Because Green Is the Next Rainbow

I don't know when it started exactly, but the change can be felt. The city mayor's office of Makati has implemented a ban on the use of plastics in all commercial establishments. Big groceries and major convenient stores had already started doing this (and I think this led to a boost in the sales of those reusable tote bags). 

So begins the story early this morning when my guest requested for cold water. (Fast facts for background: I live in the sixth floor of a walk-up apartment, I'm overweight, and I have no fridge.) I gladly obliged. I needed the exercise.

Lo and behold, the store no longer has plastic for the ice tubes. If you want to buy ice, you have to bring your own container. (TMI alert: The thought of bringing the ice up using my shirt did occur to me. My IQ is flexible like that.) I begged, "Please, ma'am, I live up-upstairs, just this last time, sell me ice please."

"I'm sorry, but they already roamed around and confiscated all the plastics from all the stores."

"Really?"

"Yes, sorry."

Wow. I tried my luck at the mini–convenient store across the street. They didn't have any plastic as well. I begged again. The lady was adamant with her refusal, I think a little annoyed because of the inconvenience this has caused their business as well. Then I saw a bunch of plastics behind the counter. I think she figured I wasn't going anywhere, so she gave me one to get rid of me. "This one is a different plastic. I don't know if they will allow this." She didn't even ask me to pay for it. Of course, I gave my sincere thanks.

Back at the bakery that sold ice, the woman there I was talking to earlier decided to continue with our small talk. "At least they didn't make us pay, you know."

"Yeah, and at least it's effective, they just get the plastic." She nodded.

And so here I am hanging this valuable biodegradable bag to dry. I will need this soon. For when I need ice to chill some wine, before giving a toast to Mother Earth. "To life."   

the smiley is an overkill

not a spontaneous juxtaposition

Time-warp

"Every generation imagines itself to be more intelligent than the one that went before it, and wiser than the one that comes after it." (George Orwell)

Well, it is true. The Flynn effect is the increase of IQ test scores of people through the generations. He was looking at her thirty years ago—the same faraway look, quickly changing into an impish grin. He was still remembering her when someone whispered to him who the girl in front of him was. 

She was new to the city, filled with ambition and luckily a little talent. The same way he supposed Mercy was, when he first saw her those many years ago. 

He was hanging out with some friends, and one of them happened to bring Mercy along. Her hair was in a cute disarray, an arranged chaos. When they were introduced, he was sure their stares lingered on each other. It took him some determination and a little cheating on the shots to make sure the friend who brought her ended up drunk before him. The next day, when he brings her along, it would be too late for his friend. There won't be a need for an explanation. But nobody brought anyone home that night, or to anywhere else for that matter.

"I see what you're doing. You should know I am the one that's after your friend."

He could only laugh. He brought his glass up and near her, and she clinked it with hers.

He had to ask her, to be sure. And it was true.

"How is she?"

"Happy as one in her condition could ever be." She knew their story, what happened to this man and her mother. It was long before her parents met. But the time that this man was with Mercy resulted in so many projects that old compilations and tickets served as clues to her to unveil old tales. "Do you feel anything for me?"

He was taken aback by her question. Surely she did not mean if he—

"In that way. Of course this is hypothetical. Does seeing me invoke some stirrings in you, like what you felt for her?"

"Of course not!" He was appalled. The temerity of this child—

"I'm only asking. See, you're not a monster after all."               

Katy Perry's "The One That Got Away" (Short Story, Fiction)

They had not seen each other for a year. It wasn't enough to forget, just about around the time for longing. Last time they've been together, they were friends, the type that held hands. The last time, he gently refused her subtle advance with a soft laugh of amusement. He was clever like that. She didn't feel rejected. He somehow made her think it was only the alcohol. She gave him a coy smile and told him she was done for the night and needed to hit the hay. He hailed her a taxi, kissed her on the cheek, and sent her off. She slept that night forgetting she was ever inappropriate. And then it was only after a year that she saw him again.

He was grinning from ear to ear. It was a kind of shy grin that just couldn't be held back. On the other hand, she was barely smiling, just a slight contortion on her expression, that way of hers like she's almost biting her lips to keep from showing any hint of emotion. But he knew she was also happy to see him. He offered her coffee. She declined with a short laugh. "I still don't drink coffee."

