Notes from the Undergrad: Midyear 2014

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A million books, poems, short stories, drafts, sperms, articles, plans, things, things, things are brimming in my head and now it’s time to spill them on the floor…they’re words, fragments, oil and water forced to copulate, realities and illusions, and I spit on them and wipe them with my foot and I kiss them and see them like crystals trapped in unexplored caves, dungeons, hymens.

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I have been miserable, but happy for most part this year. Especially when I started to notice the good things that happened and are happening, as if the storms had cleared it all up. How blind can one get? It’s not that bad after all. There’s still enough light to see where I am going. Taking it slow, one day, one breath, at a time, step by step, note by note, the natural rhythm and progression of life’s music; I am now at the edge of the nth verse, breathing deep, and then loosening my lungs to scream the choruses of repressed spiritual immortal melodies. The flux of unsung choruses were stuck and rotting in my throat, as I was hanging with a noose tied around my neck, my body swinging like a pendulum between the past and the future, and then falling into an abyss of mirrors whenever I try to escape myself.

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The sweet harmonic kiss of her violin and bow, and my hysteric internals bleeding rivers of consciousness; the delicate, calming strokes of her fingertips, and my wild streams of libido, danced together on top the bottomless surface, floating in the sea of her virginal gentleness, carried by the still current of her innocent pride, bathed by her puritanical orgasmic tendencies. We rise into sleepless ecstasy, standing on the tips of our toes, melting our ankles into Freudian liquids; we knot ourselves in a fertile embrace, whispering esoteric images with our tongues. The pattern and emphasis of her accents caressing each word; the breathal pauses restraining the spirits of our innuendos, but swirling them into a tango of wet dreams bursting from Neptune’s testicles pricked by his own trident. Our dreams dance like epidemic fevers in the middle of winter, cleansing the world and introducing a new season, a new race… a new language. Bed sheets are stained by the catharsis of deviant angels. Talks and ideas shoot like wildfires from our pores. We embrace in joyful deafness and submission to the lyrical catharsis of life.

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Notes from the Undergrad (Pilar, Camotes, Odyssey, Part 2)

Day 2

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” 

–Mark Twain

Lights out. But still, sleep didn’t come, so the whole dawn passed through me wide-awake. I felt every second lying in bed. The silence in the room stretched time. I blinked in and out of sleep, eye-fucking the walls and then checking the clock only to see how slow time moved. I got up around 7 a.m. Dawn passed like a dream when I got up; it so seemed unreal to be awake lying in bed for 7 hours. I was lightheaded for the first few steps but recovered quickly as soon as I got out the room.

I walked to the port and found out that Junmar 2 would sail to Pilar at 11 a.m. There was still enough time to roam and get ready. I breathed in the relief and excitement. I couldn’t wait to get there. I lit a stick and looked around. A lot of people were waiting for their trips, their faces untouched by sleep but fully awake. They were the same people who were waiting yesterday, but despite that, the joy of their upcoming travel lit their eyes.

The weather was a celebration of dear life. I could hear everything around me breathing in and out the soft warmth of the early summer morning. Above me was a perfect stillness of a cloudless, naked blue sky. Below were soft waves against the shore. People filling in the streets, getting on with their daily routines. I listened to the speeding buses as they hit the street and wondered how such a threat made me feel rather calm. Yes, the “calm” enveloped me as I got ready and waited for the sail.

The clock struck 11 a.m. and I was now in the port waiting. The line was a fucked-up long one, and there was nowhere to hide from the scorching heat. The sun licked me into scorching madness, buckets of sweat pouring out from my skin. I was so angry I could eye-fuck the sun. My hair was drenched in sweat and I could say the same about my whole body. I willed myself not to get naked and plunge into the polluted black green of sea nearby. But before anything like that could happen, the crew gave the go signal for the passengers to hop aboard.

It wasn’t even a minutes before the vessel was full. Then the coast guards checked to see if every seat was occupied and no one was standing. If by chance that there we no longer seats, then you would be thrown back to the port. So we all squeezed into place, choking the seats with our butts. As the coast guards went back to the port and boat started to sail, some people immediately stood up to find their comfort, and the seats took their breaths.

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The waves got stronger in the middle of sail but was nothing alarming. I continued reading Watchmen and found it beyond my expectations. We arrived earlier than usual because the pump boat went straight to Cawit Port instead of dropping by San Francisco and Poro. The heat was getting weaker, and dark clouds hovered the sky. I rode a jeepney to my lola’s place, and the sights along the way struck the chords of nostalgia. Last year, I went to this place broken, and now, I still was.

It was evening when I arrived. I said my hellos to my relatives and then went to my lola’s. She was sick and coughing really bad. (She just passed away two weeks ago at 92 or 93). I went outside to buy matches because I lost my lighter. It was raining pretty hard, and moments after I lit my cigarette, everything went black, and then I heard people saying “Brownout!” accompanying it with laughter as they get drunk on a Maundy Thursday.

The darkness around me made my mind mumble:

the cape of doom
shrouded in the black of death
the sea crying for the sky
the pitch black screaming deathly silence
people basked in their fermented loneliness
the wind carries the unheard cries
the waves lost their love to kiss the shore
the sea stood still.

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So Lunac, a Mooning Call

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Beholding the presence
of her lonely eminence,
I fell inside
a monster’s dream.
Stalking
her lunar cycles,
I started perceiving
the nuances of her dark quietness,
the secret transitions of her phases,
the shadow of her smiles,
and the light she gives off
during her weakest moments.

The first time
I heard her silent cries,
I was possessed
by a strange madness;
I started to thirst
for her divine tears.
My nightly gaze
pierced
through the abyss
of her mysteries.
The smell
of her nakedness
aroused my demons.
I licked
my teeth
at times when she ripens
into the fullness
of her beauty
that she can’t fit
into the doors
of my perception.
I could see flowers
blossoming
on her dead skin,
the petals
falling
into stars.

I already mapped
a path
to the uncharted terrains
of her soul.
Into her
deepest core,
I’ll go.
She’ll let me;
I know.
I’ll devour her
from the inside out
and lay flat
under the empty,
seemingly Godless
sky.

I have stolen her
from the heavens,

from God.

The taste of her
remains in my tongue.
Soon,
her flesh
will become my flesh,
and I’ll feel
what she feels.
Her eyes
will become my eyes,
and I’ll see
her every fear.

