jeepney epiphany

An epiphany struck me while on my way to work. I've noticed recently that I really suck at my job. I do. I really do. I goddam swear I do. And so, I thought why couldn't I work now as I did back then, not too long a time ago. The sleepless nights were something to be proud of. Lately, I have been sleeping late, waking up late, doing shitty late things that are not good for work and personal living.

I'm just thinking about my 'old timer' post about how much of an honor it is to grow old in this quickly decaying world and society. That those old coots may have done something good once or twice in their lives that they still live to witness a big sphincter that the world is turning into. I feel like I'm wasting my youth. My words escape me. I can't fully define and interpret the emotion and thoughts going into this phase.

I'm looking at the things I've done in the past months on the job. And I can't find one thing to be proud or even be glad about. To me, it's all rubbish. And it's not a good feeling to have. I'd have to rethink the way things go on around here. And so, I hope I don't waste my opportunity to be young and idealistic as hell. I'm scared of thinking how I'll turn up when I reach my middle years and how I could've [possibly, sic] turned things around when I had the chance and the years in me.

Ahh fuck it. I need to re-evaluate and re-organize. I need to know what I want and when I want it. I need to understand more things and and turn imagination into a livable idea and write a concept around it. I need to translate all of this into a workable solution.

I go with the flow but the problem with me is that I don't swim against the current even if I get swept into the foamy breach of a waterfall.

Note:
Janelle Monae is just gorgeous. I'd study the lines of her face all day if I had the artistic upbringing to do so. She looks so crisp. She has that certain air of coolness and sophistication in her.

virtue and vice

A meme from an infamous Facebook page.

Growing up in the Filipino way of life has never come out short of learning from the older folks. The family is just an atomic source of energy when it comes to virtue and sometimes, addiction that when we try to dissect it and just tinker inside, we get blown to pieces by the realizations. It is highly probable that the way we interact outside this atomic structure stays true up until we find another interesting atom to split.

The older generations used to celebrate the virtues of being a good citizen. Sure, some ideas and ideals are now truncated variations but the core of it stays the same. Don't say bad words. Be kind and courteous when talking with the elders. Do unto others what you want others to do unto you and a whole family of spermatozoa and ovum genetics hardwired to the belief of heaven. These things pay our boarding passes when we reach the pearly gates of our perceived after lives. We receive the billing and we hope that we have garnered enough 'goodwill points' to make it to the other side. Or else, we get flung to the farthest, deepest circles of our own imagined hells. Forgive me for the most-likely erroneous scientific reference, I am no disciple of the sciences.

sun spilled shirt

Yes, it is that time of the year again. And no, I'm not talking about halloween. Tapos na 'yun.

It's nearing December and skinny love is being pulled to string thin. Will it unravel at the seams? I think not. 

"Come on skinny love, just last the year."

Waking up earlier today was difficult. The warmth of my bed and my cheap fleece-like blanket proved to be very difficult entities to argue with. My Ma woke me up to tell me that food is already served (Thanks, Ma!) She said it was freshly steamed rice and chicken longganisa, those film coated meatstuff that's being sold in breakfast meals at Jollibee. I answered "Mrhrmrr. Thanks, po." Then she flicked the lights on and it felt like a flashbang. The burst of light fried my eyeballs from underneath the eyelids. She told me to get up and try on a shirt she bought me. Lookie, advanced Merry Christmas!

I tried it on, half-awake and half-excited and still half-wrapped in my cheap fleece blanket. It fit perfectly. "Thanks, po." It was a bright orange shirt, almost neon. It was a nice gift. Talk about a good morning.

Somehow, when I got up today, I still thought that there's a way to make a double back. But it seems the beaten gets weary enough to just call it quits. I wore the polo my Ma gave me today. I feel like a walking traffic cone but it felt good wearing it. Perhaps the sunset may look dim but as you come nearer, it's tightly knit rays keep peeking through the clouds. You never get away from the sunset, okay, you can if you die but otherwise, you just can't.

This is not goodbye. It is a bright 'hello' and I hope you feel the same way. Damn you, Word. I nearly lost the file I saved. Don't ever do that again. 

My Ma is just so good at starting my day.

"Pour a little salt, we were never here."

the asterisk

A young Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

This is terrible. Just terrible. I forgot to greet Mr. Vonnegut for his birthday. 

He was born on the 11th of this month some 90 years ago. I wished I could've exchanged profanities with him. It would be fun to look at the world through the eyes of a man with views as weird and ideals as strong. 

