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…Shane Castillo.

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)

alamat

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…

AgfaPhotoand yet,

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 #1

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.

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 living inside of you. 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 is the magic and the irony of writing. 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, you can touch it with everything you have—this new reality brought to you by writing, it 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 of 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

AgfaPhoto

“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.

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Cerebral Fapping

(June 13, 2013)

The question:

“What do you mean by that, Trevor? How is life more meaningful if there is no life beyond the grave or if God does not exist?”

My answer:

I know this not a question for me, but I would just like to answer.. I am just soooo bored here at work. Hahaha. Sooo consider this an answer out of boredom. *clears throat. hahahaha… It really depends on how you look at it, if you’re a person that is consequence or reward-oriented or punishment-oriented or whatever term is that, you’re likely to think that way: to think that life is meaningless because there is no eternal life, or afterlife. But for me, that is disappointing. Because in line with that thinking, you learn to be unconsciously devious, you learn to be manipulative, you learn to be a schemer, because you can’t let go of things–because you can’t even bear that thought of your own mortality… Unconsciously, I mean. So that means, you may not be aware of it.

Caring too much about hell or heaven or putting too much focus on your final destination, or making it your goal in life (supposing that you believe that life would be meaningless if there’s no afterlife), will beat the experience of life itself. Its genuine experience. You are gonna miss its whole point, since you put the meaning of life in its finality, rather than its entirety, and not the journey itself… You lose its genuineness… You are, at some point, dead right now. You are not here in this very moment, in this world, totally. So far, “religion had become nothing but the denial of human nature and reality.” But I am not saying that afterlife is not real, it’s just that I am not sure about it, and I don’t really care much about it, because I’d rather live a life, a genuine life, pure human life than to live according to the reward-punishment in the end. I am a human being, and that is sufficient. For me, eternal life is the highest form of greed…

Everything is forever temporary, ironic, yes. But isn’t it because of impermanence that we know how much life is worth? If you have eternal life, you killed all the possibility of life itself. Why? Without death, life will never be life, it’s the reality of life, the natural order. I think that is a good thing.. Because one life, one chance, is all I ever needed. I need not to live twice, let alone live forever… If the end will punish me for what I had done or become, then let it be. I have lived my life, my own way.. My life was real.

*drinks coffee. Hahahaha

************

Since I still don’t feel like writing, I’ll be posting random shits if I feel that they’re making sense to me.

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Skye (another unearthed note)

Over me was the serene darkness of the sky of dawn. It was a ceiling that separates me from the floor of God’s heaven. I was looking up—listening intently because I think maybe I could hear our dear God’s divine footsteps. But all I heard was the sound of tires running over the overheated, tortured asphalt streets. The sky looked darker than the asphalt. Its black expanse stretched so wide I thought that a fraction of the stars had left the skies for this single moment. Their absence, I must admit, made the world above me painfully beautiful. For such a long time, I have thought that it was only because of the stars, moons, the planets—because of the heavenly bodies that the sky is beautiful, but I was wrong. I focused my stare at a part completely devoid of stars: so dark, so beautiful, so strange, so empty, so peaceful, so hypnotic. Could it be possible that the sky devoid of the moon, of the stars, of the planets, is more beautiful that a night painted with them? Then the image of Aurora Borealis or Northern Lights was on my mental visuals, but I still think that the unbroken expanse of the dark sky was more beautiful. Drowning myself with these thoughts, I almost dropped my cigarette. Then I placed it back between my lips—to where it belonged—and sucked a good amount of smoke to clear out my blurred, dazed, stupid thoughts. Then I blew it over into the sky, pretending as if it could make any difference. Of course it did not. I do really get stupid at times, and I can’t help it. Still, I couldn’t digest whatever process of an enlightening moment I was having, for I was still in a deep state of turmoil. The noise inside me and silence outside me were both deafening. But what do I care? The sky was very beautiful, the most beautiful I ever seen for such a long time, yet I still demand reality an explanation. MOTHERFUCKING WORLD! I almost shouted, but I stopped before it reached its way out of my mouth to produce a legal sound that could break the absorbing vortex of silence. Now, it amazed me how a thing of beauty still necessitated a chain of reasoning. The need to be rational was strangling my thoughts into a very tight mental knot that could choke my mind to death. With my head looking up at the sky, suddenly, I heard the footsteps of God, walking around back and forth as if waiting for something. So I breathed out a prayer, so silent no one can ever hear, perhaps not even God; it was a prayer so simple that I fear God may never understand.

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“Quoteunquote” : Cheers for the Two Years

anniv

Well, it’s been two years already of doing this shit, screaming the hell out of this emotional and intellectual catharsis—online. And in celebration to this cyberspace madness, I’ve been thinking of posting some of the best excerpts I have ever written here, which somehow sounded like a good idea, and also to share my old writings, which, I think, were really good. So here it goes.

