Just because we use cheats

1 - Martin sent me a superfantabulous write-up for the yearbook, and it is love. Like I wrote to Martin, although the first part made me squirm (I do not like to imagine myself as a, erm, monument), those last bits made me smile, really smile, and then, yeah, cry a little (and, as I've said to Martin, yet again, making me cry is not exactly that difficult thing to do, but this one's just a whammy). You know that feeling when you're faced with such a seemingly insurmountable delight (weird word choices, but I'll keep them), and you don't know whether to hide under the nearest blanket, or launch yourself to the world and hug the life out of it? That feeling? Yeah. This write-up pretty much rocks that. :) Salamat, Martin. Maraming-maraming salamat. Fluffy pink bunnies are cavorting as we speak.

2 - Some good writerly news: There is Wednesday to look forward to, yes? Yes. If I don't get to bring anything home to my mother (and no self-deprecation here, just a really strong hunch), there's always the free booze I can filch for my proud, darling father. And yes, I said darling father. Cool it. And there's more, yes, there's more. After three years of rejection/snubbery, two stories of mine are set to be published in Heights. There's "Quick, the Tomatoes," and that piece with the long-ass title of, "Because Tomorrow They Come And It Will Be Raining When They Do," which I'm thinking of giving a title-makeover, to something like, "Oh Fuck It." And then another story is getting published in Graphic, "This Fleet of Shadows." I don't know why I'm letting you know all this. Like my legendary write-up says, this is not my thing. But I don't know. Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts, and then I'm going to float. Float. Float. A pat on the back to me. (And now I better go back to writing that paper for Philo, the one about Recto as a possible sexual landscape. Gah.)

3 - This here is a shameless birthday plug. I'm turning nineteen on the second of September. I would like to get a cookie. Preferably Mrs. Fields, because they've gone bankrupt, and I don't think I can live with myself if I've never eaten a goddamned cookie of theirs (hers). Stop sniggering. Mrs. Fields' Cookie. Stop sniggering, damn it. Anyway, a book would be nice too. A couple of days ago, I finally relented, and watched Love in the Time of Cholera with Pancho, though I haven't read the book. So, yeah. Books would be nice too. And a laptop. Maybe some new shoes. And I've always wanted a yellow dress. Nudge nudge, wink wink.

4 - "It's strange how your mind plans ahead for such an eventuality while simultaneously hoping against hope that it will not happen." - from A Friend Like Henry, by Nuala Gardner. Yeah. That's sort of what my mind's running on these past few weeks.

5 - My mom suggested I go as Daphne. You know, the ditzy redhead in Scooby-Doo. But I've always liked Velma. So I don't know. On the 28th, it's either purple leggings, or orange ones. Yeahba. Hay. I planned on going as Sharon Stone's character in Basic Instinct, before she uncrosses her legs. That would be cool. Rawr.

6 - Yeah, I'm just procrastinating. See you, everyone. It's Shpartah time.

Parked car, night sky

Because I'm procrastinating, and I think it's raining outside, and I'm sure I don't have an umbrella:

1 - By all means, I should be safely tucked in bed, or at least writing for shit's sake, instead of Googling Michael Phelps (kalaglag-panty, pramis), Mrs. Fields' bankruptcy (remind me to buy some cookies), and sexy-places in Recto. Hello.

2 - Aside from all that, that scene from Far and Away keeps playing on loop in my head, the one where Tom Cruise dies, and the camera follows his soul around the fields and the clouds, and Nicole Kidman is wailing all over him, and then his soul does a somersault and lands back into his body with a great, big gasp from him. Yes, that scene. I love that movie. It appeals to my Fabio-Covered-Books obssession. Gahdamn, I can never spell obsession right. Single S, double S! Anyway. Far and Away, rich girl, poor boy, pretending to be siblings, lives in a whorehouse, boy does a bit of Fight Club, girl shows her knickers dancing, they get separated because she's oh-so-sick and he realizes he can't take care of her, and then a long time later, they meet again, in some land-grabbing thing, and they hook up again, and I remember she's wearing blue, and wow, do I love that movie. Atrocious accents and all.

3 - I have this grand plan. Someday, when I'm rich and powerful, I'm going to write a historical romance novel set in the Philippines. Jill Barnett, romance novelist, did that with Just A Kiss Away, which is set in the Philippines, about 1896. I love this book (it's all about luuuurve), and I find it funny that Antonio Luna has a minor role. Now, I've been thinking, why can't I write a romance novel? None of those 35-peso books sold in 7-11s, but full-length novels with lots of hot men and swooning and sexy time? Why not? Yes. I'll do that. Get back to me in about ten years, give or take.

