“My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them.” 

-Jack Kerouac

Alexander Supertramp's books, Into the Wild, 2007

A writer’s letter to his son

Son, I hope you read this someday. You may feel that it is all too tacky for your grey old man to write this for you but that’s the point – I don’t want to seem the bent old fart that you see hovering around you whenever you have a girl around for dinner, I want you to hear or read what I have to say when I’m still sound and sober.

There will be lots of hardships for you. As a father I wouldn’t want any of that to happen to you, my precious child. I love you and I hope you have all the best in the world. No, I wish you may have the best the world has to offer. The possibilities are only as limited as the barriers you would put up in your mind. But as a man, I’d want you to face challenges that would test you and build you a stronger hold in life.

I’ve done a lot of things that made me think once or twice about. Having you is not one of those things. Your mother and I believe that you are the best thing that has ever happened in our life, no homo. Your little hands that are now beginning to take shape into large but beautiful coolie paws are what will help you build your own castle.

You are a prince by right, so act like it. Soon, you’d be king. A king is noble and right in his words, deeds and promises. Treat women the best that they deserve as you would your mom, your queen. The only time you should touch a woman’s face is when you wipe away her tears or kiss her to assure her of your love. If she should cry, it should be when you are kneeling before her when you ask for her hand in marriage. 

Be a comforting presence to your soon-to-be queen and never lose time to listen to her qualms and her inner storms. The heart of a girl is meek; you’d have to take a step closer to hear it speak. Make her feel her prettiest everyday when you are together and make her remember that love when she is far away. But for now, love your mother to the full – it’s one of the best kinds that love can be.

You should always act the part you want to play. Never be a poser who basks in the lime light of mundane and fleeting things. You must earn everything that you would want to be proud of. Be a man in every right of the word. I know you’ll do because you’re my son. You are everything that I have always aspired to be. You are my role model. I look up to you now even if you’re just three feet tall. That’s how much of a big man you already are in my heart.

If you may feel like I’m talking a lot or expecting too much of you, don’t. These are but words that I’d like you to read and understand. Never feel obligated to be dictated if you know it’s not what you want to do. Speak out but keep in mind the feelings of others. Say what you have to as long as you know that you are on the right side of the fence. I am your father, I will listen.

Join a fraternity if you’d like, just march back home when your mother is calling for your ass or both of us would be grilled to golden brown perfection. Don’t come home beaten because I will make it my personal pledge to make the lives of those who did that to you a living hell.

You can be gay, too for all I care. You are my son and I would love your partner when the time comes. What’s important is not the beard on your chin (but that would like be totally awesome!) or the muscles in your arms nor your personal winning score in fist fights but the man that you are underneath all of it. 

Cuss, drink, smoke and get tattoos, it’s all part of your rite of passage but stay true to what you stand for and make good with the youth you have. I’ll believe in you because you’re my little boy, nothing can change that and I’ll always love you for it.

Forgive me if it’s taking too long to finish this thing. I’m getting old right at this very moment. Plus, I’m a writer. It’s what I do. My memory is starting to become a big blur. But before that completely happens, I want to ask you a favor – when I pass on, be sure to put to heart and mind all of the things in this letter. Be the guiding image to your children and the younger men after you. It can only get better from there on. Remember your old man as the way you would always want to remember him, as your father.

I love you, son. Your mother and I love you very much.

P.S.

I forgive you for shoo-ing me when I try to hug you and pepper you with kisses. I guess that’s just what fathers do to their little boys. I’ll always give you a pass. And I promise not to show your naked baby pictures to every girl I see you with, I’m cool like that. Also, please take care of the bikes, boots and books that I leave to you. Use them at your disposal to learn the workings of the world in pages, see the open road on two wheels and what it has to offer you, conquer your mountains and leave nothing but your footsteps and a sigh of contentment. I’m sorry I can’t leave you the special reserve of whiskey, it’s one of those things I told you earlier of which you had to earn. Cheers to you, my man. 