“Hush, fear not,”
I’ll say.
“We’ll run into the unknown depths
of the wild
we’ve always talked about.
There
we’ll dance and kiss
into the bliss
of freedom
and isolation.
There
we’ll get buried
in our embrace
and age together
with nature.

Forever
will we live
as lost spectres
haunting the wilderness
with our love.
Forever
will I be hunted
to the ends
of the earth.
Forever
will I remain unforgiven.
Forever
will we be echoes
stuck in oblivion.”

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Notes from the Undergrad (Pilar, Camotes, Odyssey, Part 1)

Day 1

“A mind so beautiful
Spirit so free
Whence came such traveler
Of words worth a sea.”

When I arrived at Danao Port, I found out that all trips were canceled due to strong waves. So I just stood there, devoid of thought, no longer feeling the weight of my bulging bag and the stares of the angry sun. Nothing registered. I was detached, even untouched by time. So what now? echoed a question that was a club to the head, which knocked me to the subconscious realm of my mind. In those infinitesimal infinite bits of fragmented dream time, I felt like a planet that fell off from its orbit, floating nowhere, held afloat by a void.

So what now?

I heard a tick in my head, and in the next ticks, I was brought back to my senses, now awake from the trance. It was as if God just snapped his fingers from heaven loud enough for me to hear, commanding the cogwheels in my head to move. I looked up at the heavens and saw thin layers of gray clouds obscuring the sky, casting a gloomy ambiance, holding me in a subtle, lonely embrace.

Then I looked for a place to stay, where I could put my bags, and sleep for the night. I decided to spend the day in Danao and see what happens the next day. As fuck would have it, there was a cheap dormitory-type lodge near the church. From there, the port was just a stone’s throw away. I got in, paid, left my stuff, took lunch, and roamed around. Solitary bliss.

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The kids screamed at me and ran into me; they wanted me to take pictures of them showcasing their naked diving skills. They even asked me for my Facebook account; I just shook my head. The stroll along the road was beautiful. I could hear the wild crashes of waves that canceled the trips, and now I thanked them. From here, the twist of fate started to take its form—an odyssey was being born. I was off to wherever my whims would lead me.

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I didn’t say a word the whole time I was taking pictures; I only smiled at the kids, which was made them utterly confused. I even heard one of the kids saying, “Bai, makasabot na siya’g binisaya?” Ha-ha! They all were waiting for me to talk, but of course, I did not.

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Starting to feel a sleepy exhaustion and a warm sting in the eyes, I got myself some beer and went back to the lodge. There would be a procession later in the evening (Stations of the Cross, I suppose). I read a few of Rilke’s poems, finished the beer, and dozed off, and woke up just at the right time for the mass.

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***********

I was surprised. I never expected a great multitude of people, and the number was still growing as the evening went on. Then it started to get hot. Hundreds of candles were lit. The familiar smell and heat of the burning wax brought back a childhood memory, to when I was still a kid being brought to a procession by my parents whose hands were holding me very tightly, fearing that I might run and get lost in the crowd if they let go. I sank into a trance of nostalgia, blurred flashes of decade-old memories, a thousand strangers turning and talking and bowing down at the same time, their unified AMEN responses, the inaudible sermon of the priest incomprehensible and senseless to a child’s ear, the blast of the trumpets, the booms and time signatures of the bass and snare drums, the horrendous looks of the statues molded from their ancient sufferings alive in their stillness under the night sky, the claustrophobic sweating, candles accidentally burning hairs, the slow, hypnotic march of the dreamy crowd and the sound of a thousand footsteps, prayers, and chants intermingling, the annoying, sudden stops, the mystery and guessing of where the procession would lead, the twist and turns of it—all these rushed into the veins of my consciousness. My recollection was having a heart of its own, beating wildly the blood of these memories. The surge was pulsating with vitality. The rush of blood felt like it was in pursuit of something, like it was unconsciously tracing a certain part of my mind, flooding its way through my defenses.

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Then I was brought back to the church, to where I was standing. I looked around with new eyes and saw a grown number of people. I listened to their sorrowful, prayerful silence. I felt sadness growing deep in my chest. The seriousness in their faces told me the weight of their prayers as they were bowing eyes closed, face-to-face with spirit of the burning candles.

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As the mass ended, I felt a change slowly making its presence felt. I heard the loud trumpets and bass drums and went to where the sound was coming from. The nearer I got there, the more I felt the change in the crowd’s mood. I stopped and saw the change of faces. The people finally took off their sorrowful masks. I roamed around. To me, it looked more like a festival rather than a grieving for Jesus’s suffering and death. Their sudden excitement rather stunned my senses. Everywhere I looked, I just couldn’t see the reason why their faces flushed out such child-like luminescence. The smiles radiated a striking youthful semblance of innocence. Later that night, I found out why.

DSCN2295DSCN2345DSCN2356DSCN2385DSCN2388Because there were too many people, I decided not join. Since it was still early in the evening, I figured that it’d be better if I would just again have my own walk and have dinner. Things were a bit dull along the way until I saw the magnificent beauty of the moon. It was moonrise. The colossal sphere of blood red and yellow tint with the black canvas behind it sank me deep into my unconscious, that of which inspired me to write a poem. I was between dreaming and living. I was only aware of my eyes being locked to the image of the moon and my breathing in of its light. I was in another realm of existence and was getting drunk in it. At the peak of my spiritual gasm, three teenage girls approached me and said something in which I wasn’t able to hear at first, but the thing was, it cut me off from my trance. I didn’t know what to when do or saying at this moment; I just stood giving them a look of “What?” Then I started making out what they were saying, and it was in Tagalog. The two of them were from Makati and were having a vacation here in Cebu.

