Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Excuse the salad stains


Written on my desk, Phil. Lit. in English -- The past is only the future with the lights turned on. Turned on daw. Makes sense, I think to myself, taking the teensiest of breaks from multi-tasking: half-listening to a discussion of a poem by Alejandrino G. Hufana (damn my irreverence) and reading more of Wilfrido Nolledo's But for the Lovers on the sly.

"She is passionately shredding the coconut," says my profesor. Immediately (because my my mind works fast in things like these:) I imagine a woman in her prime, straddling a coconut-shredder, her floral skirt hiked up to mid-thigh, legs damp and glistening, every lithe surface separated from everything else, undulating, with each hard motion, each intense press and pull of niyog to the spiked circle.

In Nolledo, a few pages ago, Hidalgo de Anuncio, aged Spanish nobleman, tragic clown by profession, remembers the consummation of his marriage to one Mariya -- she with her self-mutilated vajayjay, gash traversing the planes and curves of her young body that she appears to be one giant gaping wound. He stabbed through her bandages and blisters, eliciting from that blessed pyre what could not have been ecstasy but exultation, not sex but sainthood, for she was joining not him but a gringo God . . . brutal, beatific. A beata from a brute . . . . says page 209 to 210.

So bury me in memory / his smile's your rope / so wrap it around your throat demands my desk.

You're just a sad song / with nothing to say pines Gerard Way in another deep cavern in my head.

I'm just a lonely ghost / burning down songs -- it comes back to me: yours truly making emo at a balcony in some hotel somewhere, listening to the disembodied vocalist of From Autumn to Ashes: glaring right back at the sea, watching mismatched (but who am I to say, really?) lovers canoodling under a tree, smiling at the sight of a passing bicycle (lolo is steering, lola is daintily perched between his arms, his legs).

"Go to sleep, Cinderella," said Hidalgo wryly. "For tomorrow we die."

DAMN! NAKA-LACE THONG!!! gushes my desk one last time, a large white arrow pointing to an absent, unsuspecting stranger once sitting in front of it.

I could leave my own mark, immortalize my own schmaltz in the form of shamelessly horrid pseudo-poetry (until the next repainting) on the wooden surface, or I could just rather make people think, swoon, perhaps, saya aww -- I could quote Billy Collins: "Excuse the salad stains, but I'm in love."

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Monday, January 14, 2008

The little spies


Family update: Baby cousin Ashley spent her second birthday dressed in a lilac gown, in the arms of Jollibee -- who "accidentally" let one gloved hand wander momentarily to my flat behind. I could have touched his ass, but I doubt he would feel it.

Spent Sunday with my family (yes, I have one) -- Mom and I running around Festival Mall looking for shoes and secondhand books, the boys in tow, grumbling, holding our bags. John Vincent's average is above 90, Gabriel Joshua needs Chapters 4 and 5 of his thesis and my father thinks brown looks good on him.

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Writerly update: Woke up at three this morning to the sound of my calves shrieking in pain. Must've been all that traipsing around the Metro last night. Opened my laptop, admired a shiny new gadget attached to it like a cyst (thanks to my mother for filching a Flash Drive for me), then started hammering away at the keys. End result, one odd sunrise later, is A Knock on the Door, four pages (uncharacteristically short for me, sufferer of Acute Literary Elephantiasis) of my first ever completed short story of the year. YEEEY!

Which means my ever-pending Red Earth has been whining repeatedly and continuously due to neglect. One damn scene refuses to be written. Tadyakan na 'to.

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Friend-ic (what's a modifier for friend?) update: Blockmates and I had an inuman thing at Aila's pretty fly pad -- we watched Rent for the umpteenth time, ate Nikay's pesto, and urged Sandelicious to go on. I also watched people fall off like flies, succumbing to sleep. At which point, I opened the windows to scream random adulations to slumberous Loyola Heights.

I missed you crazy peoples!

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Voices in My Head update: I need to get into that My Chemical Romance concert. Angst na kung angst. Sarj and I shall be in it together, and my emo prowess, combined with her innate ability to spread terror and horror to the ends of the earth shall make Mikey and Gerard Way to fall on their knees in front of our Chuck Taylors.

Oh, and Paramore's Crush Crush Crush is stuck in my head.

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Friday, January 11, 2008

Sick advice


I have kept my silence for far too long, that Sarj as even asked me whether a sinturon ni Hudas blasted my arm off during the New Year celebration. Now, for someone who's blubberingly terrified of holding a kuwitis, someone who spent months mustering enough courage to use a freaking lighter without flinching, that wasn't happening. I spent my New Year's Eve eating molo and letting my rubber froggie do all the noise for me, thank you very much.

Now. It's about two weeks into the Year of the Rat and yes, I am resurrecting my potato-mouse doodles as we speak (all hail the implied nose) -- and I haven't done anything remotely productive except trudge through NVM Gonzales's A Season of Grace.

So I haven't been amputated, I haven't decided to live like a hermit in an underwater cave in the middle of nowhere, I haven't flied out to Latin America to get a tango-strutting lover with too much chest hair. Too bad for you, I'm back.

(Oh my gooood -- MYX is playing that music video of Regine Velasquez and gasp! David Hasselhoff and it's squeee! in a decidedly horrified manner.)

An update on my life: I spent the first week of 2008 with a fever that hit just before school started. Sucks. I won't go into the gory details, it was an infection or virus thingie watchamacallit whatever but let it be said that it was a kind of fever that made your teeth shiver in pain. I learned some stuff, though, in those days (thankfully long gone) that I shall carry with me through the rest of my days:

1 - Do NOT watch House while sick. You'll come up with all sorts of highfalutin, incredibly lethal-sounding names for a sneeze.

2 - Put that cigarette down. It ain't a good idea.

3 - It is highly probable you're going to throw that salad back up, so don't even bother. And yeah, it's still gonna come out green.

Anyways, am better now, traipsing the Metro, playing Sims and Hellgate, defragging my laptop and whatnot. I'm back, I'm still as noisy as ever. Bring it on, 2008!

Take your Vitamin C! :)

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