In my psychical laboratory, I deconstruct and dissect whole thoughts into microscopic specimens of ideas, putting them on the table, tracing its very roots and examining each of their frameworks. Then I put them into a series of methodical and unorthodox experimentations that have constantly damaged the anatomy of my hypersensitive mind with its biohazard psychopathic toxicity. With these ideas being contained only in fragile, mnemonic test tubes, only one accident is what it takes for me to lose my hold to sanity and welcome myself to schizophrenia, or maybe—even worse.

Inside my mind is just like that; it’s a ticking time bomb with a silly circuit set for random detonation.

A Curse

***********

I might be uttering incomprehensible words trying to make out that incomprehensible implosion of feelings; I might have felt a spectrum of emotions well beyond the reach of my words that turned me into a complete blank, nothing but a static of shock and indifference.

……

…..of the unknown leading us to the simple yet complex and unpredictable paths and places, unthinkable, unimaginable, and to the absolute uncertainty of the unfathomable irrationality of things that are happening along the maybe aimless, yet the most meaningful journey we are about to start, wherein there is no turning back the moment we take that certain step, because maybe, life begins when we step at the point of no return and jump over the boundaries, over the high-voltage fences and cages of the boring, systematic structure of artificial life; and then when we take that step, there’s no looking back—only stepping forward and moving on, facing and accepting every come-what-may that comes along the way, saying “fuck you” right in the face of each. To wander…it is the submission to the possibility of getting completely lost and immersed into the whole experience: the freedom of it, the blissful pain of it, its chaotic static of peace…..without getting lost, there can never be a possibility of finding our real selves, and as to what my younger brother wrote, “It is only through going unknown paths that we get in contact with the repressed, cosmic truth” of our fucky, faulty existence. And so far along my wanderings, I have a found pieces of truth that was not meant to be mine.

……..

 I thirst for your lips. I am hungry for your presence, for your existence. I remember it all now, why didn’t I do everything when I know it was everything I ever wanted? Was I too afraid that what I was doing was wrong? Had I just let the fucking strings of morality control me like its helpless puppet? Was I too weak now to break the rules I’ve been breaking all the time? Was I too scared, too weak to cut those strings?

I Did Nothing

***********

…to wander means to travel but with no direction, to throw your compasses, to burn your maps, to reduce your existence to a naked singularity that makes your soul vulnerable to real faith, to let your soul go and grow that seed of freedom from within and see where its wings will take you—wherever it may lead—be it into the depths of the labyrinthine passages bushed by thick vegetation of trees as you pass through the hazy, mazy, merry-go-round wilderness of life; or be it to the boundless skies of heaven or to the bottomless pits of hell; or be it in the middle of unnamed, lightless streets no one ever crossed, or be it to the surface like of the desolate moon wherein gravity is almost nonexistent that you can’t almost feel friction beneath your feet; or be it inside your own self that has an infinitude of depth of been, being, and becoming, and you go through each crack, each wound, each scar, each dream, each experience and trace it like shapeless flowing waters and discover nothing but the countless possibilities of living…

To Wander

***********

I was smiling and crying. I felt like floating in space. I asked myself, “Am I taking drugs?” It was a place that I never dreamed of before. The place was called Love. And if love was really a place, can you go there with me?

Universal Cancer

***********

What kind of peace comes from violence?

A Letter Marked for Delete

***********

And by the way, life is a journey wherein no one ever reaches the finish line alive.

A Solitary Date with the Grave

***********

Facing myself in the mirror, feeling the weight of the swelled infested tomato creates distaste targeted to myself. It explodes in waves of serious pain with nanosecond intervals. The mental agony is excruciating me a lot more. The ache travels like electricity from my ear to the left side of my neck. And in every twist, the twinge makes me grind my teeth. The supercomputer-like terminals are having a short-circuit.

…….

It is in pain that we realize something is really wrong. Something must have gone terribly wrong. Fucking wrong.

Plugged-Unplugged

***********

Solitude is a sweet gift a person can give to himself. Well, that doesn’t work for everyone. Some arephobic of being alone. While some cherish such loneliness like a priceless gift.

         Solitary Bliss: Simala and Alcoy Journey

***********

Have you ever been in a situation wherein unreasonable suffering seems to be the only task left in your life that suicide seems to be a very reasonable option? Have you ever thought that living only extends the misery and torment you’ve already took? Have you felt the vacuum of meaningless suffering sucking the life out of you like a black hole? Have you ever thought that breathing is a disease only death can cure?

…..

Frankl discovered that they already proved Science wrong. If  Science were right, then, they should have been dead, freezing, continually, slowly rotting meat. There’s something inside the human body that is more than itself. Something way beyond our human anatomy.

The Atrribute of the Strong

***********

Be it by chance or by choice or both. Such explanation is no longer a necessity. No perplexing mathematical equations or cold chains of logical reasoning would suffice or would fill the void; for things of such are beyond the power of human comprehension. The moment you explain love, you’re already wrong.