“Kuya, kuya! Pwede magpapicture?” one of the teenyboppers said. “Kamukha nyo po kasi yong bokalista nga paborito naming banda.”
What. The. Fuck. This brought me back to me senses; I know that because I responded by asking, “What band?”
“Mayday Parade!” All of them were giggling; I know the band but didn’t know the faces of the members,
“Oh, that band.” I said.
“Kilala mo sila?”
“Three Cheers for Five Years.” (This was a famous song from that band.)
They laughed in celebration. “Yehey! Sige kuya ha. “
With naive excitement, they took pictures one by one. One of them hugged my arm way too tight that I felt the abundant subcutaneous adipose tissue of her breast. Blood then rushed in hot streams, thawing and stimulating parts of my body, waking me up completely. It was then that I started recognizing the features of their faces and figures. Untainted were their cute faces. Innocent were their smiles. Oblivious were their eyes to the thoughts of the person they were talking to. Their shorts made their legs holy, worthy of praise and worship. They were too plump and full for their age. Their young curves can cause a torrent of hormonal secretions. The lush of their bodies. Their virginal giggles. Pedophilic madness.
After that, they asked me where I was from. I told I’m from Cebu City and was just wandering around. I asked them how their vacation was so far. They said it was great (they said it was their first time here, then more details), and they said they were happy to see “Derek.” I said, “Great.” After a long stretch of silence, they each hugged me and took off. “Bye, Derek!”
“Bye.” Holy smokes.
Then I looked at the shore, but the moon was no longer the same. The beauty died out. So I lit a cigarette, and off I enter deeper into the night.

DSCN2398DSCN2593DSCN2610DSCN2626After the procession, the celebration begun. The parks were full of families sitting and eating together under the dark sky. Lovers dating under the sweet jazz of the moonlight. Circles of different groups, shouting, teasing, and cussing, tickling each other or their guitar, songs blasting from their phones. Teenage flirting. The playground was ran by kids; they were energized by the other kids’ presence. Everyone enjoyed the night being together with their loved ones. And I was all alone. Beginning to seep in was a kind of solitude I had never felt before. I was walking as if I were invisible. No one knew a real shit about me, and I knew not a single soul passing me by—which brings me to question how much do I know mine. I carried that question throughout my walk, throughout my sleep.

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With the night slipping away, I returned to the lodge. Surprisingly, I wasn’t pretty much exhausted this time. So I got up and went to the terrace and stayed there for almost an hour, writing, reading, smoking, thinking, lots of those. (Watchmen’s one hell of a read.) It was almost midnight, and I figured I needed to sleep early; it was going to be a long sail the next day.

***********

POSTSCRIPT:

Thanks, Payi, for letting me borrow your cam! Hahaha. I thought I could write everything in just a single post, but nah, it came out longer than expected. And so the whole trip will be in the next entry or entries (days 2, 3, 4, 5). This first day was incredibly long, or it felt like it; every second passed through like a wind caressing my face, leaving soft creases for me to reminisce.

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Eureka

We lay flat
against the cold earth,
facing the sea of the sky.

In our exchange
of words and breaths
comes
a eureka:

“We are
the movement
of the stars.”

 

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Chicken Abortion

Note: This happened last week (Monday, I suppose).

Early evening in the polluted streets of SM. I was eating penoy when a group of foreigners composed of Americans and Koreans stopped by the Balut stall where I was eating. They were all but innocent excitement, with their huge backpacks, bags, tents, and sleeping mats giving their limbs a workout while breathing in the smog straight fresh from the cars’ mufflers, giving their pair of lungs a workout too. I reckon everyone in the group had heard rumors about Balut. The men were the ones to draw first blood. One by one, they finished their share, and with pride. And yes, pleasure from devouring the succulent unborn chick flushed out their faces. Being the macho men that they are, eating chicken balut was a huge achievement they would add to their massive masculinity.

“Check. What’s next?” They’d say. (Any suggestions, random reader?)

Now, it was time for the lewdies. (This is where things got a little interesting.) I’ve seen a lot of this shit on TV: women freaking out at the sight of that dead full-grown embryo peering at them through that cracked shell. The thought of eating that piece of abortion is enough to make them raise their voices: Noooo way… Ewwwww…. No..Guys..You can’t be serious? huheuhephep. And what else? It was as if they never had something worse stuffed in the mouths before.

So I’ve heard all those and more last night as the ladies faced their present Fear Factor challenge, and just like being in a show, random citizens, bypassers, started swarming circles around the stall. Talk about marketing. People were enjoying the show, I suppose. And some dirty kids, I could see, were waiting for their chance to put into practice their amateur shenanigans; them kids were already begging, no, demanding stuff from the foreigners, offering them their palms wide-open. Some were just on the ready.

It was here where yours truly started to speak—I became the host. So on, 3, 2, 1…

“Chicken abortion.” At this, everybody laughed, and with confusion stuck in their throats. Some even repeated the term. “Di ta mokaon ani uy, kay chicken abortion. Hahaha.” The word abortion does the job. Just add that, and everything would sound downright immoral.

Just beside me was one of them foreign lewdies. She told me how she could not make herself eat that “thing” and that she’d feel guilty eating the innocent chicks. I nodded at her every phrase, but a plana train of thought was already running circuits in the back of my head, waiting for a head-on collision. It was only a matter for time.

Then she shot me with an interesting question: “What happens to the chicks if no one eats them?”

“They’re thrown away,” I said. Her face contorted, then, and was covered with a shadow of concern, to which I couldn’t, at first, empathize, and when a tenth of a minute passed, I recognized the stains of sadness and grief already drying up in her darkened face. My guts shivered. I then, proceeded to save her from the unnecessary guilt.

“You know, the reason why they were aborted is because the farms here can’t afford to raise them.” Her eyes were piercing me at this point, and maybe everybody’s eyes were too, because all I heard was nothing but the sound of vehicles and my voice. The world stopped, my words “hit a universe; the circle was broken.” I continued, “So even if they were born, they would eventually die due to the scarcity of food. Also, no one can really take care of them.” She nodded, maybe everyone too.

“Balut,” I said, “is actually a solution to poultry overpopulation.” It was at this moment that she decided to go on and eat. I told her, “It tastes better with vinegar,” but I wouldn’t narrate the specifics, but tissues were involved, moments of utter, squeamish hesitation, and a surprised countenance when she finished eating.  “Wow,” she said, “it tastes really good. But just avoid looking at it.” Everyone clapped their hands.

“Looks can be deceiving,” I said.

“Amazing. You’re so smart.” She smiled and was pointing the side of her own head. “I wouldn’t have given it a chance if not because of you.” The other girls now starting to eat their pieces of abortion.

“Persuasion,” I said , “I am good at it.”

She laughed and said, “Really smart.”

“That was supposed to be my secret.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”

Then they left. Show’s over.

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Twenty Questions (Writers’ Week Tag)

(Currently at work) I just finished editing a manuscript a while ago, and it took its toll. Them Christian books sucked the hell out of me. I can’t quite get into the mood to start with the next one. My head is still having labor pains, must be from all the mindfuckings.