I will try to collect all your books, sir. I just hope I don't lose myself in the process.

Auburn hair in the mirror city

Walking around one of probably the busiest cities in the country can make your mind fly. It can perch on the fact that the mirrored walls actually feed the hunger of the different types of vanities in the center business district. How we all like to see our reflections on the shiny facades of the buildings, how we like to see people see us in our thousand peso attires holding our yuppie puppie drinks with customized names. We eat many an assorted menu of vanities everyday. It is a voyeur-voyeur juxtaposition and we consume it the way we think we're supposed to.

Another moment fleets and lets it fly to the fact that these handsome and gorgeous fellows we meet as we walk past each other, these strangers that we look at indirectly through our aviators, keyholes and clubmasters are all rushing off to someplace else. Maybe they rush to the noodle joint atop the fast food stop to end up in a corner trying to scroll down their feeds and walls. We never know how grandiose their hiding really is. We feel it but we just can't quantify.

Then the bird flies to the thought of seeing a woman in her pencil skirt, flowing straight auburn hair down to her shoulders. You'll bet she's gorgeous and sweet and intelligent and kind. She walks down the polished street with her foxy gait. She holds a purse on her left hand and a cup of coffee on the right. I remember someone I love. I remember her though I never saw her that way. And the thought flies away as I fail in making a face out of her lithe and nubile figure. Her silhouette maybe was enough.

And it perches itself on the premise of strangers in the underpass. The men and women in different rhythms and cadences. You can tell that they come from different time zones. The poorer members of the caste walk faster into a run. They have sweat on their brows and they wear semi-smart clothes. You never feel the aura of the higher-ups. For all you know, they may be scholars and distinguished persons only rushing to catch their reflections on the mirrored city. The higher-ups walk slower, in their crisp uniforms and designer things. They bask in the glow of the underpass lights. They still have their Ray-Bans on.

Just a bunch of nondescript scriptures in the mirrored city. And the thought flies into the afternoon heat. It withers as it watches its reflection on the mirrored walls. Its feathers wither side by side the prisms of watching eyes. I look at its reflection on a mirror bouncing off light in another bouncing off another from one further down the perpetual cycle of the vanities.

Her gander is so memorable. It made my heart flutter into a futile spark. She won't amount, I bet she's not even real. Though I bet she's fucking pretty.

Amateurs

A very peculiar thing happened today. I told our chief-of-staff that I'd be late for work since I had to do something in Makati. She said 'Ok.' The thing is, after doing the errand, I got into a bus with my mom back to QC. The bus was humid and had air as heavy as smog. You can feel the war moisture stick to your skin and alveoli. The bus was 'air-conditioned' and asked for the air-con fee. It sucked at that. 

Well, what sucked even more was that 4 hoods got on the bus. Regular hiphop guys. One with a hoodie on even if the temp outside was a smelting room similarity. The other was wearing a hoodie with a beanie and cheap wayfarers. Tall, that one. Probably wore fake Adidas shoes, too. Motherfucker. All the details I remember are those of the three fuckers. The last one I noticed was a guy wearing a ball cap on reverse. He looked fucking dumb. They all had baggy pants and cheap looking sneakers.

The stupid-looking guy with the stupid fucking cap paid for his fare. 11 pesos in exchange for pieces of tickets. The tall motherfucker with beanie and shades on stepped on my dress shoe. Shouting ensued inside the bus. Familiar flicks of butterfly knives clicked and clacked inside my ears. Motherfuckers are pointing it at two women at the back, two seats behind where my Ma and I sat. The fuckers were asking for the bracelet and yelling "Putangina nyo, 'wag kayong makialam dito!" Panic followed.

After a moment, everything was over. They got the bracelet of the woman they apparently followed from a mall not far back. Motherfuckers and their knives. Putangina ng mga taong ganun. Puta talaga pasalamat sila wala pa kong lisensyadong baril kundi dalawa siguradong patay sa kanila.

If it were a fairer fight, two of those guys would probably be beaten to death inside the bus. Too much leash are given to those motherfuckers. I really wanted them dead. I wish I had a gun to shoot them with. In the face. In between the eyes or on the cheek and through the back of the head. Though I probably have to take the day off, my dark gray polo barong may have splatters of those mofos blood on it.

I swear to god I wanted them dead.

Late day, today

1 year na, Tita. Look after us, wherever you may be.

itsalright

It's easy to write about the things that normally go in your day. The commute, the work, the MRT ride, the book you enjoyed while on queue at the barber shop. Easy peasy. But had something different happen to you, it'd be quite a challenge to write it all. Yea, so maybe it can be a little easier than what I just said but for me, I am struggling in my efforts to tell a story.