Quantum Entanglement

***********

Maybe not a sin to God, but a sin to humanity. To dignity. To conscience. How could a sin to humanity(letting them kill Jesus ceremoniously) redeem us from the Original Sin our ancestors committed? Can a sin wash off another sin? … But nevermind that for the heart of the matter is “How could you let something like that happen in front of your very eyes?”

The Dictate of Reason

***********

Your life is a book—an invisible book kept in an invisible library, read and written by an invisible God.

A Flash Flood of Summer Memories

***********

As I breathe in, my longing starts to peak. I hold my breath. And the let it go but I still long for her. With closed eyes, I do it again. Holding on to an image of hers, I feel like a penguin with its feet stuck on the frozen terrain asking God how come I have wings and can’t even fly a little? If only I could fly. I would have left this place a long time ago.

A Flightless Bird (Osmeña Peak)

***********

I asked, “As time flies, what remains the same?”

“Only the question remains the same,” someone answered.

Against Time

***********

Education, so to speak, had become a tremendous cause of our pain.It became one of the most difficult tests of patience(if not the most difficult) rather than a fun and genuine adventure of learning.

…..

…education was reduced to nothing more but a set of occupational training programs rather than a way to develop of our sense of compassion, conscience, and deeper understanding of human life.

…..

In this modern era, communication is getting easier as it gets; but how do we really communicate? There are now state-of-the-art planes, ships, and automobiles for transportation; but how do we really travel? Masses are now being televised; but how much do we really believe in God? There’s now a variety of vitamins said to make us live longer; but how do we really value human life? And so on …

The Illusion of Progress

***********

It’s better to acknowledge that you hate the person so much rather than be slave to the hope of you agreeing with each other. Better accept things rather getting used to it. So be it, and let it be. Nothing will grow out of indifference. It is only through adversities, having adversaries, hate and love that one can grow. And that only happens in a battlefield.

In this kind of world, everlasting peace seems to be impossible. But even so, it is the only thing worth fighting for. Right?

…..

You can now feel your sanity unshackling the chains of friendship as it slowly escapes from your mind. It’s gonna leave you behind. This is a moment when your sanity betrays you.

 …..

You’re thinking that it’s better to get fucked from behind by the zombie than to get your ass eaten off.

Zombie Epidemic

***********

In each quack they visit, they were given liniments with unknown mixtures of liquid in which his mother was told to drink and to dab on her abdomen. Different colors that are mixed always turn out black. So it was a dark remedy in a hope for a brighter future.

Painless (A Short Story)

***********

Then I realized that it was my first time to be on board a ship for more than 10 years. Yet it felt so blank as I was staring at the pitch-black expanse of the sea under the silent drizzle brought by the orgasmic clouds as they raped the unbroken skies in a classic starless night.

         Mt. Napulak Climb, Igbaras, Iloilo

***********

That is why sometimes it’s better to avoid bookshops when one has money. The hormones. The lust for books. It may even be a sin.

In the end, one usually yields in for the force is too strong. Resulting to a tragedy. But it’s a tragedy I won’t ever regret. It wounds my pocket deeply but never ever fails to heal my heart.

Getting inside the Mind of a Book

***********

…How trembling it is to hear unrequited lovers weep
‘lone in rooms with insomnia lulling them to sleep…

A Broken Wishbone (Poem)

***********

…I won’t beg for sleep anymore.

I won’t beg for dreams of you anymore….

Sleepless Blvd (Poem)

***********

We people better understand right now that when we were born, we are already doomed enough to stand on our own two feet. But what we don’t know is that, how beautiful it is to stand on our own two or three feet.

Gestalt Therapy Verbatim (Book Review)

***********

Surfacing by Slipknot. It has been playing for hours inside my fucking head. An imaginary live concert is taking place somewhere in my twisted mindframe. Each words, each beat, each note flowed like a spiritual bloodstream of vileness and freedom along the veins of my consciousness. The current was too strong that I have had to inflict a wound to my own mind so that the unrelenting gush could slow down. I wanna destroy something beautiful tonight, my wounded mind uttered. Well, maybe not.

The Alchemy of Hate

***********

 

…I asked,

“How does it feel to live forever?”

…. … … …. …

Then I answered,

“Of course,”

… … … … …

“it would be a lot worse than insomnia.”

Worse than Worst (Poem)

***********

…9 AM News Break!

Headlines:
Screaming bloody murder deafens the ears of the earth.
Advanced Biochemical Warfare!
Global Modernization of Terrorism!
Nuclear Bombs falling from the skies
waiting to kiss the ground goodbye!
Explosions of splitting atomic particles melting unknown human bodies,
bathing them with chemicals unknown to nature.
Countries choosing sides! …

…..

