Time out

Roots are a good place to start when writing a story. It looks back to the past and the sprouts that came with it as it matured to either a withered, gnarled sinew that was once a tree or to something like Shel Silverstein wrote about.

Tracing that root is crucial. For some writers, it was addiction, depression, war, curiousity, anger, fear and to swaggerjack Vonnegut, "so it goes." I think one good thing to have as roots should be a moral idea or vice versa.

Just picture an idea planted in moral values or dilemmas. But that doesn't mean the story should be that of good triumphs over evil but the main fact that a moral code exists. Yes, there are a lot of things to judge in a moral perspective: the police officer who deliberately takes his mind off paying fare on public transpo, wearing a badge on his chest or that young woman looking all professional with her fitted skirt and clean top knot who prefers to remain sitted after seeing a pregnant woman holding her elder child up on one hand, she just keeps on tinkering with her iPhone. 

To come from such moral vantage point would be to have character but it still does not translate to a clear template. I should not be judgmental to be moral but who shall judge these people? Let's decide it with a coin toss, or a trip to Dresden, or a long sermon on what happens to simple bad persons. The perspective is different and maybe, the lines shall never meet at a common point but somethings have to start somewhere. But wouldn't it be interesting to see more of a villain with a moral code he so personally conducts upon himself and others. Or a hero with such a difficult moral crisis that you wonder if it is at all possible for her to get out in time.

I can't think of things to say in this post. Things are just getting scrambled. Parting shot: we are all sphincters, one time or another. We can live as we wish but that does not mean we cannot be kept in our own codes.

I'll never regret this choice.

Evilest sons.

Steamy

Recycling my post before it becomes trash. Continue what you do, friends. 

Y'all are good at that shit.

Spreads like wild fire

I met a certainly disturbing dream last week. 

It was a train ride with an acquaintance I hardly ever know or see, or care for that matter. There was an awkward greeting followed by aloof glances. It's hard enough to see someone you really know in such a cramped space and limited time that it is more painful to see someone who barely scratched the surface of your attention.

There were exchanged remarks, skittering "how are you's" and skid marks of past happenings. There was a nervous air to it and it felt bad. How glad I was to wake up to a dark room with just enough light peeking through the windows and curtains.

This just in from real life, I just got my tippler of a father to read again. Interesting idea, he caught it like a swatter hits a fly: rare but satisfying. I think we may be having developments in our drinking sessions. Maybe we'll have more things to talk about than the ties that seem to be familiar to the both of us.

Also, I am writing crap right now so I am truly sorry. Vonnegut's quotes help a little.

Another thing to get out there, just bought 5 books. I'm a broke book slut who gets by with epub versions.

Some sort of a wedding

That dirty memory was all in sepia. 

I can see the scratches on the film used to take in the the figures, the faces that I can barely remember, their suits and dresses that first didn't make sense, the chairs and the light that bore through the poorly decorated room. It was like a walk towards something, somewhere, someone.

I can't make it up in my mind: the names behind the faces, the smiles and the congratulatory remarks. There were some tears from some faces; trickling down somehow flushed cheeks and from smiling eyes. They were happy but I did not know why. It seemed familiar. Maybe it was from some POV movie?

Then it hit, it was a walk to an altar. Those people were smiling and looking at me. One thing I can't seem to figure it is that why was I walking towards the altar? If i was the groom to be, shouldn't I be waiting for my bride at looking how perfect and shiny she was going to be? It was an agonizing slow walk and it is all coming back in swirls and strokes. Maybe it was a new thing in weddings? Or maybe, I was walking someone down the aisle. I couldn't know for sure, I didn't look to my right side. It was a blind spot; there were just unknown faces and smiles.

If it was a sort of an avant garde wedding, it was an awkward one. It was a silent film. I didn't know if it was romantic or an intro to a mindfuck or horror story line. I never got to the ending, the spool ran out of film.

Double Lightning

Heinz Guderian, Panzer Kommandant

Just to honor the mug behind the blog.

I think I may be a secret Nazi.

Rats

Albert Camus, by Henri Cartier-Bresson

"Hostile to the past, impatient of the present, and cheated of the future, we were much like those whom men's justice, or hatred, forces to live behind prison bars."

Camus, liberating the people of Oran, ridding them of the plague; showing us the reflection of our own prisons. It sucks to be a quote slut but words this significant to the inner struggles and freedom ought to be passed. He would have written more, thus ridding us more guilt in the process.

We face plagues today: indifference, moral decay and so on. So far, we may be at the losing end.

Bastard

James Dean, so hungry and so mean

"...the life you might save, might be mine."

Too fast to live, too young to die. Bye bye.

to the movie house

In this day and age, it's almost impossible not to find things that you want to experience. You have the internet, the download sites and the different options there are. That's basically it for me. Most of the movies or shows that I've seen so far have piled over the ones I ever saw with a ticket or at legit viewing place.