4 - Yes, I read romance novels. Get over it.

5 - On being rich and powerful. I told my mother my laptop refuses to work. It's shuddered its last shudder. And she said, "Oh, and we can't get a new one until --" And I butted in with, "Yeah, I know, when I'm rich and powerful," and she laughs, and says, "Actually, I was going to say, in December, but that works too."

6 - Good writerly news in my e-mail, and I'm tickled pink. I wanted to reply with, "You're fucking kidding me right?" Or even, "Okay. Who put you up to this?" Hay. Good tidings, and fluffy pink bunnies, and rainbows coming out of my ass. See? Happy. A part of me still thinks that it might be a mis-send (haha), though I'm keeping my fingers crossed, but only loosely, hehe. Little ol' 18-year-old me from the toad-splattered streets of Imus, and all that jazz. (Goddamned self-deprecation.) But I'm happy, ridiculously happy. Order of information dissemination: my mother (immediately called her up, and she squealed, and said, WOOHOO), Zoe (almost hysterically buzzed her on YM, and she replied with, "Oh, I'm happy for you -- what's this again?"), and then I ran out of the shop to Pancho (who gave me a high-five, haha, oh love), Martin (mental apir too, hehe), and then Marie (to whom I gave a rather pretentious write-up, for Heights, haha, and who kicks ass with her Palanca win!), and then there's this blog, although I realize I'm not making a lot of sense. (Besides, if I put this in a long paragraph, and plunk it in the middle of a long-ass entry, your eyes would've probably glazed over by now.) Okay. I'm talking about this too much. But, but, but. You know when you get really good news, and you turn the television on, and there's all this mess about rapes and pillages and burninatings of countrysides, and you keep wondering, "Jeebus, why the hell aren't they talking about how happy I am?" Yeah. Sometimes, I think the world revolves around me. It often does, you know.

7 - Happy birthday to Official Two-Year-Fixation Miyo Sta. Maria (got you!), sexy testudinine poetess Nikita Paredes, and my mother, who said this afternoon, "Yeah, I've been lying in bed all weekend, reading books. What's wrong with lying in bed all weekend, reading books? Can't I lie in bed all weekend and read books when I'm turning forty-one?!" That's my mother. I luuurve you. :)

8 - Okay. That's it. Awat na. Relax.

9 - Last brainfart. Ernest Hemingway, y'all (though with some contentions) -- "For sale: baby shoes, never worn."

Love Me Sexy

1 - Love Me Sexy.
Come on, people, haven't you seen Semi-Pro? "That’s right girl, let me whisper in your ear / Baby wake up, we’re naked and we’re humpin’ sexy / For the last fifteen minutes baby, that’s what’s been happenin’ / Yeah, too late now, it’s on." Watch the movie, if only for the song. Although that Jive Turkey part was priceless. Hm. I think only two people know what I'm talking about.


2 - I'm benta when you're drunk
Apparently, I'm a fantastic comedienne when about 2.4 people in the vicinity are drunk. I'll take that. Oh, love. Waps says I have a blorvely manly-man voice. Blorvely. What a wonderful name for your theoretical child. Hello, these are my kids: That one's Anja, this is Lucas, and that one there, we don't talk about it much, it's name is Blorvely. Blorvely, c'mere boy, c'mere, that's a good kid, who's a good kid? Who's a good kid? Yes, you are, yes, you are! Yes. You. Are! Ah, shit, Blorve, not again! Oh, sorry, we've been trying to potty-train him for about six years now, but I think he takes comfort in bare walls. Hay, that was an awfully belabored point-proving right there. Quite mean, too. Eh.

Give me a bit of space to tell you people that I wasn't drunk. No, I wasn't. That I was swaying only because I was identifying with the motion of the Earth in the most infinitesimal level. That I quoted Neruda because it really felt like the heavens unfastened. That when I asked about seven people if they liked sex, I really meant to say, "A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved," from Sirens of Titan, by Kurt Vonnegut. That when I told everyone, "Dude, I love you. No, no, I don't think you get me -- I. Love. You. Cool, no?" That when I laughed, and laughed, and laughed some more, it was because I was trying to hide the pain (okay, that had me snorting, hahaha, tangina). That I sat on the McDo counter, and crossed my legs because the cashier asked me to. No, I wasn't drunk. Of course I wasn't. Three Vodka Mudshakes, 2 1/2 glasses of RumCoke more Rhum than Coke don't do that to you. Nope, wasn't drunk. No. Apir!