 …Social schizophrenics fill your room.
You are among the remaining (endangered) one percent of the world’s sanity.
You are afraid to breathe the same air they breathe
—as if breathing the same air would turn you like them…

Another Broken Radio (Poem)

***********

…Moments turned to memories.
Memories mutated into nightmares….

…..

….hurting myself
is my only escape
from this pain…

 Dilemma Machine (Poem)

***********

Emotions are combustible materials and alcohol is flammable.

…….

After dreaming of her a lot of times, I realized how living without her can be a nightmare.

 A Thousand Beers Ago

***********

 

…With dark, succulent bags beneath them

that must be swelling from repressed tears;

how does your beauty bloom in such sadness?

What was your secret all these years? …

Anti-Gravity

***********

Writing is a state of mind.

……

Mostly during psychotherapeutic sessions, you’ll see the absolute, unshakable truth unfolding right in front of your very eyes; that there are lives out there that are nothing more but God’s measure of how much suffering a human being could take before he or she breaks. That’s the real world.

A Year of Screaming

***********

“What is life?

It’s not what happened before…

What is life?

It’s not what’s going to happen later…

What is life?

It’s what’s happening right now.”

6: 16

***********

Now, fear starts to build a building inside me. The jackhammer is doing its job. All of my fingers in each hand are shaking. There’s a construction site somewhere in my anatomy. A hysteria is under construction.

There are internal miniature earthquakes taking place. Each pulse shakes me more, creating a chain reaction to the map of anatomical fault lines within my body. It’s destroying the construction site inside. I can feel everything crashing down together with the falling debris of emotions. The heart is the epicenter and I want it to stop.

……..

 It is silence when you hear nothing; it is also silence when no one hears you.

Old Streets (A Short Story)

***********

…It’s a vision of a dying man
of twenty-one years of age.
The deterioration of progression
is fueled by an inner fiery rage.

Now, his soul is growling with desire
to evacuate its human flesh.
Oh, the dark of the nights
has never been this fresh! …

Into the Light (Poem)

***********

 

…In the depths

might be a world so dead

that time even ceased to tick

—lifeless and timeless—

an abyss

with a million

unseen dead eyes

staring back at me,

a graveyard of fetal skeletons,

of rotting zygotic corpses

of words yet to be born

but have died

of an unconscious abortion

called Repression…

Dead Eyes (Poem)

***********

The words I’ve been longing to write always leave me the moment I start writing. They disappear as quick as a puff of smoke from a cigarette after making love with my lips. It’s like a half-second orgasm that almost doesn’t register to my senses for me to have a memory of it. For a second, the words give me a sense of euphoric hope and after that, they leave, they escape, they betray, leaving me miserably with a feeling I couldn’t convey.

……

I stare at the sheet of words painted in a canvas made of smoke, and then it’s gone after a second, fading into nothingness leaving no slightest evidence of its existence.

……

The fire just keeps on growing and growing into a holocaust of volcanic eruptions of demented emotions, of pyroclastic flow of tragedies, of demonic, molted lava of frustrations, and of God knows what. A burning world of blistered motherfuckers called hell is set to sing the anthems of widespread destruction and desolation—exists inside of me. The moment words fail a writer, would be the advent of a living death, a spiritual catastrophe—life becomes a living funeral wherein you no longer count your remaining days because the remaining days no longer count—because you know you are already dead to this world. You can’t even think of suicide because you know you that deep inside of you, there is nothing left to kill.

…….

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.

……

These previous latent months, I just realized, was a stage of oblivious pregnancy. I was pregnant yet it was like I was in denial of all the symptoms. I was impregnated by a girl. Her way with words, so powerful, so unique, they can change the alignment of the stars that predetermine my fate, her creative hands so blessed by God, they create a new universe inside of me, hands of an artist that can mold me into a better person without even touching me, her planetary eyes that make my wits go fucking retarded that they fall off from their orbits and tesser light years away scattering beyond the solar system, her sweet smile causing temporary amnesia, it makes my breathing and speaking and walking forget everything they’ve learned about rhythm, her beautiful voice that always put me into a heavenly trance, I always imagine her singing beside me everytime I strum the guitar, and the way she moves around, she’s like a princess of the Utopian empire in my dreams.

Chuck 

*********** 

Galakaw ko
sa dalan sa kangitngit
padulong sa sam-ang
sa nangamatay nakong
pangandoy.

Nagpalibot ining lugara
ang mga nangakupos
nga kandila sa paglaom
nga gipaw’ng sa dag-om
ug matang sa kinabuhi.

Ugma (Balak)

***********

For it is only when one is stripped off of something he thought he can’t live without that he will realize and discover the greatest of his potentials.

