Fight the fire that's in your hand

1
A few months ago, when it seemed like everyone around me was getting their congratulatory Palanca letters, I went back to my dark corner and banged away at my laptop, trying to shoo away the hurt and, yes, the outrage of missing out on all the excitement. (Call me childish, fuck you, haha.) Beside the sincere happiness for friends, and yes, pride (in Marie's case, oh god, you make me want to cry, I love you, I am unexplainably proud of you, sweetie!), there was resignation, yes, that I should yet again be content with living vicariously, and yes, damn it, the confirmation of the goddamned fact that the world doesn't owe me anything, none at all. And so I banged away, banged away at the laptop, came up with a story, then another, coming up for air to drink with friends, to get some hugs and awkwardly given pep talks.

But what nagged me, damn it, what was stuck in my goddamned craw was my mother. I wanted to give her something tangible, damn it, something that could make her incredibly proud of me, more proud of me than she'd ever been. I wanted to give her the honor of walking on Palanca-winner-dust-spattered carpets of some hotel, in shoes we'd bought specifically for the occasion. I wanted to go up on a stage (or whatever it is) and grin at her while I hold a medal, and the, hehe, the check. I wanted to give her a hug, what medal there was between our sternums (it's her fault I'm flat-chested), cool at first, then warming to the skin beneath our dresses. I wanted to tell her, "Mom, I won a Palanca. Apir!" But I didn't. And I couldn't do all that, not this year, no.

I sent her a message, a couple of days after all the winners of the category I'd joined in had surfaced: "Mom, I wish I could tell you that I won a Palanca, and that it was for you. But I didn't. Sorry."

And she replied with, "Oh love, that doesn't matter, and yes, this is cliched, but there's always next year. You will always make me proud, Palancas don't matter, not really. Know what? Just give me your diploma, and I'll be the happiest mother in the world."

And I cried, and I couldn't send her a reply, because I was too preoccupied, bawling with my face buried in the nearest welcoming chest, which smelled of wood chips, soap, High Endurance, a good night's sleep, a hell of a good morning, and that moment when you sit down with the clothes that have dried on the clothesline and you just need to smooth the creases with your chafed palms.

"What's wrong?" he asked, and I showed him my phone, and he kissed the top of my head, and he said, "Awww." And then I punched him on the stomach, and he laughed, and I knew exactly what he meant.


2
The first time a certain award-winning, highly esteemed poet (buwahaha) made me cry (yes, this wasn't a one-time thing), he made a shot at my mother. This was at the heels of him saying my mother was hot. (Men are weird that way.) And then a few seconds later, he said, in not so many words, and I do not quote (so italics na lang): Your mother, she is bad, yes.

See, I had launched into the inner workings of my family, of how my brother and I sneak out at the dead of the night to share some Lethal Mentoses, of how my mother always let us go our own ways, make our own choices, but never letting us forget that the family was always there for us. All that mushy stuff that I couldn't really verbalize, and so I just gave examples. Poor ones, apparently, because then Mr. Poet said something, implying my mother was a bad mother, and before I could reach for the nearest beer bottle and rid the world of a great literary man-dude, the glare I'd directed at him had turned wobbly, and before I knew it, I was trying to stoically stare at my shoes instead, and damn it, I was crying. Gah, guerilla-girl tactics, crying, yech. Conscience-ridden me, fuck it, decided I'd have more satisfaction fantasizing his death by molasses and fire ants, rather than me doing it myself with any blunt object, or my elbow (which is also considered a blunt object anyway).

Mr. Poet apologized, and I think he knew he should never tread on that plane again, because I may have cried that one time, but the next time it should ever happen, I will draw blood. Promise. Reminds me of the time when my principal kept hinting that I was the spawn of damned people, and my head was abuzz with, One word about my mother, you hag, and your face will blend in to that blackboard behind you not too nicely.

Mr. Poet said, "Oh, don't cry na, Sasha, sorry. I said your mom was hot naman, di ba?" Orayt.


3
My mother wrote me a letter a year ago, for an Ethical Will project for a Nonfiction seminar. And this is what I wrote for that project, or tried to write (yes, my nonfiction sucks ass):

The night before this paper was due, my mother sent me a text message: “I have emailed the values. Please insert where you see fit – Never lose your sense of humor and your belief in the wonders of one-liners. Approach life with passion not timidly and safely. Do not be afraid to get hurt but be afraid if it does not make you stronger.”

Reading the message aglow on my screen, I was struck with some sort of trepidation. My mother has never been the sort of person to give out Hallmark cards during birthdays. She’s never been the type of mother who baked cookies on weekends or demanded hugs and kisses as she came home from work. My mother is an abysmal cook. Maybe because it’s inevitable that she be compared to my father, who does all the cooking, and with good food, at that. Over the years, my mother’s repertoire has changed little: sushi, salsa, chili, tacos, penne with seafood sauce and molo. The one time she baked some brownies for us, they came out rock-hard and she was forever banned from approaching the oven by a two-meter radius – banned by me.

