I had a beer and now you're here

Must go back to oc-oc methods and make checklists written on glow-in-the-dark Post-it notes. Gah. See how school is an institution catering to the degeneration of society in general? Papers, philosophizerors, Theo, History with Ambeth Ocampo and a rather dominatrix-librarian-esque Miss Bradley Ramoso. Nonfiction with a slick/sleek Karla Delgado, Fiction with the non-Ma'am Suchen.

I'm going nuts, I tell you. And this is what? The second week of the school year? Third?

Ewan.

ID slip's still missing. Which means I'll have to go one fielding security guards trained in ninja school, swooping as they do from behind 4-inch-thick metal poles with all the demonic hatred ADSA and bureaucracy has to offer.

And my scholar service card thingumie's gone as well. Ayos. (PSBA, here I come.)


*


In more relevant news (that is, news you'd actually give a fig about), Chris Benoit strangled his wife Nancy on Friday night, his kid Daniel on Saturday, then hanged himself in his basement weights room last Sunday.

Some blame it on steroid rage.

Damn it, another wrestler to cry over while listening to terrible power ballads. Oh, the agony of being left behind.

One mile to every inch

Met Pancho, Propesor Joel and Kristian in Seattle's Best. When I got there, Kristian was fiddling with another book of another dead Chinese guy, Joel was fiddling with a Moleskine (ooh, pretty) and Pancho was fiddling with a cup of coffee that suspiciously resembled sewage.

We were outside, underneath a big red umbrella, Baby Back Ribs announcements behind us. (I have rather fond memories of that space. Hello, Sarj? Remember?)

Minutes later, they were off to worlds of their own, with the words bleached, wrist, splendor, dipping, sinister and soon in accompaniment. I sat in my corner, stealing Pancho's coffee, and thought about a short story that didn't want to be thought about.

More minutes later, I got up, went inside, and came back out with four glasses of water.

Three poets looked up, all sorts of havoc in their eyes. Not to mention that carelessly, seemingly contrived disarray their hair arranges itself into.

I shrugged. "This is why all ye poet types need a sane fictionist to keep you grounded. Or keep you alive."

They drank the water. Maybe out of courtesy. Maybe to remove the taste of reality from their mouths.

Later later, three poems were born, with various degrees of agony.

"That's a love poem!" said Joel, lighting a cigarette.

"Gago, hindi," retorted Pancho with signature pa-cute scowl.

Kristian giggled, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.

Later later later, more insanity. Sheng Banzon had risen from the crypt of family accounts, cross-region drives and self-induced isolation and honored us with her esteemed company.

(*cough*)

Joel left, pirated DVDs in tow. "I need to talk to my student," he said in parting.

"Matutulog lang yun," said Pancho.

Later later uli, once the ribbing started and died and started again, Sheng said, "Isaw?"

The heavens unfastened, like Neruda said.


*


Isaw sa UP. Kristian drove a La Sallista car. Sheng had cool shortcut moves plus profanities yelled within her mother's car, borrowed for the day. Walang aircon si Pancho.

Isaw sa UP.

Kristian left. Walk away, man. That's it, walk away.

Sheng rubbed her tongue between her two front teeth as she said, quite declaratively, "Beer."


*


Beer with Sir Butch Dalisay. I was still nursing the 1/12 that I drank two hours before as we waited for him, the almost-full bottle squatting dejectedly in front of me. Sir Butch had ordered his fifth San Mig light. Pancho was gesticulating. Sheng's brother was stranded in Filinvest.

And then it started raining.

And then we all went home...

...where I spent most of the night looking up peculiar words like pule in Encarta.





PS
Abrupt ending, I know. But I have (ick) class tomorrow, so toodle-loo.

Sometimes I forget

1
Bored and procrastinating. Internetzing in between lethal Mentos breaks / poetry-fiction dilemmas. So I found this in the ljsecret archives. Wala siyang koneksyon sa buhay ko pero it's purdy, hehe.



Me likey. Emo postcard, woo!

Ugh, sorry to the more intellectual (saner, actually) of my readers, however few in number you may be. (Hehe.) Kulang sa tulog, kape at pera.


2
I lost my tuition receipt and my ID claim slip thing. Help, please? How do I get my new ID now?


3
Uh, who wants a SCI10 book? Kahit 100 lang, masaya nako. If you beg, I could hand it over with a purdy ribbon on top. I just (*sharp indrawn breath*) never want to see it again! (*wrist to forehead action*)


4
"You make me feel all warm and gooey inside."
Blink blink. "Uh, thanks?"