Hahaha, thanks everyone. Mass hug!


3 - In your head
Philo class, Foucault, approach the professor and say, "Father, I might collapse in your class. Can I sit at the back?" Listening to Rey Valera in the study hall, admitting you feel giddy when he sings Maging Sino Ka Man. Unable to explain why you're pissed as hell at girls who wear hair bands (head bands?) in the middle of their skulls, so half their faces are still hidden by their hair. Ooh, stylish.

Thesis class. A workshop piece three weeks - pending. Salamat sa mga nagbasa.

The whole day, dragging your ass around school, feverish though you may be, hugging mango shake and a pack of cigarettes to your chest because those are a few of the fewer things that make you go on, sleepless little missy. Those, and knowing that your frequent disappearances could make a saint give you the finger. (People tell you, You're sick all the time, and you manage to restrain yourself from retorting, Well it's not as all fluffy bunnies and butterflies as I make it look like. People care, me thinks.) Those, and knowing that after this day is done, you're free to crumple in any relatively horizontal space. Those, and knowing that at sundown, you can run and you run, while you grumble, Get out of my way, fuckers, I'm sleepy! Those, and, amazingly, a long-awaited hug and a kiss at the spot where your neck meets your shoulder (which is called trapezius, if I remember my high school bio lectures correctly).


4 - Hating rain together
Writing at the crack of dawn because you can't sleep. Going back to the three poems you wrote with friends, writing a new one, called, "And Lastly," because you're reminding yourself that you need to sleep, your eyeballs are melting in your head, and that's your only clean shirt, eyeball moosh is hard to wash off.



5 - Crush
I'm turning 19 on the second of September. I realize that's a long way off, but I've decided to be generous and give you enough time to hunt down a book for me, Crush, by Richard Siken. This one's from "You Are Jeff" -- "...and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for." And then this one's from "Straw House, Straw Dog" -- "I don't really blame you for being dead but you can't have your sweater back." Wala lang. I need me some man-man love poetry.

And since we're on that note, (the note about the second of September, not the man-man love), ihanap niyo na rin ako ng -- teka. Naaliw. Haha.


6 - ELE
To close, a quote from Semi-Pro: "Everyone Love Everyone!"

Watching an in-flight movie

I am so exhausted, any minute now I'll be keeling over with foam bubbling out of my mouth. My big toes hurt -- it wasn't a good idea to wear 3-inch wedges for a 3-hour commute, no matter how many times you tell yourself that this would be more convenient than bringing another bag for your shoes. People look at you when you tower over everyone else in the train cars, and too bad for you, you look like hell. You smell like a public payphone. You need a bath, you need to go soak those toes. What are you wearing tonight? How many times do I have to tell you that not everything in embarrass is doubled? I need teachers for this semester. Do I just pick afternoon classes, or do I conscientiously research the profs? Exie Abola's my thesis class teacher, and I just missed Martin. Hala, Martin, WTF? Hahaha. Haa. I'm going to have to call you Professor now, am I? Hassle. By the way, my toes hurt so goddamned much. What am I going to wear? My eyebrows look like happy squirrels cavorting on my face. I need teachers for this semester -- why are there eight freaking subjects listed to my name? There is so much to do, and I have to be somewhere else in thirty minutes -- happy birthday, ZoeDee. But I need another bath. I need to put a flamethrower to these eyebrows, and have I shaved my legs yet? Oh. Fine, I'll wear pants. They go well with my hobo-in-wedges look. Add an expensive stick of cancer. Rommel Adducul has nasopharyngeal cancer -- and I managed to spell that correctly on the first go. Smoking while trying not to be seen/smelled only aggravates the wonky heart conditions. You're pathetically quiet, and you sharpen your cha-cha moves with the wind and the smoke. This morning, my youngest brother and I giggled over the nilagang baka, his hairstyle, and having to turn the TV off for a snoring father. And a big congratulations to newly-sixteen Gabriel Joshua who's officially in college. Scared, I asked. No, he said. Ah, I replied, I was fucking terrified. Scheds, I have to fix my scheds. God, my fucking toes. God damn it, licorice-flavored toothpaste does not taste good.

Things happened while I was gone.