She’d not the type of mother who would ask you aside and talk to you about your life, begging for some tidbits about boys, school, boys and more boys. She doesn’t ask, “How are you feeling, dear?” as she tucks a wayward curl behind my ear. My mother asks, “How’s school?” And I would mumble the token, “Okay naman,” all the while, not-so-surreptitiously making a beeline for the exit. When given a more honest answer like, “I’m miserable. I hate school,” she asks, “Why? What’s wrong?” and we’d get to the bottom of it, but not without making some U-turns and detours here and there, talking about the latest The Simpsons episode, or some favorite wrestler, fencing all the while with one-liners from TV, mostly cartoons. An inquiry about my location would be a paraphrase from Dexter’s Laboratory, complete with mangled accents:

“Sasha, where are you?”

“Right here.”

“Where here?”

“Here here.”

“I don’t see you . . .”

With the last line being said together: “Uh-oh, I think Dee Dee’s become the caaar!”

Completely inane, as you can see.

The mushy words that linger between us like secret farts have all been uttered under duress, complete with squirming and really awkward laughter. Happy Birthday? Hug. Happy New Year? Hug. Merry Christmas? A hug, plus a kiss if she gave me something really pretty.

My mother shows her love in a markedly different way from all the “normal” mothers out there. (Yes, all of us, including her, admit that my mom is abnormal and weird.) She does it matter-of-factly and in this way, she manages to surprise me. Like before college, she asked me if I wanted to be a writer. When I said yes, she asked me to shift into this course. When I thought about applying for a writers’ workshop, she told me to go through with it, only if I wanted to. I did, and she let me. Of course, she listened, patiently, as I told her of my irrational fear of flying – mainly because I haven’t done it before. She listened and told me, “Come on,” with her signature smirk.

But I know that I can tell her anything because I know I will be heard as an adult. And she has a way of putting things into perspective for me. When I lost a phone, I fretted and cried and she said, “It’s only a phone. Sayang, sure, but we love you more than that.” And she was hugging me. When I sunk into episodes of depression, she’d call me everyday, saying as little as possible, and our small talk slowly pulled me out of my funks.

No, my mother is not the conventional mother of fragrant kitchens and spotless aprons. My mother is the mother who laughs at cartoons with us, the one who goes with me to spelunk for books in second-hand bookstores, the one who squirms at a hug, the one who occasionally slips and calls us “love” once in a while.

The following is a letter from her to me. Reading it at such an opportune time once again put things in perspective for me. These tidbits from my mother are things I am grateful to receive, and something that I hope I will carry with me, as Hallmark as that may sound.

*

Dear Daughter,

In terms of material wealth, there is not much, if none at all that your father and I can bequeath to you. It saddens me personally as I have made it my vow that my children will never experience how it feels not to have money in the pocket, to have to ask a parent and have her give you a litany of how hard life is, that money does not grow on trees, blah, blah and more blah. I have made my needs of the least priority if my children have urgent needs of their own. Perhaps this has made me a push-over. This is of no consequence, however, as long as they will know the feeling of belonging. My life is governed by past rejections that my perspective has been warped by what not to do. The values that I wanted to impart to my children are based on everything that is opposite to my personal experiences and my hurts yet with the attempt to intersperse it with the sense of right and wrong. My upbringing was one that is sheltered because of my mother who for selfish reasons did not allow me to go out anywhere not even for a Girl Scout jamboree. With you and your brothers, I took the other route and allowed you to mingle with your peers, to join activities and thus expose you to different environments, opportunities, scenarios, judgments which I am hoping will translate to future intelligent decisions based on actual knowledge and experience rather than vicarious learning.

Along the way, I try to guide by example hoping that my actions will be passed on and lived by my daughter and sons. I am aiming for financial stability and independence. To achieve this, it should be done through hard work and self-reliance. Each task is important on its own and there is no job too small or too big that it cannot be done the best possible way it can be done. Everyone should be treated with fairness and respect. Prejudice or bias does not have a place in this family. Always carry with you a sense of honor. Hold yourself liable to your commitments and meet them whenever possible and always try to make everything possible. Let no one belittle you not even yourself. Brand and luxury is not a priority. Comfort is. Make this your mantra – form and substance, substance and form. Do not approach anything armed with only one. Always take them together. Set your immediate objectives, however selfish they may be. However, this should only be at the start. Your objectives must always end with plans to pay forward, to give back what you have been blessed with through hard work. Stay practical. Never let your heart rule your mind. Focus on your objectives. Keep your eyes on the prize and do not deviate. There is always the right time and place. Analyze all actions with pros and cons. There is no fate. There is no destiny. Your future is set by the choices that you make. Do not over analyze either that you will never act. Your first instinct is usually always right. Be forthright. Do not hide behind lies and half-lies and as the UP people say, the truth will set you free. Face up to your decisions. Do not fret and try to anticipate other people’s reactions and, more importantly, do not dwell on their reactions. However, if you decide on something, you should be able to prove yourself right.