I got drunk last night, again. I swear to God, I'm going to find the time to write a blog about the different kinds of booze I've tried and the judgment I pass onto them. I think that may cure my ailment when it comes to alcohol: I'd be more of a connoisseur rather than a kanto boy drunkard (this is not meant to be offensive, seriously, there's been a phase in my life that my friends and I would prefer to drink on the streets.)

The story behind that is I was trying to distance myself from a dude here at the field office. He was from another department so I rarely see him and vice versa. But when he does see me, he comes up and make jokes about flirting. Yea, he's gay, I said. No big deal. I have encounters with gay people, they are a good bunch, happy and vocal about things. But, the thing is, he always ran his arm over my shoulder. Akbay, hagod, haplos. Rinse and repeat. 

"Uhh, okay, dude. Please get your hands off me. That's enough horsing around." Talk about awkward moment in the office. The other peeps laughed at it, I did, too, politely. But it gave me the creeps. Okay, I really am not homophobic or anything but something tells me it isn't a joke anymore. And to save myself from further awkward and quite frankly, uncomfortable moments like that happening any moment, I decided to go with some co-workers to get plastered. And we did. And I'm glad I did.

Gay people, I'm sorry if any of you reading this may find it offensive. I've written this entry to the best of my ability to keep it sensitive and fair. Other straight people do that shit A LOT. I've nothing against you. I'm just glad I made a decision to let that thing go.

Aaaand, back to boozing. Yea, I got plastered really good. I woke up in the morning feeling like a dried sponge out of sea. Felt porous as if all the moisture was sucked out of me. Aaaand I managed to sleep until 5am with just my boxers on and the damn cold woke me up. And this gnawing, pulsating pain around the back of my neck, I wonder how I got it?

As for the drinks we had last night, a liter and another small bottle of brandy did the first few kicks. Then we washed it off with light beer, two buckets of it, poorly chilled might I add. The crispy tofu and betamax was great.

And I am just whiling away. Waiting for my clock to tell me "It's time to go home."  

afternoon delight

Well, hello.

Early lunch today. Thought it'd be better if I got my thing going earlier to get on to working my ass and actually finishing my work ahead of time.

The queue at the fast food I ate at was just terrible. Kids are running all around the place and stepping on my feet. It shouldn't have been that irritating but I was wearing slippers so they kinda stubbed my already stubbed toes into the ground. And they were the type of kids that were annoying when inside the mall. They smelled like young sweat and looked like they had mucus falls for noses. I'm sorry, I swear I'm not that mean of a guy.

My stomach was rumbling, it was craving for a big meal. I ended up ordering a 215-peso meal that consisted of a heavy almost all-meat sandwich, a piece of chicken and two servings of rice (I had to make my stomach happy, it was fed up of digesting carinderia food, side note: I love carinderia food; but it gets old when you eat the same stuff for 3 straight days.) Whew that was a long note inside parentheses. Well, hello. The rice was steaming hot. It torched my tongue but it felt good when it went down my digestive pits.

I'm going to get #Instagood with you here and post the sandwich that I am saving for later. Tada! Hipsters rejoice!

One way trip to Fat Fairways/Cholesterol City. Oyea!

Well, just got news from our budget officer. They are approving my allowance for this week but they slashed a good 500 pesos for the "time" I apparently spent outside the work environment. I's cool with tha shit. Couldn't argue with people who feel like they own your life with the monieszzs they pay 'ya.

I'm looking forward to the weekend. I need to see some familiar faces, hear familiar voices and get some good news. I'll be seeing my kid on the next weekend so that's definitely going on my calendar.

This post makes no sense whatsoever. It doesn't even point to a relevant topic nowadays. I'd like to talk about Marvic Leonen's appointment to the Supreme Court or the passing of the Sin Tax Bill on its third reading at the Senate but the sense of injecting politics into this private space seems inappropriate. If I wanted to do that, I'd be making a new blog about it.

I am just bored as hell. I swear to God, I'm mean when I'm bored. And I don't even make sense.

P.S. Thanks to Holden Caulfield. You just got swaggerjacked. Peace, homies!

Trifecta of Dreams

As I said in an earlier post, I've unearthed some old articles. I dug this story I did for a class requirement. It' s supposed to be a personality profile. It will be a long post so you may want to exercise your eye balls and sockets. 