*

From Margaret Atwood's The Blind Assassin:

"Why is it we want so badly to memorialize ourselves? Even while we're still alive. We wish to assert our existence, likes dogs peeing on fire hydrants. We put on display our framed photographs, our parchment diplomas, our silver-plated cups; we monogram our linen, we carve our names on trees, we scrawl them on washroom walls. It's all the same impulse. What do we hope from it? Applause, envy, respect? Or simply attention, of any kind we can get?

At the very least we want a witness. We can't stand the idea of our own voices silent finally, like a radio running down."

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.

*

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.

*

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!

*

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.

On an open fire

Random updates to tide you over:

1
Reading Isabel Allende's The Stories of Eva Luna and it's a case of literary envy. Almost makes me want to open my dreaded Red Earth story document and hammer away at the keys. Almost.

2
Uploaded our share of fidgers from last week's Christmas dinner at ZoeDee's. They're in my fugly-ass Multiply and my new baby over at Facebook. I removed as much of the incriminating photos I could find, but Zoe's album found a way. Pasko naman eh, haha. Ogle away, kids, ogle away.

3
This has been the best year. Ever. :) I want to hug everyone, haha.

Waves are crashing

. . . And stars are falling all for us.
(Because it is stuck in my head and I need to send it out there so it'll feast on the LSS-hugging corners of your minds. *Evil laugh*.)

*

Anyway. The last week of class shall be a flurry of required novels, smuggled novels, and dinners with lovely people. ZoeDee and her crabcake thingies. Rar. :) And splendiferous coffee. Oh, gosh. Blockmates and blockmate friends, see you on the 22nd. :)

Then it's off to the wilderness of Cavite, then to Calatagan for some frozen beach-ness. Christmas Eve has, lately, been a night of grilling hotdogs with my brothers, chasing chickens (to my father's consternation), making molo soup with my mother, and sleeping on top of my uncle's billiard tables; dinner consisting of tacos, sushi, pizza and the odd estupado; the brothers who squirm from your hugs, the father who blushes when you kiss his cheek, the mother who stares at you for two seconds before she lets herself be smothered with an awkward hug.

Won't have it any other way.

Aww.

Ahem.

*

Last Christmas, I realized that the induction to adulthood was barricading one's self in one's grandmother's room with a ton of Christmas wrapper, hardening one's heart to the squeals and pleas and flimsy excuses (Ate Sha, kuha lang ako ng . . . ah, hair brush . . .) of little cousins everywhere. Nothing like knowing other people's gifts and near-suffocating one's self with scotch tape to know that you're a freaking adult.

*

Random(-er): That song by Jose Mari Chan that begins with a trapped-in-a-tomb-voice that goes Whenever I see boys and girls never ceases to freak me out every single time.

*

Another random brainfart from the depths of my past journals:

"The reality was, you only knew you were loved if you were left and returned to, if you were ignored and then craved. Occasionally you would be seen for slightly less than the sum of your parts, and that was love, too. Love announced itself with a sting, not a pat. If love was love, it was urgent and ripe and carried with it the faint odor of humiliation, so that there was always something to be made up for later, some apology in the works."
- The Brutal Language of Love by Alicia Erian

Dance to this beat

Am unwinding in an internet shop because I suddenly found myself for a hankering for technology. Stepped off the LRT-MRT combo one odd hour ago, as I met with my mother dearest in Taft. Doing my daughterly duty of mooching for moolah.

I told her about needing to read seven books for Phil. Lit. And then I told her I need copies of them, since I can't continually horde the books from the libe and I can't actually see myself buying those books because well, I can't afford it. And then I told her that I could have them photocopied and then hardbound (so they could look like legitimate books) in UP. And then I told her I'll go to all the living writers, say, Sir Krip, to ask him to sign a pirated copy of his work.

My mother stared at me in horror.

"Buy the books," she shrieked. "They're books!"

Silly me. We are a mother-daughter team who could go spelunking for books in secondhand shops even if means not having to eat dinner that night. Or all nights two weeks afterwards. Not to mention the eye-rolling we got from the boys at home. Haha.

So I'm going to get seven new books. Nine, if the universe is conspiring. A hundred million thousand when the universe conspires enough to make me rich and powerful. Buwahahahaha. Ha. Haaa.


*


Random updates on Sasha's life:

> Went to school, even though I had no classes for the day. The world is turning on its axis as we speak.

> I made Martin say the word gloop.

> ZoeDee gave me two technically useless but utterly adorable paper clips shaped like a pig and a zebra. Oh, love.

> Nikay is so sex-hay.

> I'm staying in this Phil. Lit class I'm currently taking, although Sir Jimmy Abad every Tuesday and Thursday is certainly tempting. I crush you, Sir Jimmy!