Your father cannot stress enough the importance of family. Between him and me, he is the one who has heart. He’s Homer. I am no Marge, sadly. What I am is a mother who wants to see all her children happy, content, leading useful and productive lives and who watches out for each other. The success of one is the success of the other. I am not talking of dole-outs. I am talking of time and effort and follow through to make each one’s life meaningful. All I can give right now is unconditional love, free of judgment but filled with action plans and guidance. And hugs. Yes, really.

I love you, Elisha. I say that with implicit fact rather than sweet sentimentality. Chill.

Always,
Mami (I am your)



4
I cry easily. A compliment, a spontaneous hug, an e-mail, that Globe commercial when there's a man in a wheelchair and there's a woman fussing over him and he sends her a text message and the woman looks up and smiles at him really soft-like. I cry easily, and even though I'll probably lynched by the gliterry literary world, I mean every tear when I mean every tear. Seeing my name in print, for example, or on a bulletin board along EDSA walk, those kinds of tears. And then my mother, who's caught me off-guard more times than I care to count.

I remember when my Pollyanna essay, Everybody Has a Story appeared in the Youngblood column and I called her while she was in the office, and when she came home, she had eight copies of the newspaper and a tub of strawberry ice cream, and she told me, laughing, how she'd knocked on the metal door of every closing sari-sari store just to get the copies. I remember, when I got accepted in Ateneo for AB European Studies, she told me to write a letter to the administration, asking to be shifted to BFA Creative Writing, because that's what I really want, wasn't it? And I remember, after a class with Sir Krip, when my short story The Return was discussed, and he'd told me during consultation, "I can't teach you anything else. You're a writer." And I called my mom, and we did some mutual giggling. I remember when that story got published in Free Press, and it was my mother I called first, and she kept saying Wow, and she kept saying, You're first short story published, in Free Press. Oh god, that's a big thing, right? and I remember how I stayed on the line as she Googled what Free Press was, and what it could mean. I remember that a year ago, in Calatagan, Martin sent me a text message, congratulating me on some good writerly news. And I ran to the nearest Internet shop (hard to do, in Calatagan, hello), and before I could think of the damage to my ridiculously unhealthy body, I ran to my mother, who was curled up in the bunk bed reading Byatt, and I said, "Mom. I got in. Dumaguete." I remember how she helped me pack, making a table of what I should be wearing for the day, and how we both forgot to pack some underwear, and so all my bras and panties were stuffed at what available nook and cranny there was. I remember her calling me up right after my first story was discussed, and I told her everything they said, and then I called her after my second story was discussed, I remember this phone call happened while everyone was in a Dance Tribute, and I was weaving my way in and out of the lawn, trying to keep my voice low. I remember when I came back, and my eyes were glazed, and we were in a cafe in Quezon, and she ordered some coffee, and she said, "You want to talk about it?" And I said, "I can't." And she said, "Ew, I don't think I want to know then." I remember when another story was published, and she laughed, and said, "Good job, love." I remember when Sarge Lacuesta sent me a (suspicious-looking, haha) email, informing me that The Return was a finalist in this year's Free Press Awards, and I'd stared, dumbfounded, at the computer screen, and then it was my mother I first thought of, and I sent her a message (short on load), and she replied with, and I quote, "WOOHOO." And then she called me and squealed, and said, "WOOHOO" again. I remember sending manic messages to her during the ceremony, telling her I had to go to the bathroom real bad, screw everything, and her telling me to Calm down. Apparently, B. loses her hair when she's stressed, and you lose your bowels. And I remember I texted her, "Didn't get anything, save for a box of matches. I'm off to get drunk." And I remember she replied with, "Okay. But not too drunk. You've got class tomorrow." I remember when I saw my name on the Heights bulletin board, telling me I was a fellow, and I remember I told her first. I remember the morning of the workshop, and she sent me a message, "Have fun. Chin up when criticism goes your way. Don't let your head grow big with whatever praise they give you." And I remember coming down from Antipolo, having lunch with her, and we both didn't have to say anything. I remember when Marra Lanot of Graphic told me This Fleet of Shadows would be published soon, and I remember my mother telling me, "You never cease to amaze me." I remember when I got the Heights issue came out, and I told her I had two stories there, and she said, "Yay, love. You never cease to amaze me, kid." And I remember her telling me, after reading Quick, the Tomatoes, "You never cease to amaze me. Can you really smoke aphids out?" And I remember I cried because of that, but I replied that yes, you really can smoke aphids out. I remember, just last night, telling her, "Mom, oh my god, the story in Graphic is out! Page 42! And Sir Krip's column, buwahahaha!" And she replied with, "Ah, wonderful. Congratulations! Where can I get a copy?" And I remember, how, just this morning, I told her how a professor had told me, "This girl can write," over that overly dramatic story of mine about the Japanese Occupation, and I remember that I quoted a barf-able line to her, "I truly have nothing to live for. And that makes me the perfect candidate to die for anything at all," and I remember how my mother wrote me, "Simply amazes me how you meld seemingly disparate words and turn them into a story." And I remember how I just sat back, and just stared at the computer, and tried to telepathically hug my mother, trying not to cry, because I was in Mag:net then, and Sir Rock was beside me, and it didn't seem polite to cry while he was staring at a picture of Sisig-stuffed Sili.


