Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Monday, April 15, 2013
i never really read newspapers until now
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Bureau Chief's office, c2010
Philippine Daily Inquirer Northern Luzon Bureau
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This photo was taken about 3 years ago. I was doing my journalism internship at that time. I barely scraped by if not for the help and guidance of the magely editors at PDI Northern Luzon Bureau. This was the look of our Bureau Chief's (BC) office. I bet it still look like this and I really hope that it still does. His book collection, to say the least solicits awe along with the martial law memorabilia, including a newspaper snippet of his picture being the alleged assassin of Ninoy Aquino (still hadn't asked him about the authenticity of that snip of paper, I dare not ask the wizard.)
I specifically remember reaching out for a copy of Chernobyl Diaries out of the crammed shelves. It was like picking off at a wall of great pieces, it felt transient and lasting at the same time. I also remember a story from the book, the wife was telling the story about his husband who worked at the Chernobyl nuclear plant, he was greatly exposed to radiation. She carefully narrated the way she cut her fingernails down to the nub, slowly hiding the edges of her nails. The beauty was in the details, the housewife turned full time nurse for her husband told the story on how her fingertips bled. It was an effort to keep herself from hurting her husband. She told of how she once flayed the soft skin on her husband's arm. Her nails were too long and sharp.
It was a chilling reminder on the effects of that blow up. And how it still affects the citizens of ghost town Chernobyl. It also was a good example of how good writing can take people to places they can only imagine and are too afraid to even plan a visit. Reading some of the stories in that book added to my own wall of simple dreams and aspirations, I wanted to be a writer. But I easily acknowledged that I couldn't keep up with the dailies, I will never be a print journalist. It was true.
Our BC was also a professor at the University. He gave me a fitting grade for my performance: 2.75. I barely scraped by but I loved being in his class. It was a glimpse at the old school experience of working on a press room. The experience felt like it was a photo with coffee colored sepia effects.
That is all.
Friday, April 12, 2013
midnight drive
This always gets to me. I don't know why. I know some people who tell me that it's a whole lot different when you get uprooted from where you came from. I believe them. I think it's true and that you can't just get taken away from all that you are, were and currently represent. It'll be suicide but you just get this lump in your throat and it makes you want to throw yourself into that uncertainty. Just because it is a thriving desire and you know the rewards are greater than the risk.
Fuck. This. Shit.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
rationalize
We sat and lounged all day. It was a dark afternoon, it was raining but the day felt like it was beset with burning coals, raining on the aluminum roof. It was a lazy day but the smoke kept coming. The long streaks of immeasurable physical symbols of after sex rituals.
She gon' do you so good that other tenants will want to have a smoke after she's done with you.
Motherfucking lines that are so fucking cheesy that you can't help but to smile tightly. Then release the air trapped in your nose to complete a scoffing effect. Wiseguy motherfuckers.
She lay motionless in the bed. It was a mess. Really. It almost feels like an understatement to me. Her clothes line the floor in a familiar way. More like a trail of islands in a vast surrounding of sea and waves. The sheets were the ones who took the beating, they caught the brunt. They are an old gift from a failed lover and I made sure it became the witness of the many things I swore I'd do to get back at her. It was a canvass for me. I was the brush and the this girl was one of my palettes. It was redemption in the most physical way possible. Violence is too easy, though I can't say for sure that what just happened this morning could not be classified into that area. It was a haze of controlled anger.
The sooner I let go of that feeling, the faster it burnt. White knuckles are a common thing these days. No, it is a necessity. The way that each tendon tightens into a burning white sensation that translates to a euphoric but abrasive state is something I pride myself with. I wear it like a crown, they, on the other hand, are not aware of this laud they give me.
It's nothing personal. Though I feel that it is some kind of vindication for me. This is some narcissistic shit but who else can talk to me about me but me? They are too busy making schedules, keeping up with meetings, memorizing the points on their reports. Let's get busy.
We were okay, not happy, just okay. She hates bearing all the decorations of pre-made love I get her as gifts. She didn't want gifts. She just wanted me. And I wanted her. It is in that simple mechanism of a relationship I should have remained. But fuck me, I wanted to make things detailed with my OCD and self-loathing. There should have been none. I am angry and that makes it worse. Rambling was a way that I did to open up a dialogue that should've happened. I dwell on the "what could haves" and the "what ifs." They are piling up like the dirty laundry. It engulfed the hamper of my self-loathing.
She loved lazy afternoons like this one. I hate myself for remembering it. I'm just wondering, does she think about me as much as I still do about her? I fucking hate her to the point that this resurrected vow for vengeance is channeled through things other than her just to show her I don't care. But it kinda gets old. Drugs and relapses are always in business. Actually, they are a growing partnership. You'll find branches everywhere. Look at the time, I have another appointment by 5. I better wake her up.