5
I am stuck in a freaking (but ohsobeautiful) cliche! And I can't stop writing about it. But then, I actually can't write about that because it's just one gigantinormous cheesewax! Katay to sa workshop, hehe. GAAAAH.


6
I should really go to sleep now. I have errands to run tomorrow (later), finish reading (fucking) Proust, then make a paper of my own, mirroring what he wrote. Not that you guys care, of course.

I'm starting to hallucinate Carebears on a stripper pole. Yikes.

Good morning, ladies, gentlemen, and goats.

Give me something to believe in

I'm happy, though. Idiotically happy. The kind of happy a stranger would not be able to resist bludgeoning on sight on a street somewhere.

Still in summer mode, apparently. Treating my classes as infomercials in between the main event, which is really just a screwed up internal clock, and long long long, eminently enjoyable afternoons glued to bed with my sweat. And chocolate at arm's reach. And lethal Mentoses.

I am so happy, I tell Person in between bites of homemade calamari, it's really starting to annoy me.

Person just scoffs and shovels a spoonful of rice down his throat.

Sabi mo eh.

*

Proust is giving me a freaking headache. And so are The People of God and A Theological Anthropology.

Paano pa kaya kung pumasok ako sa Philo? Putchinboots, patayan na 'to!

And it really makes me wonder

I refuse to call it writer's block.

Maybe it's too soon, way too soon, I don't know. Gah. The cursor's doing that annoying blinky thing again. There are ideas in my head, all whirring and whizzing, but they get easily dismissed as soon as they whir and whiz by. Too sexy, too idiotic, too schmaltzy, too inane, too surreal, too happy, too la bohemia.

Christ.

But the words do come. I am actually writing. Just... not in my genre. My major, may I remind everyone?

Scoff, scoff. Sasha the poet. What next? Astrosphysicist? SuperHero In Training (S*H*I*T)? Nuclear moleculobiocomburgeonery... ist?

Don't resist it, said one poet over his seventh beer. Don't fight the transition.

I'm not fighting it. I just don't want to lose what I came from.



PS
Happy Father's Day to all the daddies out there. Especially mine. Labs, labs!

Same same

Shleepy. I'm hunger.

Under my um-buh-rella

NOT THAT YOU CARE but to all my dear stalkers, today was my first day of junior year. Blah. Warhgbe vjk jbebl.

Snored through Philo, while still ensconced in my bed. (Thanks, though, to a certain well-meaning personage-ment, who bothered to wake me up through several phone calls, knowing I shall not wake up without his wake-up-calls, knowing I still won't wake up because of 'em. It's the thought that counts naman.) So if anyone knoes anyone who's taking Philo 101 with Lagliva, puh-leash tell me kung may assignment for Tuesday. :)

Theo with Asis. I was so afraid it wouldn't end.

Lunch break. Reunited with Buffalo Chicken, yung sa Caf-up. As disgustingly orange as ever. Yum.

Then other things.

Late for my 3 o'clock class. Caught 5 minutes of it. (Our professor's name is Ambeth -- yes that Ambeth -- and the teaching assistant's Bradley. He's a he, she's a she. And she's cute. Ahem.)

Then claustrophobic Fiction workshop with Suchen Lim. Happy days. Ang dami lang tao.

Speaking of tao (or non-tao): To all the freshies in Arneow, please don't stand around, in the middle of the bleeping doorway/hallway/street looking stupid because, darlings, you can do that cowering in a corner somewhere. Got that, kids?

*

I don't know but I felt different, walking through school today. Maybe kulang lang ako sa tulog. Nasobrahan sa kapeng lasang mais. Na-Renga yata utak ko.

Talked to someone about this and The Wise One just nodded sagely, saying, You should (in his God voice).

Ewan. Stop the philosophical psychic ephemeral extirpating ek-ek. Utak ko. Alas dose y media na, Elisha. Matulog ka na!

...

Okay.

The way lightning demands

June 13 evening, June 12 early mornin'

Inuman daw. Ako naman si sige. Woo. Parang walang pasok kinabukasan. Ayos.

Cantina muna, met Martin and Khaye and a purdy Lauren with her purdy dress. Then, we transplanted ourselves to Que Rico's because someone (coughPanchocough) couldn't handle the tsugsh-tsugsh rave-ish, mindless, likeohmygah-ness of it all. Sa bagay.