"What do you want then?"

"Beer, silly." And they found themselves hanging out in a small bar, one of those they used to frequent.

It was still late afternoon, and so a few tables were still empty. Taped rock music was playing from the bar, but since they got a table outside, the volume was lowered enough for a conversation.

"I missed you. You should have just told me."

He only smiled at her and took a swig of his beer, his eyes beginning to wander around the bar. She understood he wasn't ready to have that conversation yet—maybe he'll never be. There was still some pain having him there, so close again after all this time. He had grown a short beard, maybe only a few days old. He was even manlier now than before. She reached out to feel his face. He let her, even leaning his head toward her hand, brushing his cheek against it, letting her know he missed her as well. It was all he could do after disappearing so abruptly, leaving her with only stories carelessly thrown around by clueless people. And because both of them knew that he was back now, yes, but he still wouldn't be hers.

Sad for Soured Mousse

I will not post the anti-IG-ish picture here. What happened was we had this mousse-cake thing, which was by the way delicious, enough for about eight to sixteen people (or more, since we are a sharing bunch). There were five of us; only three ate. I think I ate for four persons already—yeah, mostly for the reason that that sweet, yummy thing would soon go to waste if not consumed soon. We don't have a fridge in the house. The reasons are many, and I might/might not just write about the mundanity that is that.

Thoughts of sharing to the world did occur, of course, the humanitarians that we are. But how. It's mousse. And yes, we even point fingers on who will go down to throw the trash, who then among us would think of voluntarily scouring the city streets looking for someone who'd gladly accept leftover dessert. We can't divide the damn (and now it's almost as if it's unwanted, after the many mouthfuls of goodness) thing and distribute them; it's too fragile. The reason of it being still fluffy only that it had arrived in the house at night, amid the rain, creating a cool-enough environment for it to hold itself for a while.

Here's a few missing details to fill in the gaps of this story. We live on the sixth floor of an apartment building without an elevator. You would think after more than a year of this I would have conquered the climb, so to speak. Oh no. It isn't easier now. There is a technique, though, but that might be told another day. Another image to add to the mousse would be sandwiches, cinnamon buns, fruits, empanadas, and meat—which could have easily fed ten to fullness. The mousse alone would have been surmountable, but with the rest with it, food wins this time.

And so we come to the part I've been dreading. The morning when those that didn't survive the microorganisms and time have to be thrown out. Maybe we are a lazy bunch indeed. I could only give a childish wish for something to be invented that would bring one person's excess food to another who needs it badly. Apparently my legs are not working at this time.

I looked at the mousse. It had flattened somewhat. The air making it foamy had escaped overnight. I took a spoon and braved a bite. It wasn't spoiled yet, but I could tell that just a few minutes more would completely ruin it already. The thought of quickly stuffing as much mousse as I can into my mouth did occur to me, but the memory of its taste the night before was still fresh in my mind. I couldn't let go of that. And it was all the help I needed to let go of the once-delectable fluff that now resembled a failed (or successful, depending on your weltanschauung) science experiment.

Into the trash you go, and hooray for our resident ants (although I'm not really sure they'd still be attracted to its sourness).      

   

A Calorie for Every Word

I sit here and am still surprised at the blob that is my stomach. No living creature there, at least none that I know of. I continue to deny the simple thought that maybe I have grown fatter because of my age. Surely I am not eating more now than when I was leaner—well, except these past few days.

A month ago, I had been doings jumps for maybe more than two weeks, then my routine got disturbed, and here I am trying hard to get the urge back. The weather, visitors, travel, changes, many factors. And I would have been okay had I been able to resist the urge to look at recent pictures of myself at a friend's camera. Have I always looked so . . . big?

I have my angles, I console myself, but I am running out of those. I mean, a sphere is a sphere regardless of from which side you're looking on.

I then tell myself, perhaps, really, there's just more food around the circumstances I'm thrown into. I did say I like living in the city because of pizza delivery. Maybe I chose this. Did I know my choice would have led into me looking round-the-clock full?

Am I procrastinating again? I have new ten-day old running shoes. It, the right shoe, is not calling out to me. I will not give you images as bright as those. Immaculate, white mostly and blue, while the rain goes on outside with its almost-inconspicuous, steady pitter-patter (it actually sounds different, but it is widely known how arduous the task of accurately "wording" sounds is).