So here, I will shake/abort/birth this fetus off of my system.

1. What type of writing do you do? 

i just write what i write and later, then a couple of edits, i loathe it, though. the editing part—the endless road to perfection. though there are classifications, poetry, short stories, essays, etc., when i write, i let the “writing” itself take its own form. it just comes when it comes. first thing i do is to just let it out. so if there’s an answer to this question, it’d be self-expression, or in its ultimate form, world-expression, i want to be the world’s voice, god’s voice, the voice of the empty future, the desolate past, the immaterial, inanimate, the vast blue, the nonexistent source of it all. whatever. my goal is to express in its purest form. i want to pierce through the thickest glass of  psychological censorship, repression, suppression, that separates us from the deepest truths. I want to get in touch with my own truth, regardless of the facts being given, the facts being rubbed on my face. so everything i write would be an attempt to get closer to that kind of expression. to write. to be pure. to find truth in every word.

2. What genres and/or topics do you write about?

i write about the limbos, the aimless wanderings, of my mind. like what i’ve said, these limbos can take on whatever forms they want: journal, diary types, poems, essays, narratives, short stories, fictions, songs..anything. as for the topics, i usually end up writing about suffocating mind-bending philosophical existential problems. that includes God, freedom, love, the unexplainable, life itself.  yes, i write about problems. it’s what i encounter almost everywhere i go. a fucking problem. hence, the limbo.

3. How long have you been writing?

one…i counted. i think i started my journal six years ago (2008).

4. Are you published?

i had some of my works published in our local newspapers. just a few.

5. What was the first story you ever wrote?

it’s “Painless.” i wrote that dec 25 2011 when my mother was admitted to the hospital. there was just a  moment wherein i walked around and heard about a whole family submitting to the hopeless situation; they have no choice but to just give up on their family member who was in the palm of death’s hand.

6. Why do you write?

I write in an attempt to keep myself sane—my strive for homeostasis against this agonizing psychological tension. I write in an attempt to stitch these seemingly immortal wounds through a thread of words using a pen as its needle. I write in an attempt to bring the things I love closer to me. To stitch them close to the ventricles of my aching heart. (Writing is a metaphysical surgical procedure.) I believe that in this kind of way, the gravity of words will pull everything in my world back into place, and pull everything back into one whole piece. I believe that in attempting to write despite the fact that my own words leave and betray and hurt me will restore the dead, lost, fragmented pieces of my dying being. I believe that writing will make me feel whole once more. I believe that writing will bring me back to life.”

7. How do you find time to write?

it’s a mystery. i don’t know. i think i just write whenever i get the chance; and i think i rarely have those chances. i am both too lazy and too busy and too tired. how i managed to write what i’ve written remains a mystery to me. it’s a mystery.

8. When and where are the best times to write?

midnight solitude, the insomniatic nights. anywhere as long as there’s silence and no one bothering.  (writing is a state of mind. i write inside my head, almost all the time. the reason to all my headaches. i already have so many drafts, a hundred unwritten books occupying my desk.)

9. Favorite food/drinks while writing?

coffee, beer, water, a mixture of the three. and cigarettes. food is too distracting, so i avoid it as much as possible.

10. Your writing playlist?

it depends. but usually, i don’t listen much to music while writing, it’s a time wherein i would listen to myself completely. i would just play the guitar whenever i feel dried-up or dumb until an idea or an image or an impetus or inspiration or a plot sequence knocks my skull.

12. Parts of writing you enjoy the most?

that unapologetic fire in my soul which i enjoy the most—i revel in it. that part where your soul is breathing out fire. that part when that fire takes it form. that part wherein the words are in an outrage and you have to let them out or else it’ll reduce you to ashes. that part wherein you no longer care even if it’s up to no good. that part wherein nothing matters, even if you finish it or not, even if no one would read it. that part when you’ve said what you really wanted to say after aeons. that part wherein you feel like closing your eyes while writing. that part where you as a person and you as a writer are one. that part wherein you would say to yourself, laughing, “Fuck you, how’d you do that, you genius motherfucker!” that part where you’re on the peak of your wordgasmic jizzsm.

13. Parts of writing you find challenging?

the demands of the notion of perfection. that is something that could either help you or help you destroy yourself. And these days, well, this started almost two years ago, I can’t seem to focus, to drown, no, to submerge myself into the sea of my own words and find myself breathing underwater.

14. What do you write with and on?

Company computer, journal, laptop, random notebooks, walls,. tables, my brain.

15. How do you overcome writer’s block?

fucks to this question. Writer’s Block: Inertia of Creativity

16. How do you motivate yourself to write?

sleeping. seriously. then waking up from a dream.

17. Authors who inspire you as a writer?

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Henry Miller, Anais Nin, Albert Camus, Chuck Palahniuk, Kurt Vonnegut, John Irving, Anthony Burgess, James Frey….

18. Books that inspire you as a writer?

-___________________________-

19. Best advice you’ve gotten as a writer?

Just be.

20. Writing goals this year 

 Get back to my writing binge. 

 

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Nothing Left

upload20140326-12663-10jk5lpIn that first year or two, in Paris, I was literally annihilated. There was nothing left of the writer I had hoped to be, only the writer I had to be. 

—Henry Miller, World of Sex

*I was just clocking in for work when…

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Sockets

I looked in the mirror.
I searched for my eyes.
They weren’t there.

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January Reads (Book Report)

Though editing and reviewing manuscripts is sort my job, writing reviews of the books I read has been torture to me. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t seem to pull it off the way I used to; the words and thoughts won’t come out, thoughts won’t become words, and even if they did, the words refuse to form sentences. Years ago, I can dissect a book’s anatomy and do some surgery. I am morbid when it comes to that; it usually comes out bloody. Ha! Bloodstains from books! So I am here to resurrect that dead “habit.” I would be posting my “monthly book reports” starting this month. Well, I’ve been having blocks lately and for such a long time been suffering from that with suicidal frustration, so this might help me sort that shit out.

Since I’ve read books written in Filipino, I also attempted at writing reviews in the same language. Not even once have I ever done that; I immediately regret that decision but still finished it anyway. What I’ve written were like pieces coming from a dumb third-grader, quite honestly. The tagalog reviews really suck and you might find yourself having a bad laugh reading it.