If You Could See What I Hear (Book Review)

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 When got to La Belle Aurore, Hernan Branch, the first time, it was an internally intense  experience. It was just something like that. An experience when all your senses and thoughts and everything are concentrated into just one fleeting moment. There’s no tomorrow, no yesterday, as if nothing exists outside the bookshop. I was in a state of bliss I do not understand. Maybe the spirits of the books that surround welcomed me, and they permeated through my skin through my bones and into my soul. They were speaking to me a language only souls can speak. And yes, I have no idea what they were talking about but hell, it did not make me feel less blissful.  A bliss beyond words. The spirits possessed me without me knowing, I guess.

La Belle Aurore

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 Whatever drug Anthony Burgess was in when he wrote this, I want some.

A Clockwork Orange (Book Review)

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 As a whole, the book has a disoriented flow. If we talk about music, it’ll be like a beautiful sound of discordant notes fitting together into the music sheet played by the orchestra to your ears. But hey, this book, in its truest nature, causes both psychological and physiological disorientation.

Haunted (Book Review)

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As to what to I’ve heard from some old dude, “Life per se is life enough.” Time flies. Everything in life is forever temporary. Ironic, yes. But isn’t it because of impermanence that we know how much a thing is really worth?

And for this fleeting moment, I am happy.

 —A Place for Change 

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in the depths and in the comforts of my pockets
my hands were shaking as they crush themselves.
how could these hands feel so unable
to create friction to provide warmth to the coldness of her sorrow?
then I could feel my teeth tearing the corners of my mouth.
how could I always fail to say the words
that will shed light in the midst of her darkest hours?

 i looked up (poetry)

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 my hands are no longer cold, i guess this is enough. this is what insanity does, i guess, and this is the warmth i need. the warmth of insanity to keep me sane.

Awareness Continuum 

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 …still feeling the remnants of the nightmare, you’re groping for your missing senses, with your heart slowing down as if finally remembering its normal rhythm…

Morning Habit

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 I have nothing left but a life to end. I felt the privilege of being able to kill myself. This made me smile. I realized that only oneself has the authority to kill one’s self—and no one else. The self kills itself. Fair enough. I’m tired of living anyway.

Tired of Living (A Short Story)

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 Suffering … is the key in creating exceptional art. What hurts us the most awakes the artist inside of us. Brings out the genius out of our brains, out of our souls. Scars and wounds are the best source inspiration. You art shows your wounds your scars your life—it shows everything about you. Art and Suffering—they’re almost synonymous.

Diary (A Book Review)

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 A construction site, as I am starting to feel it, is inside of me. I can hear the sounds of the ancient, inanimate machines in my head doing everything in ripping off the blood clot that had stopped the words from coming out. The wounds that had been closed are now being ripped open letting the blood flow, as if to have my heart pump it all out in one beat. I’m gonna expel the stagnated blood out of my fucking system and give birth to new blood cells. But first, I must bleed it all and empty myself of all this rancid blood.

Miraculous

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After countless blinks,
it looked
as if it was
God’s fallen angel,

a threadless kite
longing for its string

to be pulled from above
because it wants to return
to the clouds.

Ourglass (A Poem)

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This is an automaton. I am writing as if everything were predetermined. I’m not listening to anything other than the sound of my fingers as they hit the keys. What a beautiful song: the time signature as inconsistent as my dreams, the words as incoherent as the static of the radio, and the noteless melody that sends my ears into unexplainable orgasms…

At Work

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You are
my most divine crime,
my most unholy conquest,
my soul’s in hell
day by day.

 —— — — —  (A Poem)

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Then when I got inside, I thought that I’d rather be in hell, at least I have a feeling that I belong there. The club was the wrongest place ever for me. The aura of alcoholic lust filled the room, and the wall echoed everything to my ears, and the thing they call music spun and weaved the people into a hypnotic helix of absolute fuckables.

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Then I walked to somewhere imagining holding an imaginary hand, and I felt its wetness. I laughed again but with sadness and longing. I never wanted anything or anybody more. Perhaps that’s why I am in such chaos right now because it feels like the whole world is in my hands. Again, I walked aimlessly. I was wandering both outside and inside my mind. Then I turned around as if to check my trail. There was no more trail. Then I looked at myself. The bleeding had stopped.

The Hangover

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Suicide, they said, is the ultimate act of defiance. The biggest “FUCK YOU” to life and to all. The greatest sense of control one can ever attain. When you said “Fuck you, everyone,” before you pulled the trigger and shot your heart with a .9mm, I should have been there saying “Fuck you too.”

A Million Fucks to You!