I might continue my jumps later, with the new shoes. I am looking forward to a promise of a feast come dinnertime, after all. (A) No food, no exercise. (B) With food, with exercise. I am an eater. I will have to be a B. Let me know when this comes up: (C) With food, no exercise. I'm almost catching my breath with just the thought—or maybe this is my body telling me I really need to get my ass moving again.      

From Indifference

(circa August 2006)

If you’re a philosopher, a physicist, or an artist, or a nonartist for that matter, when your being depends highly on things apart from you, you would always be haunted by the fear that you might cause hurt, or death even, to the very thing from which your life draws sustenance from. Say, him, for instance. These things, I am able to say, because of my inability to have him, of my being away from him today, this very moment. For if he were beside me right now, would I still be needing to have these words out of me? But yes, it does not mean that I would have to be in this state for eternity. The basic principle of algorithms—yeah, this here would still be the things in my head, but they have to exist also in reality, lest I end up condemning existence as too idealistic and thus having no need of things tangible, which would be utter blah, and thus, yeah, this here is a plea. Yeah, could he be my third miracle?

I never knew her misery was because of something else, nonexistent, at least in my world it is. Thus, I could not, and would not be able to, understand her when she traps herself in that world where none could ever enter—none but those already there. Thus, her silence; I never realized it was never for contempt that she refuses to utter words. It is that her solitude alone becomes too much of a confusion already that she fears my starting to exist would bring her more perplexities, and worse, she might inflict me with the very thing that causes her much heaviness.

There would never be a time when she would refuse a beer, well, except the time she was taking antibiotics . . . for her asthma, maybe. This had turned out to be more psychological than physical actually. There was a time she had been feeling so bad, she had wanted to grab whatever escape was at hand. No smoke possible, she thought, maybe a walk would help, and to where? Well, she could go buy an antibiotic or two. Killing those little microorganisms might be something so microscopic, she would not add so much to the “unwanted” things of this world. She thought, maybe, if she tries to really focus and think about it really hard, she might actually feel the small organisms in her body dying, and might actually feel some changes.

Her quasi-insanity never ceases to amuse him greatly. Some would think of her quirks and little obsessions as too absurd, considering the greater things that abound this planet, but hers was really too bizarre as to cause more entertainment than otherwise. For one, she surrounds herself with people so diverse that you would actually realize the sense of her indifference. That was her word—she had called him indifferent. He actually is not sure of what she meant by calling him so, but he knows if he asks her, he would be amazed by the story behind it.

She was indifferent, and she knows it. He was too. Maybe that was one of the things that made him a little peculiar compared to the rest of the people she met; for sure, he would not tag her weird, as obviously, he was too. What makes her mind really lose it is her sense of extremism—this she got from reading some philosopher, she forgot really, maybe it was along the lines of Sartre, or not. Anyway, she had learned that since there is really no unwritten book on how to go about life, maybe she would just try to live as she could, all things she so far know considered—and that would be saying something. She had read that one must act as though it would be okay if the next person beside her could also act as such. “But hey,” the antithesis inside her mind interrupts, “but that person next to you could only do exactly what you do if she were exactly like you.” She heaved out a sigh; she was hoping to come upon some form of certainty at that point.

For some, the day was about to end, but not for him. It was not just starting too. More like, it was just that time of the day when most were bound for other places already, moving to be exact, and he wasn’t. Not that he was complaining or anything, it was just a passing thought. For one, he knows in a few minutes, she was bound to where her friends would be—that being any place that suddenly pops up her mind, and most often than not, that place would be one where he was not around. He’s not so numb not to notice that she seems to be avoiding him lately. Or maybe, it was only because before, he really never minded where she would be at any one time. Fate really has a strange way of turning things in directions inconceivable before. All he knows is that there would be more beer tonight, and yeah, for her too.

Pain can come in a variety of form. The greatest thing about pain is that for a moment, you are given freedom from fake emotions. Pain, unfortunately, is one of those that allow not a roomy space for sentimentalities.

Her indifference—such a used-up word already to her, yet she keeps on rubbing it still in the insides of her brain, not knowing until when. She cannot afford to be completely erratic. She allows herself little forms of idiosyncrasies but not one she is certain could not be bound by that greater something she wants to stay indefinitely.