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Hunger by Knut Hamsun 

(4.5 stars)

“One of the most disturbing novels in existence,” they said.

Here’s a fucking classic.

Sir Dostoyevsky’s force is so strong on this one that if I read it without knowing the author (Knut Hamsun), I would have thought that this was one of Dostoyevky’s works. The writing was highly introspective and intense I was mistaking the unnamed narrator for being one of Dostoyevksy’s heroes; it’s so hard not to relate the narrator of Hunger to Raskolnikov of Crime and Punishment. And yes, that’s the reason why I gave this 4.5 stars; but other than that, this is an absolutely great novel, and to think of it, this is an autobiographical novel, which means this is coming from his real-life experience meshed int o fiction; this book is one of its own kind. It’s one of the best reads I’ve ever had that I even read the first 150 pages over again, and after finishing the whole book, I want to read it one more time, but…that would be unfair to my other books; so, maybe soon. I still have a huge pile to consume for this year.

I want to write a full-length review, but I will have to read it again for me to really pierce through this succulent and powerful stream-of-thought writing page by page; the book is just that overwhelming. It’s getting inside the mind of someone losing grip to reality because of starvation. He strives to survive being at the brink, the most extreme and hardcore, of starvation, like there was only an inch, no, a centimeter, that separates him from imminent death. He even resolved to swallowing his own spit and eating rocks, even giving up—completely submitting to his helplessness and in bed, choosing the best and most comfortable position to die; still, he would find himself barely surviving and staying barely awake from full collapse, but he keeps himself as much as possible from begging, stealing, and losing his dignity—a suicidal pride. While he was getting consumed by this hunger and as he was wandering the streets to find a way to get through the day, hoping that his articles would be accepted by the editor, this starving writer becomes aware of his whimsical, erratic, uncontrollable impulses as they surface into his consciousness, and he admitted how helpless he is to these impulses and he doesn’t understand why this is happening. How he writes articles in the midst of this extreme physical and mental state, I can’t explain, let alone staying alive.

And the story revolved around that maze of hunger, along with his continuous misfortunes that keep him from getting through the condition he’s in. Whatever keeps him from salvation, only God and the unnamed narrator knows. Well, perhaps, both of them don’t. Disturbing and absurd, it is, but nonetheless, it’s so full of life, full of the absurd and the mysterious.

• Brokeback Mountain by Annie Proulx 

(3 stars)

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It came out not what as I expected. I thought this is going to be an erotic piece of bromancing that will burn my eyes—that is the reason why I read this in the first place: to test myself. Ha-ha! But no….this is about two human beings falling in love in a world which refuses and doesn’t allow them to call it so…

Little Birds by Anais Nin 

(4 stars)

It was just last year that I read more about Anais Nin, and it was by then that I learned about her relationship with Henry Miller (one of my most favorite writers), which had an obvious impact to both their writings. Erotic, passionate, deeply intellectual, soul-stirring, so human—this was how the way the write. So during the last quarter of previous year, I had bought her books, and reading them makes me understand further Henry Miller’s works. Also, I must say that for me, she is, by far, the best female writer, and she reminds me of someone I knew, who was also a writer, who was also very beautiful, intelligent, and free-spirited, a woman of taste, wits, and talent. Their writing style even had similarities to the point that I thought of her as Anais’s reincarnate.

So Little Birds is a collection of Nin’s pieces of erotic literature, her short stories. The writing clearly showed why she is ahead of her time, making her one of the leading figures of feminism. And this book is so intense to the point that it could make me unzip…and more. Superbly erotic, so I gave this book 4 stars, and I’ll be reading more of her works this year. I see what I did there.

• Alamat ng Gubat by Bob Ong

(4 stars)

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Sa di malamang dahilan, sa pagsimula ngayong taon ay nagpasya akong magbasa ng nga mga libro ni Bob Ong. So salamat sa aking katrabaho na nagbigay ng isang libro (Stainless Longganisa) at napahiram nito (Alamat ng Gubat). Ito nga ang pangalawang librong na nabasa ko galing sa kanya. Natapos ko lang ito kagabi sa loob ng isang oras kasi di naman gaano kahabaan ang libro, kaya nga binasa ko nalang, at kagabi, bigla ko lang nabatid ang pakiramdam na magsulat na book review na tagalog, kasi tagalog rin naman ang nirerebyo kong libro, diba?

Sa aking palagay, itong Alamat ng Gubat ay isang nakapasayang kwento na tiyak na ikasasaya rin ng ibang bumabasa, yun lang ang masasabi ko sa inyo na hindi pa nakabasa nito. Sa nagbabasa nitong rebyo na ito, gusto ko lang sabihin na hindi ako ang klasing tao nga pumapasok sa Filipino subjects. Kaya wag kayong mabibigla sa baluktot at adik kong tagalong. Di ko rin nga matandaan ko, o di ko alam ko ano ang natutunan ko pag college. Sa di malaman ring dahilan, ako ay nakapasa. Baka meron talagang Diyos. Hayaan nyo, magsasanay ako ng husto.

Siyeht! Tang-inang librong to. Nakapalakas talaga ng imahinasyon ng nagsulat—parang adik, adik sa tsinelas, o mikmik. Isang modern-day fable na tiyak na ikasisira ng iyong tiyan sa kakatawa. Ito ay isang libro na ang laman lang ay puro kalokohan na nag simula sa paghahanap ni Tong (isang talangka) sa puso ng saging para magamot ang kaniyang amang-hari na may karamdaman: hindi na raw makalangoy, kasi nga naman, hindi naman talaga nakakalangoy ang amang-hari. Kaya pinapunta siya sa lupa para maghanap sa puso ng saging. At sa kanyang paglalakbay para sa pusong ng saging, nakilala nya ang mga iba pang hayop at insekto na talagang ikaka-gulo pa ng buhay ni Tong.

Sa kalokohang ito, may mga mensaheng ipinahayag ang manunulat sa taong-bayan, ito, masasabing kong ay isang satire. Malakas ang politiko na simbo-simbolo dito. Ang nangyayari dito sa libro ay mahahalintulad sa mga nangyayari sa ating lipunan—isang malaking kalokohan. Tsaka, tang-inang aso, natandaan ko lang ang aso na nasa libro itong na kumakain sa sarili niyang suka, at susuka muli para kainin yung sinuka niya nga galing rin sa kinain niyang suka. Pwehhh.