> My back hurts from all that photocopying.


*


It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
- On Turning Ten by Billy Collins

This is how we should begin

The days leading up to school used to be a flurry of red National Bookstore plastic bags and pressed uniforms. Everything would smell of unraveled plastic cover and Kiwi shoe shine. I would be stocking up on pens and highlighters and intermediate pads. I'd buy earrings. I'd get new underwear. I'd doodle on my notebook covers. I'd stick a photograph of my parents (the one where my dad was carrying my mother and my mom has her arms around my father and they are in a swimming pool) in my planner.

Now, I'm just looking for booze.

Last Friday, after I got tossed and tumbled by the RegCom, I met up with Sarj and ZoeDee in (like, you know) Starbucks. Cuz we Atenistas, haha. Ahem. Catched up on things, which roughly translates to me jumping Zoe because I hadn't seen her in months, me attacking the Dunhills waiting to be attacked on the table, me getting free coffee. We talked about the usual stuff: neon green dildoes, writing styles, threesomes, this girl's boobs, Victor's grand gesture, a washing machine, a diamond ring, more threesomes and shouting matches. And then Xander came and joined us, which means April got fried big time.

Wee. (Sasha is giddy. I can't help it.)

And then more things happened that night, which included an imaginary (um)friend, a bucket of beer, a gigantic burrito, dirty dancing to Enrique Iglesias and an aluminum cowboy/stripper.

School starts tomorrow. I got the classes that I wanted, which means I won't be able to sustain a normal conversation without throwing in something from my predicted mile-high Lit readings. Philippine Literature, Third World Literature and Modern Poetry, plus a lot of Philosophy thrown in. Oh yeah, and Sir Krip's fiction workshop. Oh, gah. What did I get myself into?

School starts tomorrow and random stranger beside me is telling the random stranger beside him that, to quote, "Alcohol is the best way to get girls."

School starts tomorrow and I am yet to figure out if I'd actually be able to wake up for it, as I, of course, am still in sem break mode, which means I woke up at 4 PM kanina.

Oh, well.

I'll see you kids tomorrow. :)


*


Public Service Announcement: Who wants to shack up in my former dorm? I've been staying with Helen and the others (former roommates) in curfew-free Prince David, but I can't legitimately leave my dorm yet if no one takes my slot. So. So. Help. :)

I'd rather

Many hellos to Cor, Allan Pastrana and Kash Avena. Cor went home early, but Allan, Kash and I went on to do the whole Sex and the City shiznit sans Manolo Blahniks. :)

This has been a weird night, and I'm sure you'll all agree.

All hail the toothbrush! :)

We're all in this together

Happy birthday to Aizen Daryll! :) Arguably The Maverick of the three Sulague sisters -- if they were a crimefighting trio, that is. (Ashley's The Future Hotness, Alyanna's The Smart One Who Likes Hearing Quotes from Shakespeare and Nash.)

Hey, sweetie. :p

You're my wonderwall

One of my roommates, Ate Mabs, moved out today, to a place in Makati, so she'd be closer to work. I won't go into the details here -- I barely managed to not look like a leaky faucet, blubbering over her shoulder as she went -- but needless to say, I shall miss her. Especially Helen. Like, a couple of days ago, I asked Helen for some acetone and she told me Ate Mabs had some, and then she paused and sobbed, "Yan, pa'ano na tayo 'pag wala si Ate Mabs?"

I, on the other hand, aside from the whole person leaving thing, thought of other, bigger things. Like the fridge. And the electric stove. And the water heater. And the oven toaster. And the TV. Hehe.

When she'd gone, I looked around at my dorm room and realized, not only the token mushy It feels so empty but the more pragmatic, "Holy fuck, wala nang laman yung kuwarto!" Ang dami naman kasing gamit ni gaga.

Anyways, we'll miss you loads, Ate Mabs. From griping about boys, to having our own personal stylist/fashion police, to opening bottles of Red Horse and spending the night around our table sucking on Lethal Mentoses. And you.

(Insert Spice Girls Goodbye theme here.)

EDIT: Helen tells me that Ate Mabs texted her to say, "Miss you guys. It's so quiet here."

Aw. Wala ba naman yung talak namin ni Helen eh. Hay.