5
I wanted to make this as short as a paragraph, but you know how things are.


6
From Written on the Body, by Jeanette Winterson: "You said, 'I Love You.' Why is it that the most unoriginal thing we can say to one another is still the thing we long to hear? 'I Love You' is always a quotation. You did not say it first and neither did I, yet when you say it and when I say it we speak like savages who have found three words and worship them. I did worship them but now I am alone on a rock hewn out of my own body."

Wala lang. Bzzzt.

Electric girls with worn down toys

The UAAP Basketball Finals, Game 2, brought to you by Sasha Martinez, told in the Third Person, because all the cool kids do it this way:

First Quarter: Sasha starts transferring files from old laptop to new one. Decides to turn borrowed, fuzzy TV on, for some noise. Ah, the game. Sends mandatory text to brother, who's studying in the La Salle, GO ATENEO, to which he replies, GO ATENEO. Watches as the Other Team scores four points. Picks up The Book Thief, has an attack of conscience, and picks up Nicomachean Ethics. Conscience decides to live up to its highly selective reputation, and allows Sasha to pick up Zusak again. One team has a higher score than the other, but fuzzy screen prevents interpretation. Chirpy TV voice informs her of the last two minutes of the quarter. And then, incredibly pain from insides starts. Lights a cigarette, checks her laptops, shuffles out of the room.

Second Quarter: Off to the bathroom with cigarette. Don't ask what she did there. After, suddenly remembers the laundry that's been hanging on the clothesline for about two days. Drenched wet, everything is. Goes back inside, drapes wet clothes over the back of a chair. Ateneo might be winning. Starts to fantasize of classes suspended. Thinks of st---- timeline game for a class tomorrow. 1973, my boyfriend was born. Someone is screaming on TV. Puts down Zusak, picks up Aristotle. Puts down Aristotle, diddles with laptop. Finds encoded journal entries from two years ago. Cringes. Cringes again. Another trip to the bathroom.

Third Quarter: Someone is mad on the television. Sasha sends P. a message, ordering him to be careful. Does a flashback. Does another flashback, this time while playing Bennett's As Time Goes By. Lights a cigarette. Someone's texted, needs to know what to do about the paper on Iliad, due for tomorrow. Thinks, Fuck it. Looks for her paper on Foucault, and Recto as a possible sexual landscape. Grins at the grade. Remembers mother's text when messaged, "I got an A!" -- "You never cease to impress me :-)." Remembers she didn't know what to send in reply, so she simply paused in the middle of the overpass she'd been crossing -- that is, until grimy little boy tells her to buy some bananas for him to eat. Sasha looks at the television; she knows she has to keep up: journalistic integrity and all that jazz. Back starts to hurt with all the bending over the laptops. Wonders about electricity bill.

Fourth Quarter: Someone is really mad on the television. One of them guys looks like the worst kind of asshole, the kind that gives you all those vomitocious looks while you're sprawled on the floor with an assortment of broken bones. (Yes, I typed in vomitocious. Try it. It’s fulfilling. Making up words makes you feel invincible.) Sasha starts to feel giddy -- whatever magical juju makes the TV work has allowed her to see more than fuzz and static: Ateneo is leading. Sasha thiks, Wow, we might actually win. Thinks of how it all fits together, 150 years, senior year, that guy Chris Tiu, whom she always sees around school but can never recognize until bewildered staring and five minutes later. Horrifies herself with the spurt of school spirit. Lights a cigarette, transfers Feist and The Killers and Yael Naim to her other laptop. Last two minutes. Someone's still pissed. Someone does a free throw. Last 45 seconds, Ateneo leads by ten points, give or take. Computes in her head: three three-point shots, plus a two-pointer for good measure. Admits she's fatalistic. Last 15 seconds: a blue smudge on the screen hugs the ball to his crotch. Thinks she might actually like this sport. Watches a swarm of blue and white on the court. Sees all the crying, and the hugging. Thinks of how it'd be if she were there, imagines the rancid stench of victory and Gatorade sweat. More people are hugging. Sasha texts brother, and mother, and P., none of whom reply. Insides start to ache again. Lights another cigarette. Turns the TV off. Stores away old laptop. Opens a Madison Hayes file on new laptop. Wriggles on the bed. Sneezes. Acknowledges the start of a headache. After five minutes, all the text messages flood in, telling her what she already sort of knows.