Ibang klasing trip rin ha? So dito ko nalang tatapusin ang wala kwentang rebyo na ito, nahihirapan na kasi ako, todong-effort na ito. Hanggang sa susunod. Promise, gagalingan ko na. Paalam.

Stainless Longganisa by Bob Ong

(3 stars)

Ito ay ang unang libro na nabasa ko na sulat ni Bob Ong na isang misteryosong manunulat na noon ay sa aking palagay ay isang intsik na nagpapalakad ng malaking negosyo. Pero biro lang iyon, obvious naman, dba.

Bago akong nmagsimulang basahin ’to, nagdadalawang o nagtatatlong isip ako kung matatapos ko. Di pa kasi ako nakakatapos nga libro sinulat sa wikang Filipino, nakakahiya ngang aminin, pero yon ang katotohanan. Kaya pagkatapos kong basahin to, ako ay bumili ng beer para magsaya. Pero biro lang yon, lagi naman akong umiinom ng beer.

Sa lahat ng librong naisulat ni Bob Ong, ito raw ang pinaka autobiographical. Sa loob ng librong to ay inilahad niya ang mga misteryoso at mala-teleseryeng pangyayari sa buhay niya, sa paglalakad niya sa daang lubak-lubak, sa daang puro kahirapan, sakit sa puso, nangangalam na sikmura, buti nalang may sky flakes, at sermon lang ng magulang ang abot—ang dakilang daan patungo para maging manunulat ay isa sa mga pinakamahirap sa bansang ito, at kung masyado kang magaling, baka ipabaril ka pa sa Luneta. Natuklasan ku rin dito kung gaano kahirap maging isang manunulat sa bansa tulad ng Pilipinas, na halos walang alam malawak na mundo ng literature, puno nalang showbiz. Masakit mang sabihin, pero iyon ang problema. Marami namang magagaling na manunulat dito ang mga malikhaing tao, kaso, walang sumusuporta. Kasi ano nga naman ang kikita-in nila? Makalas nga naman ang supply, pero konti lang ang demand ng mga mambabasa. Pero di dapat mawalan nga pag-asa. Kasi, papaano nalang?

Pangarap ko ring maging isang manunulat. Sa pagbasa ko nito ay lalo pa akong naging inspirado, eh sa katotohanan, di ako sigurado dun. Pero susubukan ko lang ang best ko. Di mo alam, bigla akong manalo sa lotto, ililibre ko pa kayo. Ha-ha!  Pero Bob Ong, kung sino ka man, maraming salamat sa pagsulat mo sa librong ito! Wala makapipigil sa tumatae nating bolpen! Maghimagsik tayo gamit ang papel at bolpen! Bakbakan na! Powerspoonz in the house!

The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein

(5 stars)

The_Giving_Tree

Before I wrote this review, I read the poem again. And just when I neared the end, “a complex secretomotor phenomenon characterized by the shedding of some liquid from the lacrimal apparatus, without any irritation of the ocular structures” happened. Had I read it alone at home, I think I’d be bawling. No matter how many times I read it, the poem is still poignant as ever. If this poem doesn’t move you, I have bad news for you.

The Tree reminded of me my mother and how much she loved me. The selfless love in which she showered upon me ever since the day I was born made me who I am right now. That love shaped me into the person writing this. If there’s one person who taught me so much on how to love—it is my mother. I have hurt her countless times, but she still loved me despite of that. I even feel like I don’t deserve such kind of love, but she still love me anyway. Self-sacrifice. And for that, I am so thankful. If only all mothers in the world love in this kind of way.

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Phantasmagoria

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If you let it,

reading

will suck you

into a hypnotic trance.

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You would be brought

to a dimension

where words are in full bloom:

words become people,

things, creatures,

moments, memories.

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A structured

yet free-flowing

hallucination.

A phantasmagoria.

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This mysterious vortex

transports you into the world

that exists

in the author’s mind,

a world

where the infallible laws of logic,

space-time continuum

no longer apply…

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You are even communicating

with someone who’s dead

centuries ago.

AgfaPhotoYou pass through wormholes:

the passages to the past and to the future,

to the unknown, to the irrational,

to the realm of dreams and the landscape of nightmares,

to the mesh

of euphoria and melancholia,

nostalgia,

hysteria and schizophrenia…

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even to the point

of a complete inertia…

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This is

the power of words.

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All these

are taking place

without even

moving a spot.

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Notes from the Undergrad (Gluttony for Literature)

It’s been a wonder to some how my gluttony for literature began—me included. People who knew me way back would find it hard to believe, even surreal. As to my parents, this consuming voraciousness seem to worry and disturb them. The moment when this madness made itself obvious, my parents warned me regarding this escalating obsession. My father would keep on telling me, reiterating with growing emphasis which leads to my utter, gnawing annoyance, that these books will rob me off of my sanity and that I am really going crazy this time; well, perhaps, let’s just say he’s right. This is an instance which reminds of the times long ago when my father meddled with the music I listen to, calling me “names,” insulting ones, which got me furious to the point of tears and smashing all my CDs into bits in front of him and throwing them away out of the house. I understand I listen to music that can make someone’s ear bleed, but it’s not just right to call your son “fucking names.” And the same thing happened with my writing; he even meddled with that. He thinks I’m crazy. He’s just against these things that I love—God knows why.

Well, that was how it’s like during the advent of this promising madness. When I got a job as a content writer, when I was having some of my psychophilosophical crap essays published, when my was name mentioned in the newspapers, and then right now, working as a copy editor, he didn’t bother me much anymore and recognized his son. Of course, he didn’t expect it—who would expect something from this “delinquent?” And that was also the time when he told me it was my uncle who named me Nicolo, who was also a voracious reader. And to my surprise, my uncle got that name from a novel by Robert Ludlum. I just remember that time when my uncle was drunk, he almost “stole” a book of mine, but he returned it when I told him it is my classmate’s—and we were already in the streets.

My father told me that they all (his brothers) read a lot too. Then without him telling me, I just realized that he’s afraid of my potential for rebellion because he was once in my place and knew it by blood, and he doesn’t want me to end up in the same place like him; he was just protecting me. And looking at the zhits I did in the past, it’s no wonder why he’s so alarmed. But it’s not his fault. It runs in our blood. I will finish what he started.