And when I finally tried to see if truly the world knows how to ease my certain pains, sh*t! For I have been disappointed. It would seem that fate carries me indeed, and though I could undeniably be inflicted with pain that goes away, the cure is just not always at hand. And it is those moments, when all is real, that blind me from whatever would be next or what might have come before. Pain could make one be as close to death without dying. And what makes it all the more excruciating is when time moves with fate, as though in unison, almost looking as if they are even amused by a useless pain that is just so real but poses no obvious purpose.

She saw him again. She realized she really gets wasted on purpose when he was to be around as so to numb her from whatever his close proximity might bring her. He saw her too. She was really all spaced out, but at least she felt no pain all weekend, at least that’s how she remembers it.

When he looked in the mirror today, he can’t help but again think, he was getting old. He was asked once if he could remember things, her. He said yes, he remembers her when he sees things that could easily be associated to her. Yeah, he remembers her. How could he not. How about her, what thoughts might be keeping her mind busy? 

She cannot imagine, she can no longer remember, how it was like when he was still nonexistent in her world. And to think that the first time they met was far from momentous. He was just there, same table, opposite her. Even her memory of his girlfriend then was totally different from the real one. Although, she can clearly remember his face, some things he said about his hair, and the guy she was with at that time. It was always this way, she noticed. She smiled to herself; she remembered the name she and her friend had come upon to call such phenomenon—frog princes. She now sees, frogs become princes when you kiss them. And she decided, she won’t be kissing any more frogs in the near future. One prince had gotten her to such a state of misery that she finds the need to breathe.    

She’s been asking for a sign. The problem is she forgot what the sign would say; would it be a yes or a no. Nah, actually she remembers. And yes, she feels that to forget him and completely erase him off is, well, not so right. She had lunch with her friend right in front of the place where he was working. She felt weird, and all of a sudden she was to be his stalker? Well, she seems to be around when he was scheduled at a certain place. She did say she was not going to stop hearing him play.

Melinda

“I need to quote a poet,” Melinda tells Jose.

He smiles at her, “Neruda ciempre,” on the verge of some lightheartedness.

“It makes you cry and smile at the same time,” she replies.

“Andy Garcia’s voice?” he asks. She lets out the introduction to her laughters.

“I was accused of copying another beatnik author,” she tells him on a particularly cloudy day.

He smiles at her. “Please be stopped.” He knew these innuendos.

“I am forgetting his name at the moment. I haven’t read him yet.” Melinda looks at him with pleading eyes.

“You’ve been missing your lunches again,” he tells her, a way of reproaching her to perhaps sway her thoughts.

“It almost sounds like a Charlie,” she forces on. She had received a reply to her post that she was copying a famous author’s works. She was not to be bothered by careless comments. But she knew the possibilities, and she knowingly placed that thought as a reminder, filed with the list of things that interests her. And Rilke, she thought.

He could almost laugh at the prepared sympathies the world already held for him. He did not foresee that their perfection was as any other’s, in real time. Yes, it would matter to me. Yes, ultimately we succumb to time’s indifference, but I cannot just go forward in my mind a time without you. And she laughed and turned away. Somewhere down her scrolling posts and comments, she must have found something else amusing. “Pass me an energy bar, hon,” she asks her husband. Jose smiled and went over to pass his wife’s reaching hands a granola bar. There was no pleasure in eating anyway; make it at least healthy. She signaled for a glass, and he offered her a milk glass, which she took in measured gulps. She eats better when she’s happy. Oh, he knew that, but her sadness is so random to predict. Between a success story and a tragedy, she will let you tread as though one doesn’t differ much from the other.

A Slice of Pablo's Life

Pablo always had questions. He couldn't seem to run out of questions, as most other children. 

The ocean had always been his most priced treasure. But he never feared it being taken away, or stolen. Things were probably safest hidden in the oceans, yet people would rarely, if at all, think of doing so, hide things there, that is. 

It was another sunset, and he was in his last few minutes for the day at the beach. After school, he leaves his bag at home, changes out of his uniform, and off to the sea, without delay if possible. Sometimes his mother catches him and would often win him to snacks before going off to swim.

“Ina, you will cause me appendicitis,” he would complain in between mouthfuls of tuna and cheese sandwich. “Bring along some water too,” his mother would only reply. 