It has been, I think a year since I last went out to see a movie. I forgot the feeling. I missed the dark and the cramped seating they have. Also, the viewing etiquette was far from what I was used to, people are texting most of the time. Maybe they're frequent movie goers but for those who weren't, it was an inconvenience. Just the light beaming from their expensive bricks are annoying enough but still, it couldn't come between viewer and film.

And then I did go to a movie. With buddies. And I am planning to do it again, soon. I forgot the feeling of being lost in brilliant two hours in another world. I missed the enormity of the scenes that seem to engulf my current shrinking bead of a life. It was fun, of course. The surround sound was awesome, too. It felt like the waves hit me from all around the room, maybe a little bit came from the floor. There were words that I couldn't make up but meh, part of the experience.

It's a little shallow for a rediscovery but it damn felt like it was. I'm being bitchy about it, so what? The other memorable experiences inside movie houses that I can recall so far is between getting my mind blown or getting lapped up by a girl in make out sessions.

It's a cheap thrill, what more can I say? Let's go see a corny movie, sans popcorn, make out sessions and pesky phones. You're not giving the movie the attention it deserves. 

Dr. Gonzo

The late Dr. Gonzo, once a young Hunter S. Thompson

"Buy the ticket, take the ride."

I bet that would look great on skin. With a pair of amber aviator glasses above the words.

I need the Doctor's books. It will be a great addition to the creeping addiction. 

Well, not as addictive as his.

sa ilalim ng overpass

from tomclarkblog.blogspot

Tangina. Sabi ng Reklamador.

Putanginang gobyerno talaga. Dagdag pa niya.

Stranded ang Reklamador sa ilalim ng over pass sa may kalagitnaan ng Caloocan.

Putangina talaga! Huling hirit niya. Pinagmamasdan niya ang bahang umaanod sa mga plastic bags, sirang bayong, malambot na kahoy at punit na tsinelas sa kalsada. Ang dating kongkretong kalsada ay nagmistulang ilog na rumaragasa pababa sa daluyan na magkakasal sa kanila ng dagat.

Kining-ina naman kasi. Ang simple simple lang ng gagawin nila. Mangolekta ng taxes, gumawa ng proyektong at makakatulong sa publiko, tangina naman kasi inuuna ang bulsa at kung ano. Ani ng Reklamador.

Hindi nga naman masisisi kung ganito na lang ang hinagpis ng tao sa mga nangyayari sa paligid.  Walang pumaparang bus o dyip sa harap niya. Pano ba naman, abot alulod na ang tubig baha. Nasa bangketa pa siya, may payong nga pero andami namang dala. Basa rin. May kasabay siyang tatlo pang tao sa ilalim ng tumatagaktak na overpass.

Hindi naman din kasi ganoon kadali ang ginagawa ng gobyerno. Pwede sana yang sinasabi mo pero hindi naman lahat ng tao eh tapat at sing tuwid ng palaso. Pucha, kahit ako naman siguro matutuksong pumitik ng isang kendi mula sa garapon sa malaking tindahan kung buong araw ko lang ‘yun pinagmamasdan. Sabi ng isang kasabay niya.

Lumingon ang Reklamador. Puta, may tuta pa akong kasabay. Malas nga naman, basang basa ka na, stranded tapos may malapit pang asong malansa pa. Malas lang. Hirit ng Reklamador.

Hindi marinig ang mga sinabi niya. Patuloy kasi ang buhos ng ulan. Basa ang lahat ng bagay, kahit ang lighter niya hirap sumindi sa pagkabasa ng hangin. May mga dumaraan pa namang mga sasakyan, wala nga lang humihinto sa ilalim ng overpass kung saan sila naghihintay. Naiinip na rin ang mga kasama niya. Nagrereklamo na rin, nagdarasal siguro pero mas malamang eh reklamo ang pinapaabot ng mga ito na sa langit nila pinapatungo.

Hindi naman kasi sana ganito rin ang lagay ng kalsada. Sabi ng isa, malamang Repormista naman ‘to.

Aniya, hindi naman magbabaha kung hindi tayo nagtatapon ng basura kung saan. Mas naiinis tayo sa baha, sa kalat at dumi, sa panghi ng mga kalsada at sakayan ng mga sasakyan at sa trapik na habangbuhay nang kasalanan ng mga sasakyang pinapatakbo ng mga walang modong drayber. Tayo rin ang gumagawa ng ikagagalit at ikaiinis natin. Putangina tayo, hindi lang sila. Putangina tayong lahat.”

Nagmabagal ang isang bus malapit sa kanila, hindi nila byahe kaya walang sumakay. Isa pa, hindi rin naman sila hinintay at tinignan kung sasakay, tinignan lang ng konduktor at ng drayber ang apat na basang sisiw sa ilalim ng overpass.