So going back, the first novel I’ve read was Mother Night by Kurt Vonnegut. THIS started from there. I never knew what satire was until I read it. This exposure had further developed my knack for dark or gallows humor, irony, the absurd, the deep, sick, and weird shit. That was way back 2008; a “good” friend of mine had me read it. I am forever thankful to that sick genius for introducing me to the world of books. I never fully understood why he does such things before (poetry reading and his madness for books, I mean he talks about those stuff, but I don’t really know what he means). He told me about Dostoyevksy (Notes from the Underground), Miller (Tropic of Cancer), and Palahniuk (Fight Club), which in later years, I found my way into them. All of them had become my favorites.

As I read and read and read to no end, I started discovering and rediscovering parts of myself. And I met new friends, both living and dead. The first time I read Dostoyevsky, which is my most favorite author, whose works made so much impact to my life, I was shocked with his line of thinking because …it reflects mine. It was a voice talking to me from the depths of the grave from centuries ago, telling me that there were a lot of souls as troubled as I am, lots of us.

***********

“Among other things, you’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You’re by no means alone on that score, you’ll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them—if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.”

― J.D. SalingerThe Catcher in the Rye

And that inspired me to write more to let “those” people know that they aren’t alone, and to read more to know that I am not alone…

***********

I don’t know how to end this, so I’ll just end it with a “laugh.”

before it was cool

best froemd execution dostosadasd dosto222 dosto dosto 3333 hahah dosto like a boos natnattumblr_mc0shwokPq1qjbaupo1_500Ha-ha!

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Unacceptable Darkness

On 2013

Last year, every day was a struggle to get out from my own catastrophic frame of thinking—the compulsion of self-destructive, murderous, and suicidal thoughts, and the suppression of these led to an erratic paralysis that dissociated me from reality. I felt my being shook from beneath its foundation. My guts turned inside out. My spirit split wide-open. I was trapped inside a labyrinth that had no walls, but with no light entering.

I was living inside my head, shrouded with a darkness so cold, so perfect, so impregnable that it was untouchable by light. I was finding my way out of this black illusion as I groped the air of nothingness for pieces of truth, but there was nothing. There was nothing I can reach out for but the intangible. The truth I was looking for couldn’t be held by hands, maybe it was even nonexistent. But the truth was just that…it is…darknessan unacceptable darkness.

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Primal Scream

As I am writing this, I can hear my thoughts out loud with a voice I am not sure I recognize, it’s a voice weaved in strings of enigmas, it’s like a voice that has been alive and floating for the past eternity with a hope that someone might listen in the future, it is like a voice devoid of origin, cursed of being immortal, I don’t know where it really comes from, but I know for now it comes from the very roots of my own thoughts, from the core of existence, that connects to me to cosmic whole of the world. I listen to it, but it has another sound, it’s not mine. It’s a sound I have yet to know but, I feel, always been with me ever since. A sound that I may have I listened to before and forgotten, a sound, a calling I ignored countless times—the primal scream of my existence. It’s like a sound I’ve heard maybe in my past lives but failed to listen to, and it’s now asking for completion and mindless obedience…

It’s quite ironic because it’s what everyone wants to hear, and yet at the same time, one dreads to listen to—because when it screams, it screams selfishly, it takes control over your whole existence, it’s something you can’t reason out.

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Words

Writing creates another reality.

It is a breeding ground of pain. It is a process wherein pieces of truth reveal themselves in front of you while you’re doing everything not to look away. (Ever got that feeling wherein what you’ve written is something that can reduce your eyes into ashes?)  At first, it becomes a cycle of distortions, a labyrinth of defense mechanisms of the soul because even your own writing can go against yourself. It heals as it destroys. But it must destroy you first—split yourself wide-open to make it possible for the truth to heal.

You write and write a constant battle against the truth. You write and write a relentless pursuit for the truth. It’s a tug of war of invisible conflicting forces  You stretch your eyes until everything becomes clear—until you weaken yourself by fighting against yourself, until you emptied yourself out of all pretensions and reached the bottom of it all, until you submit to that inner voice that is crying, dying to be heard, until you put down of all your defenses and decide to face yourself completely naked, completely vulnerable to the deepest core of your existence, until you finally decide to take the risk to be real, until you have the found the courage to say, “I am….”

As this happens, writing pushes you to a realm beyond the grasp of your own words. This its magic and its irony. You are transported into a place no words can ever fathom. A world beyond words. A world that will remain untouched by words. But you touch it not with your words, but your hands, your heart—this new reality brought to you by writing is a wordless dimension, wherein it just is. Writing is no more about words; writing is no longer words. Writing becomes life. Writing becomes real.

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Procrastination: A Performance-Enhancing Drug

Out of procrastination grows miracles—what was once thought of as impossible now becomes possible. The panic attack to our guts puts us in a battlefield where bullets of hectic tasks are crossing in the line of fire, and like invisible signals flying over the air, they locate the receptors placed in the middle of our foreheads—we can no longer hide. This proverbial warfare pushes us to edge of our abilities, to the extremes, to uncharted terrains, for us to go beyond the constructs of our imposed limitations as we fight for survival, making us conquer unexpected heights.

***********

The adrenaline and caffeine rushing to our bloodstream filling us to our full capacity have become addictive; we are at our best during these moments of conscious, structured, scheduled hysteria. (Being more and being productive are different.) Our brain then activates the “potential” we rarely tap. Deadlines have become our own performance-enhancing drug, fairly legal and a nonlethal one, but it still have some side-effects: from simple dizziness, puking, and fainting to failing your damned subjects or losing your fucking job or your own fucking mind; a temporary madness. These can still be seem life-threatening but in no way lethal. You’ll live. We are becoming unconscious junkies from the sheer thrill of beating the deadline. We would love to see how long we can hold our breath and also to remind ourselves we can still breathe.

Oh, how we love to live with an imaginary gun constantly pointed to our head knowing it won’t kill us anyway.

Deadlines put us into a manic trance wherein our energies are overflowing—an extraordinary natural “high.” In a moment like this, you have found the center of your dull existence which is now overabundant with life. It also puts into focus our useless thinking—and we then pick our scattered pieces of thoughts to create a sensible whole because we are reduced to one choice, to do only one task, and that is to finish the shit before our managers or teachers swing the scythe—a very uncomfortable zone which is almost comparable to a life-and-death situation.

Maybe we procrastinate to prove that miracles can happen and that we can save our own selves. Like staying underwater and intentionally drowning until our lungs cry for help then hit back the surface to breathe in the air of relief.