He sat down at the beach for a good thirty minutes, lying down after some time, looking at the clouds, the blue late-afternoon skies. I could fall asleep here, Pablo thought. But remembering he had to be out the water before the breeze started getting cold, he suddenly sat upright and bolted to the sea, leaving behind his water bottle and his old trusty black slippers, one a step behind the other. If you were watching him, even from beyond hearing distance, you would never miss his yelps of delight as he was racing toward the welcoming warm water.

From the sea, the beach looked peaceful. He was a good swimmer. Getting toast in the summer sun made sure of that. He was a good distance away. Good thing his mother didn't decide to follow him this time. 

He remembers he will have to leave, sometime, for college or something. His mother was constantly reminding him of this. But today he is still a child, floating on a quiet sea, staring at clouds, not a care in the world. 

Then the slow descent of the sun changed the colors of the sky, and the clouds gathered some oranges as well. He started for the shore. He’d be watching the sunset from the beach. 


His easel was almost done. He kept looking for it in his father’s studio. His father was into a new painting, and in between breaks, he assembles his son’s first painting table. He had taken measures of Pablo and was carefully putting up a little easel for him, fitted to his ten-year-old dimensions. 

Pablo had many days ahead painting a sunset by the beach. Of course, sunsets are never the same, but he’d at least have similar colors for weeks at a time. He’ll paint near the same spot his mother always takes when she’s doing sunsets. A tent was put up there for this. Sometimes they might paint together. He smiled. His mother’s sunset paintings were the loveliest, and now and then, somebody, tourists mostly, would buy her display, and she’d have to make one again.

“This one, I won’t sell. I’ve placed you all here, see.” His mother showed them a painting of two girls and a boy all huddled up, the three looking at something on the sand, which might have been washed ashore. 

Pablo smiled. It was the time they found a starfish on the beach. Sam had seen it first, since she always walks ahead of him and Wina. They had debated over what to do with the starfish for a good while, enough for their mother to take notice and walk over to them. 

“You can bring that home,” their mother assured them. Wina hesitated at first but eventually decided to bravely pick the little starfish up to examine it more closely, the undersides this time. 


“It’s dead,” Pablo said coolly. Wina tensed up a bit but still held on to the carcass anyway. 


“Let it dry in the sun first,” their mother said, then slowly went back toward her work. Wina followed and found a place near the tent to dry the starfish. 

To this day, that painting remains hanging on the main wall of the store in front of their house. Every time somebody asks for it, his mother refuses by showing another sunset painting and explaining the reason why she couldn't sell that one, and the buyer would only seem to gladly agree with her refusal and take the other painting, still as lovely anyway as any of his mother’s pictures.

When there were more grays in the sky than blues and oranges, he decided to head home. He picked up his water bottle, half drank, and put on his slippers and started to run toward the house, passing by the wooden side gate to the backyard to rinse off. His mother already laid out his towel and clothes in the little hut near the well pump. He picked out the towel and headed for the bathroom. There was enough water there in a big pail. He didn't need to fetch any more from the well. He then let his swimming clothes hang out to dry, ready for the next day, and headed for the hut to change to clean clothes. “Ina, where shall I leave the towel?” Pablo asked on his way in from the kitchen door. 


“Leave it to dry outside. It’s a warm night,” his mother replied. Pablo went out again and hung the towel near his clothes. 


His sisters were already focused on the television when he came in to the living room. On the big wooden center table, in the middle, laid the starfish they found that day, in the painting. Their father had taught them how to paint it with glossy varnish to preserve it and give it a shiny coat. Their father was lying down on the long couch watching the TV as well, the baby on top of him, silently observing his older siblings. Pablo took a seat on the floor beside his sisters and watched with them some show on a kids’ channel.

el hombre y el sol

Revolutions don't happen overnight. Well, of course, because that's only about half the earth's rotation--overnight, that is. And that's a hundred and eighty degrees. If I am to grow a third eye, I think I'd like for it to be at the back of my head. For what purpose would it serve if it's on my forehead. It's kinda seeing the same thing still now, is it not? Well, a vertical eye on my forehead, that's a little bit different there. Now that's a slit inappropriate for poking. It's kinda the thing between people in "playful wrestles." You don't grab the hair, you don't poke the eyes, and, especially, you don't kick the nuts. Well, unless the bastard really deserves it. Oh, yeah, I keep on forgetting I should come upon some semblance of sense with this blog, at least to mirror that of my contemporaries. I have to give justice to their companies--you know, in that my spending time with them should have brought me a semblance of "good."