They taped over your mouth

1 – My dad called me, said, “Magaling na raw magsulat ang anak ko a.” And I laughed, and joked, “Ay, kagaling raw nireng anak niyo, kagaling.” And I remembered how, in Calatagan, I’d be walking with my grandmother from our day in the market, and she’d stop by, it seemed to me then, every freaking house on the street, making idle chatter with the neighbors. And I’d listen to her talk to them, say, “Parang uulan ngayong hapon,” and then, she’d say, again, “Parang uulan ngayong hapon,” but slower now, almost as if the last thought was just for herself, something gentler than a mutter, something more iterative than a mumble. Ah, words.

2 – A week or so ago, P. got Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Memories of My Melancholy Whores and Of Love and Shadows. And so I sat down, ignored everything that I should've been doing, and read Memories, and hours later, I was done, and I had this gem: “Don’t let yourself die without knowing the wonder of fucking with love.” Amen.

2.1 – I hereby resolve that before I turn twenty, I will have read One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (and Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita, and this one, and that one), and not just have skimmed them, looking for the juicy parts. Pramis.

3 – Medyo late news 'to, ha, pero mahirap lang mawal sa utak ko. During the Heights book launch, AHWW co-fellow Brandz handed me a contributor’s copy. The pretty, hardbound one. The kind I never knew existed until about a year ago, when Martin brandished his, and I growled, “They give you that when you get published? I am so sending them my stuff.” Anyway. There I was, wearing pink (the pinkness of my shirt is relevant, it just is), with the book nestled in my spread palms, and I thought, Shit. The kind of Shit you say when you’re not exactly about to cry, more like so giddy and gaga over everything that you just want to go on a Hug Rampage. That kind of Shit. Yes, kinilig ako. (Translation: Yes, I so got kilig.) I opened the book to the table of contents, saw my name (saw my name again, buwahahaha). I ran to P., (and to Martin, to Marie, to Panch the Younger, and to Petra, haha), and I said, “Oh god, look.” Wasak lang.

Siguro dahil may history kaya wasak na wasak ako, haha. Siguro. I remember, freshman year, I submitted about five poems, and five short stories (sinagad e), and each and every one of them got rejected. Fine. Haha. It’s emo daw kasi (and this was before they all started using the word – iba talaga ‘pag pasimuno, hehe), pa-gothic. Astig lang na meron na na-publish na ‘ko sa wakas, haha. That’s the sentiment, haha: finally.

Wala sa isip kong magyabang. Kinikilig lang talaga ako. Malabo siguro, may mga iba diyan kung saan-saan na na-publish (parang pinaparinggan ko sarili ko, ang labo, haha), pero, eh, basta. Ayoko i-analyze masyado, pero eto masasabi ko: It’s almost the same feeling when you get yourself a new pair of skinny jeans, and you try them on for the first time, and you’re hopping around the damned room because they’re just so freaking tight on you, and then when you’ve calmed the zipper and the buttons down, ang sarap ng kapit ng tela sa hita mo, every centimeter of your legs can feel the rasp of that denim, the weave, even the stitching running along the side. So, yeah, beyond the observation that I wear really tight pants, that’s what this particular publication feels like. Apir!

(At sa wakas, na-publish din kami ni Martin sa (technically) isang anthology, or publication. Sabi naming dati, at least once, simulan namin sa Heights. Sure, you have to flip over the book to see each of our names, pero okay na’ko dun, for now. Cool lang, hehe.)

4 – I have been chanting, “Get thee to the nunnery!” since yesterday afternoon, and it is, quite frankly, driving me crazy.

And doesn't this sound familiar?