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I am still in contact with the world outside my head, things are moving so slow as if everything was happening inside a dream within a dream within a dream, at least I’m not standing or floating still—because for the past few days, I can’t really get the sensation of it, I felt so dead with misery like I was just a breathing corpse floating around, like being dragged by a nonexistent force and without really moving from a spot inside the outer space in my own head, a head full of universes chained by black holes of thoughts inhaling and twisting the nerves and bones of my brain; inside are the constant, eternal creations of beginnings birthed on repeat coupled with labor pains and the rhythmic destruction of those beginnings into neverending endings, of Genesises, of Apocalypses, of big bangs, of big crunches, of nothingness stretching and compressing into infinity. Inside my head, I have felt eternity and infinity, and that’s frightening, ‘coz once you get the feel of it, you wouldn’t want to get out or it’s so hard to get out, rather; you’ll feel so safe—but so dead, and you’re actually just a prisoner of the idea of the eternal and of the infinite and of the illusion of security. And I am trying as hard as I can to get back to earth’s nightmarish reality no matter what, and every time I temporarily get rooted back to this all-messed-up, fucked-up existence, I can only feel a fucking abysmal ache in my chest so deep I can’t seem to mentally dig and trace its source and a current of tears concentrating its rage behind my eyes waiting for the optimal time to blow my eyeballs out of their damned sockets—and this could happen later, I suppose.

23

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Everything is not meant to be, but everything is worth a try. I tried and failed. That is, in itself, beautiful enough, for that’s life—life’s unfair, life fucking hurts, your whole life can even be a process of letting go that even at the end of it, you would still find yourself holding on to the precious memory of those nights that kept you alive.

Holding Sand

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The words that escaped your mouth made everything seem like the fakest illusion possible, the most unreal illusion one can perceive (well, that may be too much, I am overexaggerating), they transported me to another lost dimension or something like that, the words gave me a miserable ride into the unknown, like the “trip” you get after getting high with the most dangerous drug ever known to mankind, and I guess I am back, still not pretty much sure of it though, still feeling the results of the continuous car crash of emotions and reasoning in these silently chaotic streets of my being. I must slap my face real fucking hard, but that would only validate and worsen my summiting and descending feeling of fucked-upness.

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For now, I’ll wander again, and this time, I’ll do it “alone,” but I’ll still do it the same way “we” used to. I’ll revisit the places we’ve been to, saying hello and farewell to you every time, and even staying through the loneliest solitude, through the awfully blinding feeling of absence, through the nostalgic coldness that can freeze your heart beyond absolute zero and get it broken if it beats too hard, and through the astronomical amount of yearning while listening to every sound, especially of footsteps, hopelessly hoping they were yours, all these, the darkest hours of dawn can bring, and I’ll wait until the warmth of the morning sun kisses my invisible tears away and welcomes me and envelops my world, telling me, “It’s another day—there’s another day.”

That’s That

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But then again, the choices I made created a long chain of events that led me to meet a certain person, a very special, very beautiful person who, lately, with her own hands, created a new heaven above me, an infinite expanse of a canvas painted with celestial scars that had replaced the night sky of the still, blinking, faraway stars, planets, moons, meteorites, and invisible Gods. And now, this new heaven is the roof of my being and will be illuminating the rest of the nights of my life…

It Isn’t a Round Trip

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How witless, I chased love while I’m so blind.

(A Sonnet)

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I can actually see the worlds behind the words behind the covers, I mean I imagine each of them as planets, and that creates an illusory hallucinogenic sober experience of having (and this happens when I am goddamnfuckingbored, tired, or sleepy) to see the books as living organisms; they talk to me and I talk to them; I enter them and they enter me. While lying down looking at them, I enter and flip the pages with eyes, and then I imagine what it feels like to be inside in the middle of those pages; like how does it feel like to be a fictional character? how does it feel like not being real—but existing? how does it feel to be completely alive only when being read, to be real only when imagined? what’s it like to be written into life? how does it feel like when a reader cries in the middle of your story and you, as a character, can’t get out of the pages and do something about it? what what what and I even asked the characters, have you even wished to be real? have you ever wished to be really born? to have real life? are you sure about that?

Bibliophilia: A Therapeutic Disorder

 

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A Curse

I suffer deeply from my congenital intellect that had developed throughout the years into an incurable disease of skepticism. The seemingly endless pursuit for answers to blot out the enigmas that enveloped the world has put me nowhere near the map—I am lost.

In my psychical laboratory, I deconstruct and dissect whole thoughts into microscopic specimens of ideas, putting them on the table, tracing its very roots and examining each of their frameworks. Then I put them into a series of methodical and unorthodox experimentations that have constantly damaged the anatomy of my hypersensitive mind with its biohazard psychopathic toxicity. With these ideas being contained only in fragile, mnemonic test tubes, only one accident is what it takes for me to lose my hold to sanity and welcome myself to schizophrenia, or maybe—even worse.

Each of them, ideas, I put to the test like a mad scientist who doesn’t care if it his discoveries were for the welfare of his own life, sooner or later, like the serendipitous discovery of friction and sparks that lead to fire, jumping to the chemical combinations that lead to the creation of gunpowder, of guns that lead to the production of deaths, broken hearts, corpses, ruins, and wars, and to experiments that lead to the discoveries and developments of state-of-the-art nanonuclear energies, weapons, technologies that are devised to magnificently improve warfare and laziness, which we would keep on progressing, by nature, until we hear the imminent gallops of the apocalypse, by then, it’s too late to wake up from that delusion of progress.