I thought hard about editing things out but I don't think it can do good for assessing my writing in the past years. Still, it was a fun piece to write. Forgive the fuzzy use of sentences, words and phrases. It's part of my creative non-fiction writing. Please feel free to bash. I am kind of anxious about really posting it for more than my instructor to read but I remember what one of my former instructors told us in class: "Get used to people reading your work. How else can you be a writer?" Touche.

I.         Every morning, different people wake up and imagine what the day has in store for them. In all the routines and the little things that make them an everyday ritual. Today, Reynato will wake up in his bed and fix his uniform before he takes a bath. It’s 5am and he needs to get to his office fast: in his case, it’s a busy intersection in one of the country’s most congested traffic destinations. He suits up, gets his reflective traffic gloves on and grabs his morning coffee. He walks to work, it being only 15 minutes away or less if he’s thinking on briskly jogging to work. He arrives at the disabled crossing line and marches into his position. All day he’ll signal cars to go whichever direction they need to. Every precise moment he waves his hand to a direction may well mean a perfect arrival time for an important meeting. Otherwise it will result in numerous rants and curses as appointments will need to be re-scheduled. He has a buddy to switch with in between breaks: time outs are usually for lunch or the afternoon coffee.

Wee King

"Afternoons are always lonelier for one little boy. He missed his parents so much but they had to work to days' end. They were not a wealthy family but they live comfortably. He used to cry when his parents leave the house. He clutches his parents' clothes and cry 'Mama, Papa.' How he loved his parents, he just did not know how much he did at the time. He was a kid. A child, a rightful heir to everything that the universe has to offer. He still did not know that at the time.

Then he grew up smart. Maybe, too smart. He grew mean because of all the new things he learned. He learned quick and thought high of himself. His parents were too late to see what has happened. He loved them, still. And they, him.

The universe conspired to bring him a little boy. A little boy strong enough to have made him cry the hardest and loudest. That little boy reminded him of what he didn't know. That little jailer reminded him how much he didn't know of things and how much he wanted to learn more. The once sobbing, snotty boy was now a captive. He could not resist the charms of the little one. His wee image of what he once was.

He remembered the universe conspiring, well, he thought that one time. He was not the rightful heir to everything that the universe has to offer. Someone snatched it from him before he even knew. But that someone is now the reason he offers the universe to one man, a tiny little man who has forever chained and changed his mean heart. He was happy. He was holding his universe in his own arms."

Lit time! Oyea! Little kid stories... right in the heartszs.

Late breakfast

Prairie Oysters. Photo from seriouseats.com

I should be working now. But I'm just sitting here, blogging my way through waiting. They are asking for my allowance back. Apparently I have to return the money they gave me since I wasn't able to fill in 7 days in my work place. I really wanted to ask them if they are paying me for each day spent and if the work week I signed up for actually has seven working days. 

I wonder what'll happen if I ask them for the time I could've spent with my family. I mean, they DID steal a few off days from me. I'm not whining. I'm just asking what is due.

I am sitting here. Waiting. I am typing with my laptop. I think it's frying my balls. My gonads. My mojo. My babymakers. I wonder, how much will they pay for them? Once I get cancer of hairy testicles.

I'm just wondering. About my balls, is all.

Stand still

An ode to a December night in college.
U.P. Baguio c2009

There is always something that lingers on as we pass on to different phases in our lives. We rarely get to see these splatters of past in our new lab gowns, crisp white shirts, safety boots, silk handkerchiefs and so on. We dust them off, give them the flip or two to make them unknowingly go away since we never knew they were still there. But, they are still there.

For example, remember the way that in college, you know your batch mates’ good and bad habits? Remember that one classmate who never shows up for class on time, parties all the way to the finals, just barely dragging and hanging on to the last absence to kick him out of the class and then miraculously passes the finals? Well, he’s a rare breed but not exactly one to be emulated. Here’s another one, remember that girl who always wanted to get the highest scores in everything? In quizzes, projects, recitation, oral exams, performances and everything in between? Do you remember how she pouted and puffed her eyes when she got the 3^rd highest score in one of your midterms during your graduating year? Yep, I bet you do. You still get irritated by that every once in a while.

Well, the fact is, we never got out of college, or high school, or our organizations, fraternities, sororities. We don’t know it yet but we’re still stuck in the same class, only, there’s money and for some, there’s still no money involved.