“I’m in the dark, and it obviously suits me to stay in the dark.” – Frederick Seidel

peek-a-boo

I'll try to re-write what I've accidentally deleted a while back. Fuck.

Well, my story started with how much tv series and movies I've been watching recently and that I can't seem to enjoy the plots that much because of something I've read. It's about a tip or interview of some sort that Vonnegut gave and it was about writing. The main idea was to let something miserable happen to your characters whenever you're writing. It just stuck all the way though up to now.

So, when everything's going diddly fine on Breaking Bad, Girls or Boardwalk Empire, I automatically assume that the grim part of the script is just waiting at the turn, waiting to blind side you and just depress the fuck out of your fictional world. Yes, they are written superbly by people who are just plain great, genius even though Calvin Weir Harris wouldn't like to hear that word around him or used to refer to him. That sounded fragmented.

Well, the thing is I automatically assume that the characters are on a suffering race and that it's just a matter of time until the next big thing bursts their bubble. The conflict is amazing, however. The weaving of the stories and how they all end up tangled in the end, just fucking brilliant. I sometimes catch myself thinking why I didn't think of that shit? It's always safe to think that someone's going to get shot and turned into human goo in a plastic barrel. 

Vonnegut made sure I thought of that. Though it still makes you itch to see what happens and it makes you want to feel surprised about how the next punch to the gonads is going to wrapped and packaged. Will it be subtle and striking or in your face brass knuckles to shuffle all your teeth out type of way? We don't know that, only the idea that when something gets all high up in one point, the crash is sure to come. Talk about being a pessimist even in the fictional world.

Hell, what is the world without struggle, right? It's just one struggle after another. You never run out of those things. If you do, it's either you're dead or in a coma.

Watching Ruby Sparks and One Day made me feel that thing with the highs and lows and all that roller coaster of emotions and shit. What will happen after Calvin and Ruby's perfect relationship? What happens next, now that Em and Dex are finally together? It's a Russian Roulette and the bullet always ends up in your chamber. It waits for the final click of the hammer.

Fuck, yea. Naisulat ko uli pero nawala ang karamihan sa train of thought.

photos were taken from the internet

talk about dicks

This post belongs to a series of posts that I've recently worked on. You probably have the idea on what the central theme is. And it is very narcissistic and selfish.

Writers have the egos of small children when they are compared with other writers of greater or equal talent and exposure. Sometimes the measure is not in the volume of the pages sifted by the audience but by notoriety, fame and even controversy. They claw and boast that their castles are bigger, more fortified, more grandeur than others’. They explain in terms that only they understand and at the end of the play day they just leave their tiny big forts there to crumble only to be built up from make shift foundations for show and tell time on another day.

Then, there is the intro of the ego of adults that when they meet people, actual people of age and even preference or standpoint that they find attractive or seek attention from, they all act simple and human to the point of low. 

They want to be seen as someone who they are. They want people to like what they like, have the same traits, have the same tastes in wine, coffee and genres of reading. Not to the point of leagues-deep of literary understanding and interpretation – it is one thing that all writers take pride in: their ability to make sure that no other lesser writer can match the depth at which they understand literature.

They want the feeling that people do when they think that they are reading their selves in a novel. I am that character. I’m a secret misogynist who pretends I love women and their rights but I only want them for their physicality. I am that great musician who takes pride in my level of artistry. I am that handy man who is totally ripped and scarred by life but is gentle once you get to know me and notice the dimples at my back. I am that woman who is nothing but independent and success-driven and yet I melt at the image of a cuddle in bed weather days. 

They want that flattery because they know that they can deliver it in ways that will keep people up for nights without end. They are asshole sweet talkers and they want to be sweet talked in a way that is not asskissing but romantic and totally blunt and hurtful in perfect harmony.