These inventions, tools for destruction, had permanently stained the face of the scarred and scared planet (continually wounding hitherto) with the blood of its own inhabitants, and right now, though most are still oblivious, it is slowly paralyzing us with the threat of global suicide. Nuclear desolation awaits us in the near future—us self-destructing our own selves away from the pages of history. The next Ice Age is near, the post-apocalyptic era, and it could be even worse—the end of all ages to come.

Inside my mind is just like that; it’s a ticking time bomb with a silly circuit set for random detonation.

I am a mad scientist, an inventor of fresh rotten philosophies, a glutton for succulent ideas, and I am one who curses the past, despises the present, and dreads the future–but deeply loves life. Still, I am against life and its stupidity, but I embrace the fact that without life, I am nothing; I won’t have anything to laugh at or cry about; I won’t be even here writing about its absurdity, its fucking irony. Life, fact is, it is still beautiful as it is, and it’s still ugly as it is, as ever—a hermaphrodite bitch with a multiple identify disorder, and we all are so afraid to leave this crazy whore that keeps on fucking with us, anyway, contaminating us with its infectious cunt. But why not leave? Maybe because of the instinct of self-preservation keeps us from doing so, the fear of death, the hope in our dreams, love, vengeance, responsibilities, the uncertainty of what comes after (heaven or hell or whatever), or maybe because our lives had been very beautiful and meaningful at some point and we would want to experience those moments over and over again (to the point that we would trade all tomorrows for just one yesterday), or maybe we just want to take our chances that somewhere along the way, we would find answers to each question as to why the fuck is this happening—whatever this is, at least for me. The questions concerning existence, its essence and its truth, I fall in love with these questions, in fact, I am obsessed with questions that can’t be answered and addicted to answers that are always questioned. The question is you.

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I loathe and love my capacity for deeper emotions. I have loved my ability to bear, in my heart, a feeling stronger than me, a feeling so real that it becomes a waking nightmare; but I hated my inability to have power over it—I can only bear. These are emotions the intellect alone can never fathom, for they are far deeper and complex than thought processes. They twist my being in upward and downward spirals, causing bouts of hysterias, depression, and traumas, and celebration of recoveries, and fleeting euphorias. I am all mixed up and tied to this endless shit of madness. And like a god during his childhood having fun outside the atmosphere, I soar great emotional heights, jumping from planet to planet and, and from there, a sudden presence of gravity would pull me down, like an eagle shot in the middle of its joyful flight, falling into abyssal depths of emotions—from the absolute zero of melancholy to the deadest static of indifference to the intense, volcanic, orgasmic moments of rapture.

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This is my curse.

I think.

I feel.

Too much.