You always get buzzed thru Facebook that this friend is living the life travelling the world at the expense of his company, and this other college classmate now champions the ideals of peace and prosperity in the more troubled parts of the country. You never get really far from them not only because of the social media but the way you still interact with them. Yes, they don’t text you but that does not hold them back from still making you feel like you’re that dragging dude from college who only goes to class at the end of the year.

Sometimes, it still is a matter of bragging rights. Back in college, it was like “Oi, uno ako sa finals!” Now, it’s more like “How much money you’re making? Are you having fun in your job? Because I do. And, oh, almost forgot, I still got higher scores in the Civil Service Exam than you.” But sometimes there are funnier stories to remember. Like the memory of a classmate having a twang and slang in her speaking voice when it comes to speech classes and you are oh so happy when she mispronounced one word. You’re still in college; still making fun of the uptight do gooders and people who try so hard to impress the higher ups and then rub it hard on your face. And don’t mind if they have SWAGGGG. You better than dem bitcheezz.

But there are the exceptions. You still admire former classmates who made it on their own. Who kept quiet during your years in college and got out just fine or even better. Remember that brilliant classmate of yours who got pregnant during your sophomore year? She raised that daughter of hers in her own blood and sweat, moonshining and all. And that other guy who you thought can make it to the big-time periodicals? Well, he’s a correspondent now. They’re just quiet folks, enjoying the things that they have and take things as they go.

We never really get out of college. We still meet and surprisingly, greet these people on a not-so-regular basis than we’d want to. Still, no matter how much they fling their high-and-mighty lifestyles and cool perks up in your face, you never seem to envy them that much. Heck, not even one tiny bit of you wishes to be in their shoes. And that’s one sure sign that you’re still in college. You just quietly enjoy the things you have, taking things as they go, keeping stuff that you can use and leaving the shit on the floor where they’re intended to be. And besides, who’d want to have a phony twang and slang? Would you rather say “Taygaylohg” than straight up “Tagalog?”

Sphincter Tolerance

Asshole drawing by Kurt Vonnegut

*Bleep* Attention. Attention!

Today is Sphincter Tolerance day. It is celebrated to remind ourselves to ward off assholes everywhere. Law states that their species be preserved. If hunting is allowed, they'd be a dying breed within days. Whether at work, school, commute or on personal holidays, remember to have extra patience with them. 

Please resist the urge to shoot them in the face with a double barrel shotgun or drive a stake into their annoyingly beating hearts. Their brash attitude, stupidity and maybe, your extreme luck will kill them. One day, they may get struck by vengeful lightning, let's keep our fingers crossed

That is all. *Bleep*

Cold feet on Thursdays

"What makes me a *bleep*?

The sticky feeling of guilt.

Is it even guilt?

Isn't it disgusting to be touched all over,

groped and licked into submission.

Utter shame.

All by the wealth of old.

Men in their business suits.

Fancy shirts and ties.

CEO demeanors, my ass.

Unbuttoned collars with smears of human grease.

Old human oil.

Folded cuffs with stick stains.

Lips? Money thrown in all directions.

Payment for the revelry of bare flesh,

seething hearts and desensitized acceptance.

Maybe, we are not *bleep* at all.

You'd easily think that earning good money

would do good to men with good families,

living good lives. They must have had

lots of paper cuts. My body worked hard

for this paper. You throw it at me

in good cheer. Payday.

                 "

I've unearthed several old writings. Some are on paper, some are on my old file folders saved on my old computer. Funny, how it still sits well right now. I'll think about posting other humiliating works. Or maybe it's best not to. Happy weekend!

Babes

Dahil usapang bata na lang din naman, ipapaskil
ko na rin ang picture ng anak kong nasobrahan sa
kagwapuhan. Pasensya na po at proud lang talaga ako.
(Gab before his 1st year)

Ang saya tignan ng mga reaksyon ng mga bata. Mangingiti ka sa pag-iisip kung ano ang itsura mo noong ikaw ang nasa ganoong edad. Anim na buwan? Isang taon? E pano pag 3 years old na? Ano kaya ang mga kalokohan mo noon?

Pauwi ako mula trabaho nang may makasakay akong magnanay sa jeep. Mestiza yung nanay at mukhang may dugong banyaga. Maging ang batang lalaking karga nya ay ganun din. Yun nga lang, may kakaiba sa bata. Parang Caucasian ang ama nito. Tisoy, halata pating gwapo. Hindi ko maidescribe pero ganun. Manipis ang buhok nya at pabilog ang hugis ng mukha. Mahabang mga pilik mata ang pumipitik pitik habang nakasakay sya sa jeep.