So. Que Rico's. Gigantinormous picture window with a view of the Marikina skyline, lightning creepy-crawling through clouds (minsan, it seems like the heavens would let out a fart -- just a flash of light, no visible currents, utot), the walk-able roof. Soundtrack namin, songs from beyond my grandparents' time. Songs na, siyempre, alam nila Ingkong Joel at Pancho. May interpretation pa. Wasak!

Ahem.

So, Joel, Pancho, Martin, Khaye, Lope, Yanna (I hope I spelled yer name right :p), John, Khavn, Lauren and li'l ol' me were drinking the night away (me with mineral water), na wari'y wala akong klase sa pilosopiya pagkaraan ng ilang oras.

Anyhoo. Productive naman po, ladies and gents. Renga!


Constellation of Life Unfolding

There are other stars to confess your name to,
other diaries that know your handwriting.
A breath on the page, like a shattered
constellation that lingers still. Flashes
scattered on one night sky, passages lost
between the crevices of memory, light
or its absence, nebulous metaphors
cooling at the tip of the tongue, spaces
between lines that your eyes fill
the way lightning demands the clouds
to let it through and us, to look at it.
Bottles flashes of life collapsing
in arrangement.



Me likey. :) Ayos ba? Yanna, Joel, Sasha, Pancho, Khaye and Lope. Amen.




PS
Christ, it's 2:07 in the freaking morning -- why the hell am I still Miss Perky McPerkins? UGH.

Hotter than your swollen lips

If This Were Not Love
by Sid Gomez Hildawa

If this were not love,
I wouldn’t kiss you.
My head would turn
the instant your head
would rise to meet
mine, allowing
our cheeks to console
each other as I distract
you with a tight
embrace. My fingers
would comb your hair
the way mangrove
roots sift through mud
to anchor at the swampy
edge of the bay, extending
the land but not
sailing away. My legs
would entwine around
your legs, with my feet
locked on to yours, as though
we were one immortal
creature with many arms
and many legs, but with many
hearts as well. And my body
will rub against your
body, like millstone
to the mill, skin
on smooth skin, grinding
watered grains
into milk, but only
for spilling.

I wouldn’t kiss you
If this were not love.

Artwork: "The Kiss" by Gustav Klimt

But it don't matter no

On my fire exit with my lethal Mentoses. Not really waiting. Just looking at telephone wires dividing today's sparse clouds, biding my time until books are cleared from shelves, unused tampons chucked to the garbage bin, the hairbrush plucked from the passenger seat. I've recharged my Patience Meter yesterday, thanks to some leftover adobo.

*

I have this terrific urge to leap down from this height to buy a flag from the lady in red. Happy Independence Day (tomorrow), kiddos.

*

Must write a story with no moon, no cigarettes, no alcohol of any kind, and no sex. Oh, my.

*

I miss Sir Sawi, haha.

By saying something stupid

I'm not waiting anymore, not really. Have taken a page from Captain Jack's book and sit my lazy ass on whatever surface that can carry my weight and just wave at all ye fuckers as you waddle by.

Ahem.

An ironic kind of happiness: I didn't need to play the Assumption Card.

And so it is

Random brainfarts:

1) I think I want to take Poetry as my second genre.

2) There is a click when something fits.

3) Bakit hindi pa dumarating ang laundry?

4) Nikay once wrote, "I do not want a Ted Hughes."

5) Humanity nga naman. Galing niyo po!

6) Meet R2big2. :)

Sleepwalking

I shall have to ask a question before we end, begin, once again. Images smolder. Solids. A tumble of rings held lofty by a leather string. Patchwork carpet. Dead cockroach. The smell of adobo, of Ivory. Of Pond's, of ginisang kangkong. The constant dawn / twilight. Is this insomnia, or am I just waiting, still? I am going to get tired of waiting, I tell you, of a stillness that is different from the stillness of dew. Am I trying to write a transcendental poem, or am I already failing? Let's leave these things to Dalao, shall we?

PS
Thanks, ZoeDee.

The ends of the world

Waiting as usual for SC to move his cheesy bum and do something to ease the madness of waiting. Chewing on my bottom lip here, my left leg involuntarily shaking, shaking, then still, then shaking again. I could always blame it on boredom but then, I've already told you I am bordering on insane, I of the not-so-patient ilk of fast-walkers and watusi mouths.

Parked in front of my laptop, having abandoned the poem whose essence (ah that trivial, flighty being) simply could not be tamed, I decided to give in to my masochistic tendencies and look up a certain Backless Beauty whose screeches and nonsensical parodies of Poetry have haunted me many a night. I do not know the why of it; I simply felt compelled to write her damnable name beside the Google icon.