Far Too Much, On Nights Like These

Here we sit in a café yellowed with the refrains of old songs, when everyone in this town must be asleep, when people we know have already turned twice in their beds, when people we wish we never knew hear the mutters of their bedmates. See there, even lamplights wink with the rare cars zooming by with roars far too much like an argument we refuse to forget. Don’t you think those explosions of steel and haste wish to quiet themselves, to huddle in the next-to-darkest cul-de-sac, rumbling only when the breeze proves too cold? Don’t you think those tired bulbs high above us want of a stronger wind, that their long, singular limbs could be allowed to creak, before they succumb to their necks badly in need of craning? Look away from walls, my dear, please, ask someone to turn the radio down. We are yet to look at the stars, barely visible, yes, that we could think they have sneaked off for a nap, think this, if only to feel better for ourselves. Look, could you, look—the waning of light reaching us far too late, pinpricks on the sky content (we think) to be without sound. Look, and later, we will have to go to our own beds, ready ourselves with things we have not dared to speak of on nights like this, later still. And I know, my friend, tomorrow, we will talk of how all of these, all of them with their blinking and their disguised whimpers filled our heads with far too much sheen and rhythm, that in the last few moments of our waking, we still touch our hands to our mouths, expecting the few bars of a dead mother’s lullaby, or the sudden, vast glare peeking from between our fingers.

For Kael.

And it was all yellow

While tweaking the short story “Marga” (for FA workshop class), some thoughts, here are:

1 - It’s hard to give a convincing description of a very important tree when you don’t spend too much time thinking about them. What was it that Zoe said? Something about hating nature in general, but trees are pretty? Zoe? Anyhoo. This will not turn into a moralistic soliloquy (I love how that word’s spelled) about the environment, about trees dying, about other things the environment people are worried about. I am simply saying that when it comes to a pretty obvious objective correlative, I am epically failing. Like, okay, the tree. It’s big. And gnarly. Sort of brown, but more green. That’s about it.

2 - “Marga” is the story of Nora Ortiz, who, as some of you may know, is Michelle and Alice’s stepmother. This thing has been brewing in my head for quite some time now, and a couple of months ago, it simply refused to be written. (I remember that I’d despaired about this to [Sir] Larry Ypil, and he’d told me something like, “Sasha, I think you should move on.”) Anyway, I was banging away on my laptop, talking about the mangoes in various stages of rot on top of the hill (you’ve got no idea what I’m talking about, do you?) and it just came to me, like, yeah, you know, whapaaak! – I’d described Nora, in “The Catherine Theory” as: She smelled like mangoes, picked at just the right time. And there I was, alone in a messy fall-out shelter of an apartment, whooping and screaming at the gahdamned synchronicity of it all. Bad writer ba kung hindi mo talaga sinadya yung mga bagay? Bahala na kayo sa opinyon niyo. Basta, I love it when it all comes together (*rubbing hands together*). Good job, subconscious. Or unconscious. Whatever. Wee.

3 - I was an idiot to volunteer to have this butchered for FA workshop class. And be butchered, it will. The story screams, Yes I know this particular tree is quite important, but I simply do not like trees right now.

4 - I do like trees, though. I do. (See "Pancho Birthday Renga 2008" below.)

5 - The computer tells me I can’t describe the leaves as aflurry. But it makes sense, I want to tell the computer. It makes perfect sense! Leaves! Aflurry! How about a-flurry, then? Oh, never mind. Tree's leaves are are green-ish.

6 - Uh, yeah. Midnight deadline.

PS - Fire trucks are whizzing along Katipunan, and they're, like, making wang-wang, you know. And me, stuck here in the internet shop, having uploaded the short story for the class, I have to wonder: Are they going to my dorm because they better not because oh god my books, my red boots, Donkeybert! Ahem. On my way now, keep yer fingers crossed.

C'mere, I'ma feed you a leaf

Pancho Birthday Renga 2008
by Various Artists (harhar)

I am thinking of a tree,
or a leaf, the lone downward spiral
I will think of again in a colder hour
when the space between words allows
the murmuring of certain brown things
that used to gleam and glint upon flight,
and still do, sunlight catching perfect
geometries, the way old pictures seem
so precise – brown background, brown
clothes. Pigments turning into a shade
of sepia, setting a saffron brilliance upon faces,
upon the length of one’s arm resting.
But then comes the turning
of season, coming of green, and other vibrant,
innocent birthings. This is a leaf,
I say to the tree. Thank you for this.
I am held in awe.

*

Marami akong puwedeng sabihin. Pero sa amin na lang yun.
Happy birthday, love. You are now divisible by 5, and/or 7.
Good job. Apir.

Where the neon signs are pretty

Some people over at CERN are conducting an experiment, which seeks to recreate the beginning/birth wah-hever of the Earth, some 300 feet below the French/Swiss border. The experiment, if successful, wah-hever it is/becomes, could create a teeny-tiny black hole, that, over time, could suck Earth and everything in it, into it. More scientific/idiotic juju here.

Wee.

If the world ends tomorrow at 3:24 PM, I'm going to have lots of bleep!, read as much books as I can, and sleep away the rest of the duration of the Earth's existence.