She gon' do you so good that other tenants will want to have a smoke after she's done with you.
Motherfucking lines that are so fucking cheesy that you can't help but to smile tightly. Then release the air trapped in your nose to complete a scoffing effect. Wiseguy motherfuckers.
She lay motionless in the bed. It was a mess. Really. It almost feels like an understatement to me. Her clothes line the floor in a familiar way. More like a trail of islands in a vast surrounding of sea and waves. The sheets were the ones who took the beating, they caught the brunt. They are an old gift from a failed lover and I made sure it became the witness of the many things I swore I'd do to get back at her. It was a canvass for me. I was the brush and the this girl was one of my palettes. It was redemption in the most physical way possible. Violence is too easy, though I can't say for sure that what just happened this morning could not be classified into that area. It was a haze of controlled anger.
The sooner I let go of that feeling, the faster it burnt. White knuckles are a common thing these days. No, it is a necessity. The way that each tendon tightens into a burning white sensation that translates to a euphoric but abrasive state is something I pride myself with. I wear it like a crown, they, on the other hand, are not aware of this laud they give me.
It's nothing personal. Though I feel that it is some kind of vindication for me. This is some narcissistic shit but who else can talk to me about me but me? They are too busy making schedules, keeping up with meetings, memorizing the points on their reports. Let's get busy.
We were okay, not happy, just okay. She hates bearing all the decorations of pre-made love I get her as gifts. She didn't want gifts. She just wanted me. And I wanted her. It is in that simple mechanism of a relationship I should have remained. But fuck me, I wanted to make things detailed with my OCD and self-loathing. There should have been none. I am angry and that makes it worse. Rambling was a way that I did to open up a dialogue that should've happened. I dwell on the "what could haves" and the "what ifs." They are piling up like the dirty laundry. It engulfed the hamper of my self-loathing.
She loved lazy afternoons like this one. I hate myself for remembering it. I'm just wondering, does she think about me as much as I still do about her? I fucking hate her to the point that this resurrected vow for vengeance is channeled through things other than her just to show her I don't care. But it kinda gets old. Drugs and relapses are always in business. Actually, they are a growing partnership. You'll find branches everywhere. Look at the time, I have another appointment by 5. I better wake her up.
sound proof boards, i tell ya
I.
I rarely go to the movies. It's something that is hard enough to do when you've got a hundred fucking things to juggle with such little time in your hands. I wish I had the weird ability to create a clone that could help me with all this shit that I've got to do. But that would make nothing our of everything.
II.
A friend and colleague always told me "Go big or go home." What a fucking loser but I love him for telling me that. He was always just drifting away in his own shit and smoke, a fetid smell that stank and felt like crusty grains of orange speckled rust always came to mind when I think of him. Much like the razor that was used to cut him right open. Poor bastard, too proud to ask for help. I could've helped him that afternoon. Instead he chose to be gutted like raw fish.
III.
Being a moviehouse mainstay is not easy. You never really know who to hit unless you see them in the transient light before they enter the dark corners of the cinema. I can't really make out what they carry or if they did, will those things make a pretty penny. Heck, it's a dying business really. I don't really know what keeps me from coming back to this old dead-end job. Sure beats trying to make deliveries, I'd tell you that.
IV.
Some dudes really just want to get up even after you get at them real hard. Ya'know? It's like they're looking for a worse time than what you've already given them. It's a familiar taste in my mouth, seeping blood into my tongue after an elbow clipped me in the lip, I returned the favor with a hard overhand smack on his right ear. That sure will make his drums buzz. Now, if I could just find that wallet of his. Here it is. Cheap fuck. But not bad for his taste in lighters. I used to have a Zippo that looked like this. I used to.
V.
Business is hard, just like any other business. On a good day, I can make a few runs and not get hit or caught. This scarf is a handy mask. It keeps them guessing. My favorite spot will have to be the comfort room stalls. I can get real sneaky in those. Pop a monkey mask and most just freak out though I still get to use my iron knuckles once in a while. It gets messy when I get myself a bleeder. Chips of bone and teeth are not a pretty sight for your date, it looks troubling and disturbing. Imagine having to put up with that thing in front of you and still trying to make small talk. I couldn't eat a spaghetti bolognese with that, thank you.
VI.
I get to see a lot of creeps in movie houses. The dark room perfect for their choice of creepery. Fucking assholes waiting for justice on their faces. I wish I could get a baseball bat in when I hit a place. It would be awesome to just bust out of a stall and go all ape shit on his face, then his legs from the shin down to the ankle. It will break like a twig snaps as you step on it. It'll get stepped on real hard. Then, I'll get the loot to make it a mugging. Fucking amateur.