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I Did Nothing

Of all the things I have fought for and end up losing, of all the rules I have broken in the past with a full conscience that such things have to happen, of all the people I have hold on to with everything, with every ounce of strength I have, why you? When you said “We should stop,” why did I just stare blankly at the blurry, rainy road in front of us, not even speaking a word to convince you not to (I might be uttering incomprehensible words trying to make out that incomprehensible implosion of feelings; I might have felt a spectrum of emotions well beyond the reach of my words that turned me into a complete blank, nothing but a static of shock and indifference). Why didn’t I look into your eyes to see if there’s a piece of truth behind those words?…So if I couldn’t find the right words to say, why didn’t I let my actions speak then? Why didn’t I hold you? Why did I just let you go that easy? Why did I just let everything slip away, like waking up from a dream? Why did it feel like I said “Okay” even though we both know it’s not? Why didn’t I even try to hold your freezing hand tighter, so tight I’ll break you bony, beautiful fingers so that you would just  stay? Why didn’t I pull you so close to me so that you can feel how dead I was that time, how you stopped time including my heartbeat at your hypnotic suggestion of stopping? Why didn’t I even look at you so that I can remember your face and those last minutes we are spending together? What if I did something back then, would you have stayed with me? Would you have chosen me? Would you still be here with me in this time of the day, chatting while we are both at work, talking everything about our lives that were made complicated by our eccentric, deep minds? Those nights that we had, so existential, so beautiful, so surreal, so free, so deeply rooted, so full of life, the beauty of each moment is giving me nightmares now—you are already too beautiful to begin with. I miss your voice, your laugh, your smile, the way you speak the words so softly yet so orgasmic because of its intellectual and emotional depths. Day in and day out, every single day, I am trying to make sense of why I just did nothing that very moment you said “Good-bye.” I remember the first time we met and how we talked somewhere in the streets from evening until morning, God knows how did that happen. I remember that moment when you decided for the first time for us to stop. I remember how I got deaf after that night. When we saw each other again after two or three weeks, we infiltrated a building and spent the whole evening until dawn in the rooftop, us and no one but us, that time when I returned something to you, but you gave it back, and so, we keep returning it to each other all throughout the night. The moment I held your hand for the first time and slipped through into the spaces between your fingers, interlocked perfectly, zipped tight, intertwining with the belief that we are fated to meet and it has to happen because there is no other way. I remember when I said, “I am destroying things,” and when you replied, “No. We are destroying things.” I have never felt so together with someone ever in my life. I remembered how we talked about us not seeing other again but we were there, at the top of our own world, feeling like nothing can ever stopped this unless we wanted to. We created a world of our own, a mesh of reality and dreams; a world the world can’t understand. I remember when we were soaked under the rain all throughout dawn and under the rain of our emotions, the heat of our emotions going against the cold of the rain. With our backs flat on the streets feeling completely free, not giving a fuck about anything even though you just left your prized phone in a taxi that night, and sitting down not ever wanting it to end, nothing else mattered. The submission to the moment, getting lost in it with no reservation… No holding back. No walls. How I miss you now…Your letter, how much I wanna to keep it, no one has ever written me something like that. I wish I can still remember those words. I wish I still have the chance to see through the core of your being, like what you’ve said, beyond that angelic, beautiful face, beyond that narcotic voice of yours, beyond your beautiful, oh so beautiful mind. And when we spent our time in the 16th flr of that building, sitting on the floor drying ourselves as we wait for the sun to rise, but still not wanting to go home or anywhere but there—that feeling of inseparablenes; no one, no one but us…I remember how things are so unpredictable and so free-flowing; how we had upset the system? Messing up with the elevator? And how we wrote things on that forbidden floor? How we went inside that dark, abandoned room of that building, though I never really expected you to follow me…. And about rule of absolute honesty. “If you were God for one minute, what would you do?”  I miss how we talk about our childhood experiences, our dreams, our nightmares, our hopes, our adventures, the animes we used to watch, and philosophies in life and our endless pursuit for it… Freedom.. Freedom..Freedom.. I remember how we hated the collective psychosis called society and its norms…

…of the unknown leading us to the simple yet complex and unpredictable paths and places, unthinkable, unimaginable, and to the absolute uncertainty of the unfathomable irrationality of things that are happening along the maybe aimless, yet the most meaningful journey we are about to embark, wherein there is no turning back the moment we take that certain step, because maybe, life begins when we step at the point of no return and jump over the boundaries, over the high-voltage fences and cages of the boring, systematic structure of artificial life; and then when we take that step, there’s no looking back—only stepping forward and moving on, facing and accepting every come-what-may that comes along the way, saying “fuck you” right in the face of each. To wander…it is the submission to the possibility of getting completely lost and immersed into the whole experience: the freedom of it, the blissful pain of it, its chaotic static of peace…..without getting lost, there can never be a possibility of finding our real selves, and as to what my younger brother wrote, “It is only through going unknown paths that we get in contact with the repressed, cosmic truth” of our fucky, faulty existence. And so far along my wanderings, I have a found pieces of truth that was not meant to be mine.

I remember how we used to wander…so fucking free… so drunk into that feeling, whatever that is. I thirst for your lips. I am hungry for your presence, for your existence. I remember it all now, why didn’t I do everything when I know it was everything I ever wanted? Was I too afraid that what I was doing was wrong? Had I just let the fucking strings of morality control me like its helpless puppet? Was I too weak now to break the rules I’ve been breaking all the time? Was I too scared, too weak to cut those strings? I was thinking too much then. I am thinking, still, too much now. And this is not going anywhere but only deeper into the well of my regrets. I am still falling, still not hitting the bottom, but really, I have hit the bottom, but I choose to still fall, trying to convince myself that there’s still something, a glimmer of hope, another chance, but I guess it’s no more. I am at the bottom now, I have reached the peak of my regrets and fell to the bottom of this, I want to end this. I want to kill this dream… You were a coward. I was too.

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To Wander…

AgfaPhoto

…to wander means to travel but with no direction, to throw your compasses, to burn your maps, to reduce your existence to a naked singularity that makes your soul vulnerable to real faith, to let your soul go and grow that seed of freedom from within and see where its wings will take you—wherever it may lead—be it into the depths of the labyrinthine passages bushed by thick vegetation of trees as you pass through the hazy, mazy, merry-go-round wilderness of life; or be it to the boundless skies of heaven or to the bottomless pits of hell; or be it in the middle of unnamed, lightless streets no one ever crossed, or be it to the surface like of the desolate moon wherein gravity is almost nonexistent that you can’t almost feel friction beneath your feet; or be it inside your own self that has an infinitude of depth of been, being, and becoming, and you go through each crack, each wound, each scar, each dream, each experience and trace it like shapeless flowing waters and discover nothing but the countless possibilities of living…

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