Of course, I feel regret after getaways and getaways from my logic. It is the very reason why, sober, I hold on to it as much. We are still on the lines along my sanity and sobriety. Here, I am threatened by the thought of craziness because my now, I can't say entirely, sober state forces me into a form of self condemnation. Did I just elevate myself lower in this walk toward knowing?

Even I, have to say, that is beyond the point. Let us then return to the present topic at hand. The revolution and the sun. It is absurd to think it is the sun that moves. But they did use to think this way. Perhaps our errors today would seem as absurd come some time. Thus, it is my source of amusement, the looking for the absurd in my here and now. I shall then laugh with arrogance at whoever might read this posthumously and think of himself knowing better, or herself for that matter. There, sans the feminism, perhaps you shall notice I am no longer on my knees for equality. We are equal. Whether that works for you or not. Again, we are equal. I shall have your arrogance now as well, as much at the very least. Perhaps pleasure would not come with masochism anymore. Not that every time happiness strikes me, I will wait for the catch that comes afterward. No more of that now.

And yet again, I have wandered from my topic at hand, which is the sun. And the man. Oblivious to each other, the two sits in silence. It is only the man that feels the difference of the movement, even if it is he who sits on that which moves as such. The sun is just there, time not a thing known to it. Whatever time of day it is to us, for the sun existence is existence, no time being of a lesser or greater significance than any other time. I, personally, love sunsets. When I bought my shades, though, I did begin to have a tolerance for the sunrise. Of course, it matters. I used to have thoughts on perpetual nightness. I preferred artificial lights. Reality, though, changed my mind. The world is a good place, a beautiful place. And even my hypocrisy cannot corrupt it.

Thoughts of an Existentialist

I only realized I was actually an existentialist when after having a conversation with a prominent artist, I was told this—that I am the first of my kind he had come to know. I have forgotten what things I said to make him have such a conclusion aside from “hey, do you want to know my background? I’m a philosophy major slash an existentialist!” but considering he was of a great stature already, I can’t help but be convinced that maybe I really am one.

More than anything else, I, as an existentialist, live in the present. What happened before now are mere memories, what will happen tomorrow are plans if they are realistic, fantasies if they are not, and wishful thinking if they involve some form of romance. My mood swings from angst to gratefulness to sadness almost at random, but fortunately, more often than not, I am glad I exist. Suffice it to say that the only time I am sure of what I would feel is when the feeling is self-induced.

Before, every single moment of my waking life, the only things I have were questions—the typical “why are things are and why do they happen as they do.” Everything was about finding a purpose, a reason, all the blahs just so to assure myself that I am not just an empty shell, that I have—if I were, say, a book or a song—content. My telling this would already give you the idea that yeah, I have changed my mind yet again.

First off, I’ve been given life. Secondly, I then accepted it. There now my problems start with the third stage, what do I do with it? And yet again, I was given choices; there the problems escalate even more. Then soon it catches up on me, the fear that the moment I finally make a choice is when I’m in my deathbed already. So it is that I have decided to come original. Actually, since I am an existentialist, I am supposed to be an original character. Existence comes first, then poof! everything else comes following suit. So the point of all this? There is none. That’s what I do, I let my mind race until it comes upon a temporary conclusion, which could hold my sanity awhile. Then when I feel that I need new thoughts as the previous ones’ wonder have faded already, I then think some more, or not.

To balance the more-often-than-seldom tiring clockwork of my mind, I do sports. I run, I swim, I get a baseball bat and swing as hard as I could—I do these to lose consciousness of my thoughts. I am convinced that the human body has workings that is detached from the mind—not to mention as examples the brainwork and heartbeats that are involuntary. There is also one thing about sports that I like—this is not my phrase—“bragging rights.” Whether we accept it or not, bragging feels good. Winning feels good. And in sports, the winner can brag as much—in fact, the winner has to brag so the loser don’t feel so bad about his loss. The lack of complexity of this really appeals to me.