Oh, who am I kidding, I'll probably just bleep! and scream my head off, two things which are not completely unrelated.

Aherm.

Feel my bones on your bones

Taking a break from work:

1 – Taking a break from the paper I have to finish by early tonight – an analysis of the Magsaysay and Garcia administrations – I picked up the book Karyl lent me (and I want it, not-so-subtle nudge nudge, wink wink, haha). In my new cave at the dorm (yeah, moved a couple of rooms down the hall), I read, and, some odd hours later, finished reading Belle de Jour: Diary of an Unlikely Call Girl. Yeah, I know. It’s quite entertaining, funny, shamelessly honest, and overall an intelligent read, and I say this last bit with my Serious Face on. Whoever this Anonymous is (ah, that long-running joke about Anonymous being a prolific bastard, harhar), some girly applause to you. Yes, this might all be fictional, written by some middle-aged balding man with too much of a gut, smoking fat cigars, while his pet poodle rests against his pennyloafers . . . and this last bit just went on too long.

If only prostitution were as lucrative here in our sunny-muddy little country, as it is in England, particularly in London. (See, there is an elephant [or hippo, or whale, or rhino, or whatever ample creature there is around] growing in the room: the matter of my degree. Rich-and-powerful awesomeness with a Creative Writing/Literature diploma seems like a rather dim possibility. And so I’m keeping my options open.)

Also, it’s making me consider, more seriously, writing a purely fictional sex blog. Think of it as a literotic exercise of some sort. And schizophrenic too: why not detail the nonexistent existence of theoretical sex blog author? Why not? I’ll tell you why not: There is this hurdle to leap over: I cannot write a decent sex scene without giggling. Just typing in nipple could send me into paroxysms of seven-year-old laughter. Where’d the sexy-time juju go? My blockmates say it’s because I’m no longer repressed. Foucault says there is no such thing as repression, that society deludes itself with and within a repressive hypothesis. I say, there’s just too much information. Besides, although my imagination is giddy at the thought of writing one squeee-and-squick entry every day, there is such a thing as the creative juices drying up – what the hell is it with these innuendos?

2 – Because I had to finish yet another paper in History (oof, did I just sound like I was complaining? Did I, oh my?), wasn’t able to prepare my application for the Ateneo Nationals [read: didn’t get to actually finish writing any decent story]. Yes, I am vaguely pissed – only vaguely because everything exhausts me these days, from choosing what brand of tissue won’t scrape the skin of my bleep off, to being pissed. I cannot believe I actually prioritized school over my writing (insert ironic little laugh here). Well, the bright side is, I’ve got two-and-half new stories [with my usual WTF titles of “Marga,” “Understanding Fish,” and “The Children of Mira Bella” – I’ve always sucked at titles; methinks every CW curriculum must offer an elective dedicated solely to titling the shit you do] wanting of a couple of sentences to tie them up. And so, there’s always my thesis.

[3 – If you’re interested, I submitted my almost-two-year-old story, the hastily (and ineffectively) revised “These Dark Hours,” for that History class project. It’s got everything: action, romance, betrayal, patriotic bull, Japanese soldiers, water torture, women slipping notes into their camisoles (and I remember asking about five people the question: “Did women wear bras in the forties?”). The assignment, then, for Sir Krip’s fiction class was: develop a love story (about twenty pages) in the time of a great crisis – have one character be conscious of the fact that he may breathe his last in a couple of pages’ time, or bomb the country into itty bits and pieces, or Global Warming. Tempted to go for that last one, but seventeen-year-old me couldn’t think of anything sufficiently romantic about the Earth melting – although a scene pops into the mind: woman lying on her stomach, on a floating piece of ice, in the middle of a freezing ocean, holding on to the near-stranger loverboy submerged in aforementioned freezing ocean. But that one felt rather familiar. Meh. So yeah. Made the lay-out of the story sparkly-er, if only for creative plus points (because in some circles, fiction ain’t creative enough, gah).]

4 – In connection with numbers 1 and 2 above, I have decided to submit something smutty for my thesis workshop class next week – that is, if I finish the damned thing before the Thursday midnight deadline. It’s called "Bones" (get it? get it? ugh). To say that this piece was, erm, inspired by P. and his collection of bulalo/lechon bones would most probably just make you think nasty thoughts – for the record, I speak of the literal kind bones (as opposed to, what, the figurative kind of bones, gah?). Bones. Italicized, bold, underlined, font 25. And yes, being that I find myself the illegal spokesperson for the man’s cute widdle idiosyncrasies – and I know I’ll get in trouble because of that, haha – allow me to say it more clearly: P. collects bones. It’s a rather impressive collection, if decidedly morbid. Downside: the stench is just awful when they rot, or when he marinades them in a concoction of bleach, brake fluid, and whatever liquid there is lying around the house; restaurants probably we think we keep mutated gargantuan puppies as pets when we ask for a doggie bag of every bone that happens to be in the kitchen. But whatever makes the man happy, though objectively disgusting, is, erm, tolerable. Haha!