To say all those things is very cruel. Yes, but the writer levels him/herself to the point as humanly possible to show that they, too are products of small egos. They want to be loved for who and what they are, but they want it done their own way.

Well, that’s that. It’s a stereotype deconstruction of a stereotype that we call “writers.” Dicks.

plastic sheeting

I promise, this will be the last snip for the day.

What we get from the feeling of finishing a very interesting article, story or post we write is something that varies in shade, intensity and purity. We can never put it in words with such quantification and precision, the essence is not contained in a jar in its entirety. Writing has been an escape from the real. Writing has been the  reality for the imagined. Writing has been the instrument to bend and break. Writing has been the wall which many have leaned on when they have rubber legs from all the whiskey they drank. The feeling is fleeting in its sense that we don't know that what we may write is some sort of magic for others. And that the magic in itself is not knowing that we've made real some things that have not been real for a long time.

I don't know about this post but I just want to write it. Maybe it's just the cold getting in between my toes.

15-seconder

"If he doesn't read your stories, he doesn't read you."

Dialogue from Girls, season 2.

Makes you think, really. About the person you're trying to open up to. And the ego that you are feeding. Writers have small, big egos. 

Humblebrag, motherfucker.

Good morning, Doctor.

Photo from The Selvedge Yard

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming– “Wow! What a Ride!”

— Hunter S. Thompson

Wise words from a man who didn't wait for life to take him away. Badly bruised and beaten, half-drunk and half-stoned on a full head-on collision course. Life is supposed to wear people down. Otherwise, we should have been made immortal and forever young in our physical shells.

Threadbare and worn to the ground, I'm feeling like an old man with no trophy or medal or some sort of accomplishment to put up in the air. I know you don't believe in luck, Doctor. I don't, either. Let's get beautifully mangled.

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.

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.

Good morning, blue friday

Magandang umaga at isang malamig na spaghetti bilang almusal.

Nakalimutan kong banggitin ang mga sumusunod sa aking nakalipas na post ng pasasalamat.

Isang senior editor ng PDI Northern Luzon - Sir Jawo, tanda ko pa rin ang ten commandments ng mga peryodista na ipinatatak nyo sa amin sa klase. Hinding hindi ko malilimutan ang libel clause doon. Responsibilidad at isang karangalan ang pagsusulat sa peryodiko o sa kahit anong limbagan ng isip at katotohanan. Dahil sa mga deadlines sa klase ay natutunan kong madaling mapanis ang balita. Sana ang kinain kong spahhetti ay hindi panis. Maraming salamat din po sa mini Guyito stuffed toy na pinagpaubaya ninyo sa akin. May ikukwento ako sa aking anak pagdating ng panahon. Limited edition kaya yun kasi may santa hat pa.

Sa aking trabaho - Maraming salamat rin at nakahanap ako ng pagbubuhusan ng aking pinag-aralan sa loob ng limang taon. Bukod sa pangunahing pinagmumulan ng aking ikinabubuhay at ikinabibisyo, ang mga istilong kinailangan kong aralin at palabasin sa aking mga gawa ay nakakapagpabago ng ideya tungkol sa pagsusulat. Practice makes perfect nga, kailangan ko pa ng mas maraming practice. Kulang pa ang abilidad ko upang gampanan nang lubusan ang aking trabaho. Pasensya na kung ako'y mareklamo kung minsan. Pakipot ka rin kasi.

Ayan, may iba pa akong dapat pasalamatan pero iniisip ko pa. Isa na naman itong singit na post sa aking busy-busy-han na schedule. Sana ay makauwi ako mamya sa amin. Marami pa akong ie-encode pagdating sa bahay. Let's destroy our deadlines. Madaling mapanis ang balita.

Overdue at recent

Ang pagsusulat ang isa sa mga naging magandang nangyari sa buhay ko. Sa ngayon, ito ang aking ikinabubuhay at minsan ay ikinasasama ng loob. Sabagay, ganoon nga siguro ang isang love/hate relationship- bittersweet.