Felt tip works

 There are few things that have welcomed me into manhood. There's fatherhood, of course. Driving lessons: two-wheels that I learned the hard way (with scars to prove it) and four-wheels (with a learner's permit for proof.) Job applications, pay slips, legitimate addictions, bouts with alcohol, erratic behavior and so on. Drawing remained a hidden childhood memory but it has resurfaced lately.

As a kid, I used to sort of pride myself in my creations, seeing that the other kids in my class were below my talent line, so to speak. But then, as I grew older, I realized that my drawings are cute, not good. I saw other people's works and said 'Fuck it. I better leave this art stuff to those who are really good at it' and so I transferred to writing. I really have former schoolmates who are very talented, some are already quite skilled in the art department.

I've been very much in love with prospect of getting tattoos for a sort of storytelling. I picture it as my own way of being identified with many things that happened in my life that obviously had a huge impact on my perspective, attitude, outlook and the way I steer my life as of now. Then I had the idea of making my own tattoo designs so that they will be more personal: banking on beliefs, landmarks represented by meaningful illustrations that I've sort of think is applicable. 

Swallow as inspired by Sailor Jerry flash

The swallow is symbol of loyalty for me. It was supposed to be my first tatt but the need for the headstone memorial tatt trumped it. It will be the next to be done on my right shoulder down until my upper right chest. 

The 26th

My personal marker. Serves as a reminder. Sorry, Ma.
"Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt."
~ Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut

It is nearly the 26th of the month. It'll be the first death anniversary of Tita Mila's passing. It feels passe to say 'How fast. It's been a year already?' She wouldn't want that. She would want to see us enjoying at McDonald's with all the fast food amenities and saturated fat. She was nice like that.

I remember reading a story on the Philippine Daily Inquirer. It was from a column and I've forgotten all too well, the details of the story, the author, the name of the column and when I had read it. The gist was actually a question: "Why do we celebrate deaths and failures?" It was a baffling question for me at that point in my life, having lost no one.. YET. Well, no one important.

I remember the point of the article and it goes something like this: we celebrate deaths and failures so we remember a somewhat silver lining, we remember the Fall of Bataan to remind ourselves of the good that it has brought to us as a people, we remember the deaths of loved ones to remind us how happy we have been to have had them touch our lives, we remember tragedies to remind us that everything we touch in this life is but transient in material space but immortal in a dimension that we all share and pass on to the next seeds of our generations. Well, something like that. 

For many, this time of year, they count the days until Christmas. I do, too. I just wish that wherever Tita spends her time now, they have Christmas there, too. So she may recieve my greetings and gifts. I hope that Vonnegut was right that when we pass, we never really die but only pass on to a different dimension. A dimension where the physical senses are not enough to make us believe that we exist, we just know that we do.

Merry Christmas, Tita. And happy anniversary on your arrival at your own personal and non- physical dimension. 

Sunday was good, not great, just plain good

The sun set over another sleepy Sunday. The intersection was a good place to meet you.

I think I have many things to write about during the last weekend. The problem is I don't really remember much of what I wanted to write about or how I'd write them. Boo-fucking-hoo for not using the memo pad on my phone.

To get off, I've recently applied for a Tax Identification Number at the regional office near our place. It took me almost an hour to get to the office, nearly two hours in queue for the payments and another hour for transactions. The heat was unbelievable. It was like putting your head near the barbecue grill. Only the embers were not present. I found out that I have to file monthly, quarterly and yearly. Plus, I need to pay an additional percentage of my salary. The cheese just got sliced further. I think I'll be left with gossamer thin snips of pay.

Just finished painting the final coating for my Pa's bike. I decided to go for a flat black finish. Got the bars and handle post painted too. That was before I finished my driving practice. It was a success, I didn't hit anyone or anything on the way. My Pa gave out a sigh of relief.

Also got a sketch of my graduation picture from my uncle from the province. It was a charcoal sketch. It was  framed in cheap wood, you can still see the nails used to fasten the illustration board inside. It was nothing special at first glance. It looked cheap and badly done, really. But the thing is, it was done inside prison. My uncle is being detained until his arraignment. That was something to do even in my current status. I don't do special shit for relatives. Never have. That made the sketch special, heck, even I looked special on the portrait.

Lastly, I had success in cooking my first sinigang na ulo ng salmon (pink salmon, to be specific.) I cooked it in miso. It was good, not great, just plain good. My Ma also made turon but it looked like lumpia. It was good, not great as it is, just plain good. But due to the fact that my Ma made them for me, it was delicious. I ended up looking for it after dinner.