Self-torture.

Self-salvation.

On repeat.

The rhythm of tension and relief is addictive. Giving it a thought—the masochist may not be in love with pain but with the relief he would feel after the ordeal.

We dig our own graves, we create tunnels of arbitrary paths and get lost in the middle of it until the instinct of self-preservation takes over to lead us into the right direction, so by then, we move with everything we have without question and then come out alive to see the sunlight and taste the fresh air after being trapped in the darkness for what seemed like an eternity, and then cherish its lasting relief until all of a sudden, before you know it, the line of death appears in front of us—the cycle repeats itself. And so off we continue with our lives—a series of deadlines to catch up until the real deadline happens.

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Bookaholics Anonymous

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“I realize that people still read books now and some people actually love them, but in 1946 in the Village our feelings about books—I’m talking about my friends and myself—went beyond love. It was as if we didn’t know where we ended and books began. Books were our weather, our environment, our clothing. We didn’t simply read books; we became them. We took them into ourselves and made them into our histories. While it would be easy to say that we escaped into books, it might be truer to say that books escaped into us. Books were to us what drugs were to young men in the sixties.

They showed us what was possible. We had been living with whatever was close at hand, whatever was given, and books took us great distances. We had known only domestic emotions and they showed us what happens to emotions when they are homeless. Books gave us balance—the young are so unbalanced that anything can make them fall. Books steadied us; it was as if we carried a heavy bag of them in each hand and they kept us level. They gave us gravity.”

― Anatole Broyard, Kafka Was the Rage: A Greenwich Village Memoir

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The Oblivion of Shadows

The rotating brownouts have been happening quite a lot recently that they have been pushed into a temporary, special timeslot in my daily routine, and they are expected to come in randomly. In the office, the amount of profanities silently uttered is maybe off the charts. Though I don’t hear them blast it out (because most of the time, I have music making love with my ears), and maybe I am surrounded with the type of people who are not accustomed to cursing out loud right in the fucking moment when they feel like it, like immediately canceling a breath from your own lungs because you don’t want to let a bit of bad evil air get into your system, yet, I can still hear the unuttered What the fuck? Kayata! Pisti! Yawaa! Samoka! Gi-atay! Animal! 

Or maybe, it was just me.

I have been adapting to the new routine, though, but still, I can’t help but be surprised and have my gears electro-shocked to an autopilot series of intense cussing variations; no one really gets used to fucking brownouts, I suppose.

Then the most recent advancement of these power interruptions is that they are now scheduled to attack every evening. And that just made things worse because my room will turn into a greenhouse gaseous, insidious chamber that awakens the sleeping demons in my head while I am taking a nap; I can hear them demons complaining about the heat which even took them by surprise. Even without the sun’s angry stare at night, my room still seems to burn without the electric fan’s services. And so I have to get out of my room and go somewhere else to calm my demons. Go to where they can fuck angels for stress release. Then as I went out, I realized that something was happening.

The death of the artificial lights gave rebirth to the natural—yet unnoticed (I must admit)—light of the moon. Truth be told, it had been a long time since I saw the moon’s soft rays touch anything. As a person living in a mechanical smoky poisonous continually progressing populating city, can you still distinguish the light that comes from the moon? From the stars? From the heavens? From God? I remained in deep oblivion about this—for God knows how long.

I stopped dead on my tracks when I was about to go down the stairs. I was looking in awe at the holy moment that was unfolding in front of my eyes: the light of the moon—caressing and kissing—making love (a nymphomaniac) with the lifeless carved painted dusty dirty stretch of the ever-so-hard wood, moving the immaculate radiance of its formless hands around the “corpse,” as if casting a spell from the book of necromancy. But I know it was not moving—nothing was moving at the sight I saw—but it was alive, disturbingly alive. I took a deep breath and thought that the moon is a necromancer; we are supposed to be dead asleep at night and only alive in our dreams, but the moon’s beauty keeps us awake, drunk, and alive, and some dead. The moon is a murderer; the moon makes crimes possible; the moon sheds enough light so that we can hide and sin. The moon is a culprit, guilty of its irrepressible, oblivious, enigmatic beauty.

As I was drowning deep in thoughts, suddenly, it dawned to me that I was playing, creating amorphous shadows against the moon, which reminded of when I was a kid, playing with my siblings casting, guessing, battling our shadow puppets brought to life by the flashlights or candlelight against our twisting, clamping, contorting, intertwining fingers attempting to replicate forms of animals or objects or people, or even birthing a form or an image that we don’t know and have no one have words for to describe; our hands were giving life to intangible shadows, which were our pets, our puppets, our slaves, at the same, a part of our own selves.

Sitting in the stairs, everything just felt so natural, so extraordinary: the dancing shadows, the unusual silence, and the kind of light that gives you an undeniable yet silent feeling of being alive you could possibly wish you were dead; it was like a spotlight pointed by God himself, locking you in the circle of this moment and making you look around and ponder about shit and all. Like how far humanity have advanced the artificial alienated world they have created. The generations of technological advancements have robbed us of real humanitarian progress and the ability to appreciate the simple things in life, like the “unnoticed” pleasure and privilege of still being able to breathe no matter how shitty the air can be—and being able to play with our own shadows. 

We now, including me, have been turned into a anatomechanical routine of daily activities, like ants listening to the corrupted queen as we are doing what it takes to survive in this sickening prison of the world. We have been living in a society that constantly blinds itself, giving us indifferent or fearful eyes as we are letting humanity consume itself like a possessed carnivore who contemplated but resolved into suicide because he knows he no longer has control of its own life and can no more restore its lost innocence; but in the end, the carnivore can’t kill itself, but only inflict perpetual torture to himself and to others, hoping that everything would just cease—salvation had become nothing more but a chance to just stop existing, the freedom from all the bullshit.

We are killing what should have been infinite and eternal inside of us. The inexhaustible fire of life was then sealed tight from our consciousness—that even if it were brought back to the surface right here right now, I am afraid that the deepest wisdom is already beyond recognition for our decaying minds to comprehend.

Now, as I was still sitting in the stairs, playing with my own shadows, I smiled under the killing moon.

And it smiled back.

My shadow.

My pet.

My slave.

My puppet.

My self.

Posted in Diary, Essays (Mindfuck) | Tagged , , , , , , | 1 Comment