I heard a friend say something about writers/columnists having this certain air about them when they write. I agreed. They really do have this “read me and my opinions matter” attitude. I may have that too, or not. I could have “read me or not, I’ll live.” But that’s even worse. I think I prefer, “Got time to spare? Read me when you got nothing better to do than die.” I think that would be my writer’s motto.

If I am to continue on with this kind of arrogance, I see no wrong coming out of it. I would never know how the world really is like from another’s eye, not close to the things I could come upon using my own vision. No, I do not wish to deny another’s views; I only want to use my own as none but me could ever do so. Yeah, a form of a universal individuality—when everyone is an individualist, then that’s one thing we would all have in common.

I am glad and saddened at the same time at how the world has become, for me at least. It is a question to me, of great magnitude, how knowing more people could sometimes be a sad thing. I tend to forget a past love in exchange for a new greater love. Is there something wrong with that? Have I then become too swaying that I no longer can hold on to just one founded truth.

The year is about to end, and it is a fact that this year has been my best so far. And I know I would be saying that next year too. Is that wrong? Going on with life knowing that things aren’t in their best form now—that tomorrow would be better. This is optimism, and I am supposed to be hopeful, not disturbed with this knowledge. Yet, I am. But then again there is the aspect on reality and physical and pleasure stuff. If only my imaginations are not so vivid as to actually almost mimic reality. Yeah, sometimes knowing is enough for me already. The fear of becoming sad after euphoric experiences with things fleeting has made me opt for things more lasting.

This is one of the things I’m not good at—endings. Like conversations, I had a friend tell me before that “you don’t end conversations, you abandon it.” Maybe it can also apply to writing. But my being an existentialist makes creating endings a kind of practice for my own death. I am highly amazed with people who go through life knowing that death would be the only one meeting them in the end. At least with things like this, I know that I can always make another one. With life, well, maybe God also thinks, when I die, that “Well, I can always create another one,” without care for what I might be feeling after death. Alike me now, I end this, without caring; for these, anyway, are only thoughts, words.

(December 2006)

Emulsion

It had been raining the night before. Good thing it seems there’d be none left today.

“I told you it was going to rain,” she tells him, a grin spreading across her face. He only smiled at this. “A self-proclaimed weather girl.” She all of a sudden went serious and started to stare at the rain. He really could never understand her. “What? Did I upset you? I was just teasing . . .” She turned back to him and smiled. “Yeah, I know.” “Why the sad face? You love rain.”


The weather has always amused her. It seems when it’s raining she doesn’t need a reason to go out.

“What took you so long?” Her voice barely audible as the pouring began to gain force. He took a deep breath and sighed. “I don’t know.” She looked away again. She took a stick from her black cigarette case and tried to find amusement as the smoke tries to join the rain. He just looked at her, knowing more words would not help. He poured himself another shot of brandy and chased it down with Coke. “Where’d Mandy go?” he tried, hoping to divert her thoughts. “Went to get Ron.” “Can he not come here himself?” “I don’t know. Says he’s running a fever.” “Mandy deserves someone better.” “Don’t say that. You’re friends. And besides I don’t think she minds. She likes rain too.”

The traffic is the only thing she didn’t like at times like this. Everything seems to move in a much slower pace.

Five shots he was starting to feel himself warming. “How was your trip?” she asked, hesitantly. “It was great. I didn’t hear any complains.” He saw her let out an almost laugh, the kind which only lasts a second or two and only noticeable because her abdomen moved. He did the same. “Come on, let me in on the joke,” he pleaded, touching her elbow lightly. “Let it go. It won’t be the same if I explain it,” she said, smiling. As he was about to back down, she added, “So tell me, what didn’t you hear?” She was grinning again.

She notices the orange car to the left of the jeepney she was on. Already five minutes and they only moved fifty meters.

“Another month and we’ll have to get back,” he said, trying to start a real conversation. “Can I come?” She was beginning to have her lightness back. He only smiled. “What? Come on, tell me, can I?” Before he can even reply, she went on, “For a change, you know. After a while, you might get tired of your guys’ faces. You need variety. Come on, tell your girls to relax some.” He was still thinking on what to say . . . “I’ll buy you a beer each night, come on!” She was now facing him, locking his eyes to hers, one hand on each of his knees, shaking them lightly. “You serious?”

It begins to drizzle. She smiles.

His phone rang. Relieved, he excused himself.