VII.
I remember this one time, this asshole kept on trying to score a grab on this girl's breast. She kept saying no and that she wasn't comfortable with the whole idea of groping inside the cinema. He insisted. She still said no and hit his hand with the blade of her hand. He flinched. What a bitch, he must've thought. He went down for a piss. I followed. His date wondered where he'd gone to after that.
VIII.
Sometimes it just gets tiring. I just want to quit while I'm ahead but who would keep at it if I stop now?
IX.
I read too much fiction. I used all of those to wipe my wares after. They soak up good but I still have to use rags to make sure they're clean to the nooks. I hate this part. It makes me feel dirty all of a sudden. If only girls could just stop going into movie houses just to get violated. But where's the fun in being clean? If only dudes would just stop being total dicks and secret rapists. That would be more boring. I'll have plenty of time to kill.
X.
The afternoon my friend got sliced into ribbons was the first time I had a slow day. I was kinda feeling that he'll get done real good but I hadn't imagined it to be that way. He picked the wrong catch that day. I still have that rusty razor.
I rarely go to the movies. It's something that is hard enough to do when you've got a hundred fucking things to juggle with such little time in your hands. I wish I had the weird ability to create a clone that could help me with all this shit that I've got to do. But that would make nothing our of everything.
II.
A friend and colleague always told me "Go big or go home." What a fucking loser but I love him for telling me that. He was always just drifting away in his own shit and smoke, a fetid smell that stank and felt like crusty grains of orange speckled rust always came to mind when I think of him. Much like the razor that was used to cut him right open. Poor bastard, too proud to ask for help. I could've helped him that afternoon. Instead he chose to be gutted like raw fish.
III.
Being a moviehouse mainstay is not easy. You never really know who to hit unless you see them in the transient light before they enter the dark corners of the cinema. I can't really make out what they carry or if they did, will those things make a pretty penny. Heck, it's a dying business really. I don't really know what keeps me from coming back to this old dead-end job. Sure beats trying to make deliveries, I'd tell you that.
IV.
Some dudes really just want to get up even after you get at them real hard. Ya'know? It's like they're looking for a worse time than what you've already given them. It's a familiar taste in my mouth, seeping blood into my tongue after an elbow clipped me in the lip, I returned the favor with a hard overhand smack on his right ear. That sure will make his drums buzz. Now, if I could just find that wallet of his. Here it is. Cheap fuck. But not bad for his taste in lighters. I used to have a Zippo that looked like this. I used to.
V.
Business is hard, just like any other business. On a good day, I can make a few runs and not get hit or caught. This scarf is a handy mask. It keeps them guessing. My favorite spot will have to be the comfort room stalls. I can get real sneaky in those. Pop a monkey mask and most just freak out though I still get to use my iron knuckles once in a while. It gets messy when I get myself a bleeder. Chips of bone and teeth are not a pretty sight for your date, it looks troubling and disturbing. Imagine having to put up with that thing in front of you and still trying to make small talk. I couldn't eat a spaghetti bolognese with that, thank you.
VI.
I get to see a lot of creeps in movie houses. The dark room perfect for their choice of creepery. Fucking assholes waiting for justice on their faces. I wish I could get a baseball bat in when I hit a place. It would be awesome to just bust out of a stall and go all ape shit on his face, then his legs from the shin down to the ankle. It will break like a twig snaps as you step on it. It'll get stepped on real hard. Then, I'll get the loot to make it a mugging. Fucking amateur.
VII.
I remember this one time, this asshole kept on trying to score a grab on this girl's breast. She kept saying no and that she wasn't comfortable with the whole idea of groping inside the cinema. He insisted. She still said no and hit his hand with the blade of her hand. He flinched. What a bitch, he must've thought. He went down for a piss. I followed. His date wondered where he'd gone to after that.
VIII.
Sometimes it just gets tiring. I just want to quit while I'm ahead but who would keep at it if I stop now?
IX.
I read too much fiction. I used all of those to wipe my wares after. They soak up good but I still have to use rags to make sure they're clean to the nooks. I hate this part. It makes me feel dirty all of a sudden. If only girls could just stop going into movie houses just to get violated. But where's the fun in being clean? If only dudes would just stop being total dicks and secret rapists. That would be more boring. I'll have plenty of time to kill.
X.
The afternoon my friend got sliced into ribbons was the first time I had a slow day. I was kinda feeling that he'll get done real good but I hadn't imagined it to be that way. He picked the wrong catch that day. I still have that rusty razor.
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