PS – Googling some do-it-yourself decomposition strategies for P., trying to remember what it was in Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily" that's being triggered. Upon sight of some really icky sites of graphic walk-throughs of decomposition and skeletonization processes, I had it: It's not the arsenic, you idiot, it was the motherfucking lime! Lime, rarr.

PPS – If y’all would do me a favor, and not tell him that you know about his bones, and his blow torch, and god knows what else I’ve yakked about him, that would be really nice. Hehe. He.

5 – Reading Octavio Paz’ The Double Flame: Love and Eroticism. Blame it on the endless Foucault, and the recent re-call for submissions for the Coming Soon anthology. Long story: The last call for submissions, there I was, staring (giggling) in front of my laptop, hours before the deadline. Needless to say, I did not make it, because by the end of the night, I most probably just picked up a Theo reading to calm the hormones – among other, erm, handy things [I did not mean that to be suggestive, I swear].

Anyway, so there it was, the re-call for submissions (and mental hugs and congratulations to all the writers who got accepted on the first go, esp. almost – birthday girl Margie de Leon, and hunny-bunny Marie, whose poem "If I said I was drawn to the idea of the body," I just commented on a couple of nights ago, saying, Oh god, this is hot, I love it, I really like it) and there I was, thinking Yeah, why not? So I did a round at the library for research [research because the only erotica I’ve been exposed to is the online, typo-ridden smut, but yes, I admit you didn’t need to know that], booed it for not having any Anaïs Nin handy (although hello, Harold Robbins, subjective eww, haha), and found Paz. I don’t know how this will help me, because it’s booty-ful, and makes the probability of me giggling at my own work more, er, probable, but hey. Yeah, whatever.

6 – A quote of some sort is the usual closing for these entries, no? "All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other; hopelessly, I should add, because that frenzy of mutual possession might have been assuaged only by our actually imbibing and assimilating every particle of each other's soul and flesh..." This one's from Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita, which I need to re-read, not because it's been quite relevant for sometime (ha-haaa, people), but because, well, I want to... Along with Gabriel Garcia Marquez' One Hundred Years of Solitude, because it turned my then-pubescent brain into moosh.

Now. Back to work.

Somewhere down the road

On School
1 - For Philosophy: Supplementary readings four inches thick? Bring it on. Sasha is (not) reading Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics and Plato's Cretan City (although she does giggle when she says, Cretan -- haha, Cretan). Sasha (did not) read The Use of Pleasure anyway, and (randomly highlighted parts of) the introductory volume of The History of Sexuality. Who's a good student, who?

2 - Compilation of works for thesis, deadline October four: How to complete a collection of stories for your fiction class when the crummy (Krame) laptop that contains everything you've ever written refuses to cooperate, to actually turn on when you poke the On button?

3 - History film: I wanted to do a John Torres, settled for Mangled Sasha Martinez and Homicidal Groupmates. The professor was pleased, perky-pleased. And I, to quote, "gave [her] goosebumps" with that paper I wrote on the American Occupation, and the English language (angas eh), and the analysis/slammage of Agoncillo. The groupmates who, less than two days ago, had me on top of their To-Strangle list, I hear, are, I hear, relieved that I actually did not fuck this one up. Meh.

4 -In Theo class, while discussing the book of Amos, on that passage that warns that if the people stop running around in gleeful sin, God will step on mountains, and the mountains will melt. And the teacher asked, "What does it imply, those mountains melting?" And I said, "Global Warming." And everybody laughed. Amen.

5 - Western Classical Lit: Sir Gawain's Green Knight is literally green. Because of some juju Morgan le Fay did, but what matters is that he's literally green. I forgot to ask if he glowed.


On Writing
1 - I need four stories by Monday, and then another by the eleventh. Yes? Yes.

2 - Sasha is happy. Tayo na sa Antipolo: Fellows for this year's Ateneo-Heights Writers Workshop announced, and I'm one of them. Wee, plus a bounce around the room.

3 - Writing? Yes. Uh. Right. "...I know that the words are collecting at the tips of my fingers and that if I don't shake them out over the keyboard they could go backwards and form word clots around my heart. Word clots are worse than blood clots -- because blood clots more or less kill you as soon as they reach a vital area in your body, but word clots just stay, occasionally giving you heartburn with all the things you could have said but didn't." From You Are Here by Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan. So, yeah. Bring on them word clots.