It was a simply fulfilling day, weekend. I didn't know why, exactly. It just felt good, not great, just plain good. I ended up missing my wee one, also dreamt of him all grown up by I managed to forgot what he looked like. And that made me glad. It would have been cheating if I got to remember.

Innersection

Starting this Blue Monday with something different and twee.

"Our songs sometimes do not fall on the ears we intend them to. We fail and we do not know. That's the beauty and fault of all of it. We resign ourselves to the fact that we could've done something but we simply didn't know that. We could have flown closely off the coast together. Even lightning and storms couldn't strike us down. We could've flown straight into the sun if we wanted to. We'll be happier that way. This song was for you, once."

...

Swaggerjackkk

THE real 100th

ON BEAUTY

I think there are two types of beauty.

The easier kind is inherited beauty. Youth and its accessories. Flawless skin, toned muscles, bright eyes, silken hair. Also, the ageless genetic gifts of symmetry, grace, and form.

While I cannot help but appreciate inherited beauty, I do not respect it as much as the other type of beauty.

Earned beauty. Laugh lines, scars, stretch marks, tattoos, the folding wrinkles of age. These are marks life leaves on the body. A roadmap of a body’s temporal path. Each crease tells a story, each scar a mark of honor.

I’m perplexed by people who buy jeans, or boots, and scuff and distress them right away. Better they should enjoy the inherited beauty of them new, and as life works on them, the earned beauty will shine through. Be patient. Appreciate it. The process is as important as the destination. Earn it.

The same as our bodies age. Enjoy the beauty and blush of youth, but also the patina and mystery of age. Be young and beautiful. Be old and beautiful.

You were given a body. But have you earned it yet?

By Clayton Cubitt

dig of the week

Just received good news. My postpaid application was approved after a day. And a special couple has just announced their wedding date. I am crying as of the moment. And this does not even count as a post. Huhu

On my last post. It's not the 100th, sorry guys.

Jotting.

This here, post, seems to be my 98th post. I forgot to post two drafts in my queue. Sad. The last post is apparently not my 100th but I'll stick to it because that's what Semper Fidelis means.

Anyhow, apparently, there is a buzz going on with the Hysterical Literature videos in the art world. It has been called many things among which "high art" and apparent "poor taste" are the more stronger words.

I'm not a student of the "art" but as I remember from my earlier classes, there had always been a separating line between the "high brow" and the "popular." Of course, the richer tend to be more learned in "appreciating" art as it is or was, hence, collections and carefully curated works that they have "claimed" that only the people higher intellects, like themselves, can understand. The popular are the bakya, with cheaper tastes for artistic swill and the always dreaded mainstream. I see the image as a perceived pyramid wherein the one percenters enjoy the view from the top and the bums hold the lower levels of the pyramid feed off the leftovers of artistic interpretation, appreciation and conception.

It so happens that sex and art, when mixed, is a whirlwind. Will it be pornography if human sexual pleasure and excitation is captured in canvas, photographs, film or graffiti? Will it be art if done in a clinical artistic way? I, for one, don't know shit.

Kulturang Popular, you really taught me a thing or two. I'm not an expert but you make me sound like I swaggerjacked one.

Here are the links to articles I've managed to scour for your discerning eyes and understanding. It's not necessarily branding. The need for qualifying and identifying which specific genre it falls onto or which people can understand its message is, I think, unnecessary.

Reid Singer's article on Artinfo regarding the mixing of the high brow and the low with  a suicide leap bordering on porn.

Danielle Ezzo's reply to Singer's article. Describing the more than flawed structuring of the belief of straight edge art and its connection to the "one-percenters."

Here, model Stoya describes the experience of battling the sensation and paying attention to the book.

Lastly, Supervert's reaction to the series. 

This shit's profound, man.

100th Post! Tenteneneeeen!

Hindi ko inakalang aabot ako sa ganitong dami ng post dahil hindi ko naman talaga lubos na inalagaan ang blog ko na ito. Kung nabasa mo ang mga unang posts ko dito, ilang taon na ang nakalipas, class requirement ang pinagmulan ng address na 'to. Hindi ko rin inakalang magsusulat akong muli sa isang medium na bukas sa karamihan ngunit, totoo at hindi ko ikinahihiya, ay konti lamang ang nagbabasa (mahina kasi ako sa traffic generation at hindi naman mga "pop" ang mga paksa ng aking mga nililimbag na kwento o akda.)