*

And because Ate Mabs has gone, I took the opportunity to sift through three years worth of junk. Now, I've got a clean, color-coordinated closet (cuz I'm feeling OC); four (four!) large boxes of books; shoes in boxes; bigger desk space; a new bookshelf (wee!); and an artsy fartsy wall which includes pictures of random peoplesss, some doodles I made, some doodles by other people, photos by Nathan Archival (wah, san galing yung mga yun?), a (crappy) poem I made on the back of a bingo card, a poem someone wrote for me (awww, barf, hehe) and a memo from the United Hills Association that says, verbatim:

WARNING: Beware of a certain person, in his early twenties, driving a cream-colored car roaming around the village trying to victimize young females walking on the street. The driver stops in front of them, open the door, trying to touch them and shows his private part. . .

Panalo kaya, hehe. I will show you my private part!!! Nyarrr... :)

I thought it was interesting enough to put on the artsy fartsy wall. Problem is, my gaze wanders from my laptop screen to the damn wall often, and in my mind, on loop, is: Oooh, pretty.

Drag me kicking through fast dreams

From Michelle (de Guzman)'s article at The Weekly Sillimanian, dated June 29, 2007:

We may not be wild but there are some interesting characters: 29-year old Mia (UP) with her hormonal mood swings, 17-year old poet-whore Sasha (Ateneo), 33-year-old abstract expressionist Pancho (UP), and the just recently-turned 30-year old Christian (La Salle) who baffled us with his dead poetess.

And for most of us it is not the crazy-slash-passionate antics (like falling in love with each other) that we will carry with us when we leave. It’s the inside jokes and the battles we fought within ourselves to give justice as “writers”. To quote Pancho’s “The First Slaughter”, we will remember the workshop for our “compact bleeding” and our other adventures.

I can only shake my head at the irony of it all. May isang line na wasak talaga. Hanapin niyo na lang, Ye Children of Dirty Minds.

PS - Hi to you Dumaguete peeps -- Michelle, Twiggy, Primy, Justine and RJ. :) Padalhan niyo ko ng pera, diyan ako sem break, :p And Sheng-a-leng: Pare, pasalubong naman o. :)

I still don't have a reason

From Sarj. Nyar. Harhar.

"To the now-18, whose emo prowess can stall the universe to make moments last longer. (Eww, cheesy.)"

Editress also drew the two other (aside from her) (grammar wonky at 8:30 AM) people who went to my 8-year-old-themed 18th birthday. Go lookie for it in her bloggie. :)

Thanks! :p

It's raining men

People are winning things left and right. Professor Glenn Mas, for example, has just won his umpteenth Palanca for the one-act play. And Dean Alfar, too, for 2nd place in the Children's Short Story in English category.

But yipee-yay to Mikael de Lara Co, Los Chupacabras lead guitarist, for winning that purdy first prize for the Poetry in English category.

I live vicariously through all of you.

Inuman na!

Release the evil

Los Chupacabras is releasing their album this September so weeeee! Here's the cover -- it makes me think of making some Los Chupacabran merch: tank tops, key chains and stuffed toys galore, hehe:


Cute, rawr! Nanggigigil ako hehe... :)



UPDATE: Sabi ni Pancho (nag-iinternet pala siya) na siya raw ang gumawa nitong cover art na ito at hindi ko siya krinedit kaya'y ihahabla niya raw ako. So. Si Pancho C. Villanueva po ang gumawa nito. Last time I heard, magaling siyang mag-drowing. Ayos.

Baby let's cruise

I am all out of wit. And my vagina just fell off. Ingat, baka maapakan niyo.

I need 2 short stories by Friday, 3 more by August, and 5 by the end of the semester. My insides are starting to shrivel, just thinking about it.

*

Sarj: "Maybe it's just me, but I don't think my heart is beating as much as it shoiuld."

Sasha: *blink blink* Me, I feel like my heart is beating too fast.

Sarj: *nods sagely* You're excitable.

Some strange answer

Last Happy Monday in Mag:net, Kristian A-be said, "I found a poem by this Valentine person."

"Oh yeah?" I asked through a mouthful of pan de sal.

"It's called Sasha and the Poet."

Needless to say, bits of bread shot out of my nose. Oh well. 'Twas for Art's sake.

*

SASHA AND THE POET

by Jean Valentine

Sasha: I dreamed you and he
Sat under a tree being interviewed
By some invisible personage. You were saying
'They sound strange because they were lonely,
The seventeenth century,
That's why the poets sound strange today:
In the hope of some strange answer.'
Then you sang, 'hey nonny, nonny, no' and cried,
And asked him to finish. 'Quoth the potato bug,'

He said, and stood up slowly.
'By Shakespeare.' And walked away.

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.

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.