Mga gago. Hindi man lang maawa sa pasahero. Mga ulol! Titingin tingin pa eh hindi rin naman papara.

Hindi naman siya sasakay dahil hindi niya byahe yun pero sa lakas ng ulan, dagsa ng baha at sa basang pakiramdam, desperado na lang siyang makauwi sa bahay para makatulog na.

Pero tangina naman kasi talaga! Sana nasa bahay na ko kundi dito sa pesteng bahang ‘to.

Naiisip niya ang sarap ng mainit na sabaw, kahit noodles lang pwede na. Kahit kape lang okay na. Kahit tuyo nga lang at bahaw eh solb na. Lumalakas pa ang ulan, halos gumagawa ng imahe ang bawat bugso ng tubig at pilantik ng hangin. Nagmumukhang mga hamog na anino ang kahit anong tamaan ng ulan. Kahit ang salamin ng babaeng kasabay niya sa ilalim ng overpass eh may mga talsik na ng tubig. Dumadaan pa ang mga sasakyan pero wala paring pumapara.

Patuloy ang ulan, humahampas pa yung hangin sa bubong at pader ng mga bahay sa palibot ng overpass na payong nila. Ang ginaw na. Wala pang kasiguruhan na makakasakay pa sila. Wala, pana- panahon. Malas lang talaga. Malas lang sa ulan, malas lang sa baha, malas lang sa mga kasabay na walang pakialam sa lagay ng bayan, malas lang sa gobyernong walang alam dahil kampante sila sa mga malalaki nilang mga bahay na kahit kelan ay hindi inaabot ng baha o nabubutasan ng kisame.

Hindi naman sila nagkukusot ng mga putikang damit dahil inabot ang bahay nila, hindi naman sila naii-stranded sa mga bangketa dahil may mga malalaking sasakyan silang panlusob sa baha. Saan ba sila dumadaan na may baha? Wala naman ata. Masarap ang buhay sa loob ng mga malalaki nilang mga subdivision at mga nag gagandahang exclusive villages. Hindi pa nga siguro sila nakakaranas ng brownout dahil sa may generator din ang mga bahay nila. 

Peste. Malas. Badtrip.

Hinawi ng mga gulong ng isang paparating na bus ang tubig baha malapit sa ilalim ng overpass. Papalapit na, nagbaba ng pasahero sa bus stop malapit sa kanila. Wala kasing bubong yun kaya hindi sila dun tumambay para pumara ng sasakyan. Sakto. Biyahe niya ang bus na pumara.

Pinara nila ang bus, tumingin ang drayber at sumenyas sa konduktor. Alalayan ata sila o kung ano. Pilit nilang tumawid papunta sa mga hagdan ng bus. Tatlo sila, yung babaeng nakasalamin na naka pang opisinang damit, siyang Reklamador at yung Repormistang hindi niya naman naintindihan ang sinabi.

Naiwan yung isa sa ilalim ng overpass, hindi pa ata yun ang byaheng hinihintay niya.

Hey Hey, My My

Out of the blue, into the black.

Fart around

drawing by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

Kurt Vonnegut Jr. was known for his humorist take on the different moral aspects of human life. In his novels, he often put up characters so vivid and imaginative that you'd probably think of them as true, for a fleeting second, and then you believe their made- up existence. But still, you wind up making your self believe that that character was real, genuine, flesh and blood even if she was a sexy refrigerator.

Vonnegut was known for his short stories: stories that needed no context for digestion, interpretation and that "Oh, so that was what he meant" moments. You just know what happens in those stories, you read them and you don't question them. His writings transfer you to different places, tells different stories with different voices and points of view. His short stories are quick, dirty- intricate, painfully striking and worth remembering.

Plus, he smokes unfiltered cigs. How cool is that?

Maybe, I get the same feel. I am certainly no Vonnegut but the power of short stories is simple and amazing. Maybe, living in short stories is not a bad thing. Maybe, in short stories, we get to pick different endings, use different punctuation marks to same stories; paint our canvasses with different brushes and use different hues. In short stories, we get to keep little memories present with every writing. We get to copy and paste that same exact one and put it into a new timeline and help create a new memory still linked to the previous one.

Maybe it's just escapism. The longer novels I read are good but if I had the chance to write, I'd still pick shorter scripts. That way, we get to make things quick but reliveable. Of course, you can take longer novels and re-read them, but there's still a difference in rereading and rewriting. I'd rather write you in a shorter script than try to keep you floating, just floating in a vaster sea of paper and ink. Or, rather, digitized 1's and 0's.

We get to keep a million versions of summer and sun in quick 10 minute reads. Hence, rinse and repeat.