Maraming salamat at umabot ako ng 100 posts. Marami ring salamat dahil maaaring ma-approve na ang postpaid application ko dahil napilitan akong kumuha nito dahil sa kawalan ng sariling cellphone.

Maiba ako, ang post ko ngayon ay maaaring iklasipika bilang NFSW o Not Safe For Wife este Work, dahil sa medyo maselang bahagi ng video na kasama rito.

Sweet indeed

photo from giveahootreadabook.blogspot.com

Bought a 1954 edition of Sweet Thursday by John Steinbeck last night for a measly 80 pesos. Treasure! Will try to buy James Clavell's combo of King Rat, Shogun and Whrilwind, all are in good condition with that patina of yellow worn paper and dog ears. The copy I got came with a free all-metal paper clip. From the looks of it, the last reader used it as a bookmark, permanently leaving a silhouette and its shape on the paper. He/she was stuck on page 116, chapter 27. 

The old copy reminds me so much of how I wanted to live in the earlier days when everything seems to shimmer like gold though they don't look the part. It could have been nice.

The first few pages got me excited enough to make it my current travel read. And it turned out great early this morning since I managed to leave my office keys inside the ticket pocket of my khakis which I wore yesterday.

Let's brush up on reading and avoid losing our souls on the internet.

And, oh, yeah. Obama won.

Post-halloween unrelated post

Getting back to writing. It has been a few days since I've really thought of making anything interesting. Aside from the tattoo designs that I'm planning to get, nothing seems more of a buzz to do.

Here's a good thing though, the past few days have been very eventful: I got the chance to spend Tita's first death anniversary (it's nearing the 26th already, it's been a quick year and she is still sorely missed) and I got to visit my Lolo Pikong and Lola Gloria, still side by side even in their final resting place. 

My Lolo and Lola were grand people or so my father would lavishly recall. Lola Gloria would wake them up early in the morning to do the chores: split firewood, heat the cauldron where they make the kakanin they have to sell on the streets and at their school, fetch water for their everyday baths. Papa always had the time to tell the story of how he got that burn on the side of his left butt cheek. He said it was from the dagta of a mango tree he religiously scaled for ripe fruits to sell or eat at home.

Lolo Pikong on the other hand always referred to me as Mac Mac. He was of Spanish descent. And as I can remember; he had fine silver hair and more than fair skin. You could see the blood in his features. Espanyol. He'd always give me ice cream money whenever we visited him in Magdalena. 50 pesos for me and 20 pesos for my Kuya Pao who would then hustle me the money afterwards. Papa said Lolo was very strict and he had a belt to impose discipline on his children.

It has been years since I last set foot on Magdalena. Many things changed: houses were bigger, everything was semi-urbanized but the welcoming feeling was always there (not to mention Rambutan fruits as big as half fists.) It was a fine feeling, knowing that that place was where I could trace my less than average roots.

Another thing that I got to do in the past days was to visit my kid in Baguio. Papa was with me. He enjoyed the night market and the pretty girls that scoured the cold streets for cheap thrills and good buy's. Lots of skin were exposed to the cold Baguio night and they embraced the cold as it was a reprieve from the punishing heat of the Metro. Papa scored a fleece jacket by The North Face, he planned on wearing it on the bus. I said 'No.' Papa also got to enjoy his grandson. He reveled in the sight of outflung arms of a small replica of himself. I thought I saw a little tear in his eye when my kid yelled 'Lolo! Lolo! Lolo!' His arms grew happily tired under the weight of my son he so gladly swung as he did with me back in the day.

I'd take a picture of the two doppelgangers but I had wrecked my phone last week. I also managed to leave our camera. So, I suck. It could have been a better weekend with pictures of the grampa and grandson wolfing down quarter pound burgers and running around Camp John Hay, which, on a different topic, has been fully commercialized and dubbed as Techno Hub.

We were happy and it had a lingering effect up to this time. Oh, yeah. I managed to sneak in two Uniqlo walking shorts for 130 php a pop. Not bad, no? Plus, I got to discover the wonder of a fish shaped ice cream sandwich with red bean filling. It beats Magnum in every field. Again, I would have taken a picture but I had wrecked my phone as I said earlier. 

No pictures for now, sorry.

Time out

On fear.

Let's get over them, you and I.

At long last, I get to caress my desk and chair at the office. Three long weeks are enough. Let's try to write soon. Eyes are still sore from lack of sleep and prolonged exposure to recycled, air-conditioned bus chill. 

I can't get to make my fingers do my bidding.