At bilang pasasalamat sa mga taong nakatulong sa aking pagsusulat, inaalay ko ang aking post na ito sa mga writers.

Hindi ko nalang nunumerohan ang pagkakasunod-sunod sa aking pasasalamat.

"50-50"

Ito'y isang post mula sa isang talented writer, dating kaklase at batchmate sa pagpasok sa org nung college.

Minsan ang kalaban ng peryodista ay ang deadline, para sa manunulat naman ay ang kawalan ng sanib upang makapagsulat. Sa paglalakbay nya para sa paghahanap ng maisusulat ay nagagawa nya ang iba o karamihan sa mga nakalista.

Ang galing ng pagkakabuo ng simpleng artikulo at sigurado akong marami ang makakarelate dito. Kaya kudos kay Ms. Aina Buenaobra. Di ako magtataka kung mababasa ko ang mga sulat mo sa mga dyaryo o iba pang limbagin dito sa bansa at sa kabuuan ng pagkalawak-lawak na internet.

Bisitahin ang kanyang blog sa Nature.Ethnicity.Women.

Sa kanyang pahintulot ay ipinapaskil ko sa aking blog ang kanyang isinulat.

Sanib (n.), more common term—writer’s inspiration

“Huwag mo ng antayin ang sanib. Journalist ka. Hindi ka aabot sa deadline mo kung aasa ka sa sanib.”

Iyan ang isa sa pinakahindi ko malilimutang linya ni Sir Abner Mercado sa aming klase noon. Sinabi niya ito upang ipaalala sa amin na kaakibat ng pagiging peryodista o mamamahayag ang deadlines. Maliwanag naman sa akin ang aral na ito, ngunit ang masaklap ay ang identity crisis ng pagiging peryodista at pagiging manunulat.

Kung ikaw ay 50% journalist at 50% writer, malaki ang magiging problema mo. Karaniwan kasi ng may 50-50 na kalagayan ay nangangailangan muna ng sanib bago sila makasulat. Ilan sa mga problema ng pagsusulat ng walang sanib ay ang mga sumusunod: 

1. Johny Pa-deep. Hango mula sa pangalan ng sikat na artistang si Johny Depp. Una sa mga problema ng may 50-50 ay ang tunog Johny Pa-deep. Nais ng bawat manunulat na magkalaman at lumalim ang kaniyang artikulo. Ngunit asahan mong kapag walang “sanib,”imbes na matalinhaga, pa-deep ang kalalabasan ng artikulo. Trying hard kumbaga dahil nag-try naman ng hard ang manunulat upang matapos ang artikulo kahit walang sanib. 
2. Happy New Year! Bakit happy new year? Dahil sabog! Sabog na sabog ang article na isinusulat mo. May mga pagkakataon na sabog dahil ang dami mong magagandang ideya at isinusulat mo lahat iyon. Ang problema, hindi mo sila mapagtugma-tugma o kayang buuin bilang isa. Sabog din kung isip ka ng isip pero wala kang maisip kaya nag-free writing ka na lang. Yung nasulat mo, malayo sa tema ng artikulo na dapat mong tapusin. 
3. The researcher. Wala ka namang gagawing thesis o research paper pero hala! Sige! Maghapon ka sa library, basa ng basa ng kung anu-ano. O di kaya maghapon kang online nagtitingin-tingin ng kung anu-ano ulit. Bakit ka nagpapaka-researcher? Simple lang. Dahil umaasa kang magiging inspirasyon mo ang isa sa random books orandom posts sa internet. Umaasa kang sa pamamagitan ng anumang makikita mo, ikaw ay magkakasanib. Umasa ka lang at walang nangyari. 
4. The wanderer. Parang The researcher din pero imbes na pagbabasa, paggala naman ang ginagawa mo upang makahanap o makakita ng mga bagay, tao, lugar, o hayop na magbibigay ng sanib sa iyo. Palakad-lakad ka lang sa kalsada, sa parkeng malapit sa bahay niyo, sa mall, sa ecotrail, sa banchetto, at kung saan-saan pa. Kakalakad mo, nakalimutan mo ng magsusulat ka nga pala. Fail!
5. Combo. Combo, ibig sabihin, kailangan mo ng kombinasyon ng The researcher at The wanderer para magkasanib. Lalo ng nagkaloko-loko! Siguradong hindi ka na makakapagsulat kapag ganito. 
6. The Script. Bakit The Script? Kasi “Nothing.” Dahil wala kang sanib at hindi tumalab ang sanib-invoking activities na ginawa mo—you finished NOTHING. Kawawa ka naman. 