Her words, her hatred of Chopin (and her subsequent meal out of him), her pictures, all branded into my head, incisions an inch or so thick, gaaahd, the horror, the horror, the hor-fucking-ror!

Oh, weep. Weep, weep, weep.

And Sarj tells me she's coming out with a book.

...

That's it. Patayan na 'to.

The writing's on the wall

Schedule, children:

Tuesday / Thursday
09:00 - 10:30 --> Philo with Lagliva
10:30 - 12:00 --> Theo with Asis
12:00 - 03:00 --> Break
03:00 - 04:30 --> Histo with Ocampo
04:30 - 07:30 --> Nonfic Seminar / Fiction Wshop

Teka. Parang tunaw yung utak ko sa umaga ha.

Di bale. Limang araw naman akong magtsa-charge. :)

Leave this city behind you

"Happy?"

Through a mouthful of crispy fried bangus and itty-bitty buttered shrimp, I say, "Yes." I could smile, but I haven't gotten the shrimp head from between my front teeth yet.

*

I have been dreaming about this ever since I was a little girl, ever since my first Friday out of kindergarten -- I ran my paint-stained hands through my short curls and whined, "I wish weekends were weekdays and weekdays were weekends."

Wish come true. This semester, I've only got two days of classes, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Got Lagliva for Philo, Asis for Theo, Ocampo for Histo, Delgado for Nonfic Seminar and TBA for the Fiction Workshop.

Didn't even think about who my teachers were, their reputations. Prioritized scheduling convenience over my mortality.

This semester was made for lazy&rabid loving, writing and more lazing. Fuck school. Haha.

*

Poem's read.

"Thank you."

Defensive agad si gaga: "Hindi para sa'yo 'to!"

Ten minutes later: "Aware ka ba na love poem yung sinulat mo?"

Blink blink. "It's a death and sex poem."

*

Public Service Announcement:
May inuman sa bahay ni Zoe sa Monday, June 11. Sama-sama tayong mag-wasakan bago magpakalunod sa semestreng puno ng pagsusulat, pilosopiya at teolohiya. (Yak.) Magdala kayo ng serbesa dahil ako'y kasalukuyang walang pera. Magsuportahan tayong mga makata -- magpainom at magpakain ng kapwa manunulat. I-drayb niyo na rin ako papunta dun.

Konyong bersiyon:
Like, there's gonna be, like, a drinking thaaang at Zoe's pad on Mondaaahy. Bring beer cuz I'm like, ew, poor. Let's, like, do this before, like, the fuckeeeng semester staaahrts.

The light of hidden flowers

Everyone is poem-ing at the mouth.

Okay. Lame.

Last night, went to Mag:net Katips (just around the, like, kanto, you know -- UGH), where I:

- had highly mental sexy time (and footsies!) with MaMia Tijam and her yum-yum short dress and the ever-present puppies,

- philosophized about the freaking space alloted for birds with one transcendental druggie poet, Kristian A-be,

- shot sugar with Martin while I tried not to drool at Los Chupacabras,

- tried to molest a highly resistant (bakit kaya?) LaLa Verne,

- worried with Pancho over Astroboy having a cold, Rodrigo his pet elf and a name not written,

- met a Miss Fuschia-is-My-Real-Name-Peachy ("Can I call you Red na lang?") who tried to convince me to take David for Philo,

- finally met Mikael Co who plays a meano guitar,

- finally met Joel Toledo of Pancho-lore and The Same Old Figurative poem-crushness,

- dumped RumCoke in my coffee mug to try to better appreciate the workings of the last performance poetry piece,

- stumbled into my dorm at 1 AM, despite a herd of poets and pseudo-poets (like metawhores) that lured, despite two cups of brewed coffee, despite wanting so very much to spend more more more time with those poor fellows, those who came, these people I miiiiiss like 20-peso quesadilla.

- ay, yeah, listened to poetry, with blender sounds and an Australian teacup-h as accompaniment.

Lovely night, all in all.

* Sheng Banzon, pare, miss na talaga kita. Pa-kiss when I see you ha?

Let's do that again, shall we? But with less bullshit, a roomier bar, cheaper beer and the absence of torn pages on floorboards.

And a Sasha who's had at least ten hours of sleep prior to the event. And who doesn't use the third person to refer to herself.

*

I'm talking about everything and anything but this. --
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand
so intimate that when you fall asleep it is my eyes that close