, okay.”

Cryssle returned and I was hoping that she would kiss me back. The truth though is that she just forgot her styro cup. When I asked what was inside the styro, of what mystery it held, what fantastic thing it possessed. She shrugged, and spilled the coffee it contained on the ashen ground. “It’s stale already,” She explained. “See you around.” And she was gone.

Things have purpose; things strive to meet with their destiny.

She would argue though that both purpose and reason are mere lies… that they aren’t necessary. The truth is that things just exist.

That Yena is not ugly, and she is not anything, and I am no one… all we are, are meaningless existing things trapped in the confusion of assumptions and attempts of understanding.

What then is the destiny of the hole? What is the reason behind the galaxies contained in the sockets of her face? Why is the boy bitter? Why is the girl being sarcastic? What are all these?

It is meaningless, the destination is the same for all, and there are no answers, the truth is hidden in a dark place… searching for it is futile, but it is done because it is a fun game that is both hurtful and fulfilling. Importantly, it makes one feel alive.

One, though, can choose not to play the game. The frustration and exhaustion can easily be avoided, one just has to settle in playing the role of the fool, where one, if everything is considered, is indeed better off. A fool’s life has little less regrets.

So, what then is the purpose of this? None. Not all pieces have one.

Take the last one, those ‘2 love letters written 2 months apart’. It means something: it could be the romantic allusions of a hopeless lover, or an illustration of the fickleness of feelings, or maybe how being caught up in a moment could cause a heart to defy objectivity, only to relent once more when the moment passes, or changes…. But this is not that. The purpose of this could only be meaninglessness.
Which is its meaning exactly.

Paradox. Oxymoron. Confusion.
There, you finally get it.

“Huh?” – exactly.

^SECOND

 C.,

You were never mine
and it’s never going to happen. To hope for anything else is wishful thinking.

The fates and furies
have spoken and nothing can be done. I already gave it a shot. That should be
enough.  
What else can I do, my
love? I’ve done what I must. The road has split and each of us have chosen
our own paths to take. Now, as you have said, all we have to do is wait.

The wind still harbors
the memories that we shared… eventually, though, it will blow and move away.
Just like you did.
Nothing can be done;
circumstances would not permit otherwise.
All we can do is wait;
and even that I won’t do anymore.

 I will not do
anything… I refuse to. I refuse to suffer in the name of anything any longer… I’ve suffered enough.
I refuse to suffer you.

Besides, there is
nothing to save or salvage, for there’s nothing there to begin with. There’s
nothing for us to destroy. I’m not being cynical, I’ve just learned. I have
lived.

In life, damage is
depreciating but inevitable. Everything
that lived is eventually scarred and wounded. And I am already broken. Don’t
break me further.

 I’m too tired. I’m
sorry.
I’m letting go. And I
have.

 That should be enough;
the choice is painful as it is.
So, enough now… enough
said,

 I move on.

 J

-*-

^FIRST

 C.,

 
Does the cold bite?
I would’ve kept you warm. You know that.

Here, each day seems the same. I wake up at around noon, I
fool around, read a few pages from a selection of books I’ve acquired which I
haven’t finished; flick the remote and see if there’s anything good on TV, or
watch a Dvd movie, maybe, if there’s anything worth seeing; and if there’s
none, I may try to think up of a chore I could do. Sometimes, if I have
deadlines to beat, and if I feel like it, I might just take shot at actually
meeting them, if not, I’ll just spend a couple of hours thinking up of an
excuse why I’ll submit my script late again. I’m getting quite good at it— at
making excuses… even if how I spend my time could be considered as a silly
excuse for living.

Of course, things would have been different if you were
here. It would have been better. I’ll have a reason to make things better… in
six months maybe? But six months is still so far away. Sure, time goes by
quickly, you say; but such is not the case for someone who is waiting for
something, especially if one is waiting for something important.

 The seconds painfully resound in their passing as the future
crawls to become the present.

 The perception of time is always relative to the emotional
state of the onlooker. And in my case… need I say the obvious.

 I miss you. And I love you because you burn with something
true.

 My mind incessantly concocts images of you. I feel you in my
soul. And I know I could’ve loved you. I could have had something real with
you.

 You say that I should keep on moving. Don’t worry, I have my
eyes open even if I am perfectly still; and in the quiet of immobility things
come rushing towards me. Sometimes the inflow is too much I couldn’t take it in
all at once, so I take in what I can and discard the rest. Then I would remain
still again; or maybe, I might decide to move, but only if I feel like it. It
doesn’t really matter… the river always flows; one is moving even if one
doesn’t move; that Zen thing, blah, blah.

 Don’t worry about me. I am complete as I am. I am complete
even if you’re not holding on to me, and I to you, on a train car, LRT2, night,
V.Mapa bound to Katipunan.

 I could have really loved you…

True, I am complete, but I would have been something more,
while in love with you…

 Something else; something meaningful.

 It’s true what you said, and I believe you…we’ll see each
other again. And if we see each other, we’ll see? That’s all we could hope for,
I guess, after six months of separate change.

We’ll see…I’ll see you someday, somehow.

 I’ll write again when I have something else to say.

But for now, I’ll just take a glimpse at your star and hope
you’ll be looking at it when night falls wherever you are. (Even if it’s not
the right star, I’m not sure myself. But for sure, one star sparkles just for
you, the one that I gave you, whichever one it is.) And then I’ll listen to the
wind and wait for it to whisper your name.

 Take it easy my love. Things happen: for a price, for a
reason, and with purpose. And it gladdens me that you know all these things.

 That’s why I love you or at least one of the reasons why.

J

PS
The promise, or possibility, of having you for a moment is
worth waiting for eternity’s end.
It’s true; believe me, that not even eternity could change
my heart.