Pero ‘wag kang malungkot. Ganyan talaga ang buhay. Minsan nga yung sanib mo talbog pa yung kay Emily Rose eh! Darating din ang sanib mo. Magdasal ka lang na dumating ‘yon bago ang itinakdang deadline kundi siguradong exorcised ang kahahantungan mo.

Morning read

Just wanted to put this up here. Very interesting writing voice and style.

Writers are darkly glorified and simply loathed for being semi-sleazy and scheming people with dark, sexy and or evil intentions. 

Its somewhat a glimpse at the quirks of being a writer, their idiosyncrasies that make them appealing and repelling at the same time.

Thank you very much Mr. Travis Grandt for writing this and Ms. Aina for pinning it up on my feed.

Please don't take all things seriously. :)

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.

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.

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.

This is getting old

"I'd like to have a drink, please. To go with this thing I'm writing."


"Thanks, miss."


But when I drink, I'd like to just continue drinking.


But as I drink, the urge to write gets stronger with every shot.


My problem is, that when I start to write, I'm already too drunk.


When I wake up the next morning, the thoughts are already washed down the sink.


Along with spit, vomit and disappointments.


Good and bad times alike.

"Dude, yo. Let's write. Collab shit."


"Dude, yo. Let's drink. Hammer shit."


Let the paradox resume.

The Few

I am yet to write a book but something tells me that the characters that I'd give life to will be snips of real people that I have met or will meet in the near future. So here are few ideas of shadows that may get their flesh handed out to them, in paper or 0's and 1's.


The Richard Katz before there was a Richard Katz


He has something you can and can't explain at the same time. A friend in need is a friend in deed but the lead will play into his tricks more than once. He is an artist of impeccable nature but damaged in a way that is yet to be explained by the lead and understood by the character himself. Aloof and sincere at the same time. I don't know, he seems too fickle for his own canvass to explain. Read Franzen to understand.


The shadow of a man.


This character is another "He." Though shadows are rarely given sexual traits or qualities so this character can be considered an "it." It will be a character of class but eccentric ways of keeping to it's self. Worthy of admiration for the support that sticks, like a shadow, I guess but still dark enough that you can't see through it. It may be loving and grudging at the same time. Ambiguous. Yet, something is still appealing in the shadow. It is physically evident but not tangible in the same way. Also a great maker of art, though its pen is inked by self decay and brooding self keeping. You'd want to understand the shadow, only if you can get it close enough for so long.


The Woman.


I would like to believe that not every character should be dark. This character sticks like a chewed out gum, only, she is as fresh as can be. The outlook in life, the little oddities and the disposition clean and composed. Confidence is a main thing with this character. She is one of few characters that may inspire and may have amazed some. You'll know her if and when you borrow a book, you'll find a photo of her as a bookmark. Infectious.


The drifter.


This character has no definite identity. As the name says, it drifts. It hovers, it lingers but is never gone. The pages will be many so will its appearance but not fully noticeable. You'll wonder why it is a character. I do. I'll have to work on this one.


I'm out of things to put here. It was harder than I thought. Will post more on this later. Please suggest character ideas, too. I wrote this as the air con unit is blasting little flecks of ice. You can actually hear it like a revving engine.