Showing posts from February, 2010

The happy horse

"im dying," her boyfriend said, raising his cigarette to his mouth, inhaling a lung full, "metaphorically." she just looks at him, her boyfriend of two years, a lit major. she grabbed her bag and dashed for the exit. "where are you going?" he screamed after her. she didn't bother to look back. "i'm running," she thought. "away from you. literally."


upon reaching the main road, she immediately hailed a cab.

"Manong, Tomas Morato po."

And step on it. As the taxi drove away, she wondered whom she would call for a drink. She took out her cellphone and scrolled down for names and numbers.

Patrick? Too brotherly.

Agnes? Too loud.

Enchong? Too gay.

Leslie? Too boring.

Maggie? Too fucked up.

She needed someone to drink with, someone who wouldn't over analyze her generalizations. Someone who would just sit there and wouldn't care. Mostly she just needed someone to drink with.

"Ah, alam ko na," she thought. …


I was about to enter the MRT station when a familiar dread came over me. I just hate security guards poking at my bag. It just makes me so angry. It’s the kind of anger that makes me froth in the mouth. Kapag sinasara ko na ang mga zipper ng bag ko pagkatapos ng isang inspection feeling ako para akong na-rape. I feel like screaming: Hayup! Mga hayuuuuup kayo! Ugh! I just find the entire exercise so demeaning. I know I look like a terrorist and that I appear to be susceptible to abuse but damn it I need some respect too! In fact, security guards and cab drivers are on top of my list of people to pulverize with an M16 once I snap out. One of these days, as God as my witness, I’m going to take up murder as a hobby.

Long live McQueen

“Nicey nicey just doesn’t do it for me.”

- Alexander McQueen

love letters

It’s 6:19am and I have a full day ahead. I had just emailed my script for today and I know that my segment producer will bite my head off once we meet later in the studio. I’ve been preoccupied with something lately. Nothing monumental but it’s distracting nonetheless. I am reading the love letters in Criticine while hoping to get picked up in Mirc. Only I don’t really want to get picked up and cheat on my boyfriend it’s just that its 6:19 in the morning and I’m kind of tired and I just need some well-deserved release.

I thought some of the letters were lovely. In Criticine, I mean. I thought the idea of sending a love letter to your favorite filmmaker is lovely. I, myself, wondered whom I would write a letter to. I thought I’d send something to Woody Allen since I just saw Annie Hall again and I fell in love with Woody and Diane and New York and Woody’s wit and Diane’s wardrobe but then I’m not exactly fully acquainted with Woody’s oeuvre. Maybe I should write one for Wong Kar Wai i…

what is he doing in my dream?

i was interviewing quentin tarantino. he was in an american idol-like show and i was trying to have him for a solo interview. in this dream, quentin is gay and he doesnt look like quentin --- big, protruding square jaw, wild eyes with a prematurely balding head. instead he looks pinoy. after i have cornered him, i ask him if he has seen any of filipino indie movies. "how cliche," he told me. other reporters started swarming around us. a female reporter asked about blush-ons and lipstick. quentin's eyes lit up and almost immediately he began talking with much interest. i pore through my notes and when the others had finally left, i told quentin that i asked the question earlier because i thought philippine movies, despite the fact that it has already been pronounced dead, is having some sort of a renaissance courtesy of course of the independent producers. "That's stupid," he tells me. "How can there be a renaissance? Who on earth would watch movies whe…

Last station

She closed her eyes and felt for the last time the pain. And then she jumped. At first she thought it would only take a few seconds before her skull met the dry, dusty asphalt below. She knew that she would first experience extreme pain. It would probably be like slamming into a speeding car. Her synapses would probably go haywire and she would be in such excruciating pain that she would be able to hear her own scream inside her head. She would probably scream so loud that her head would explode. Then there would be darkness. Nothing but darkness. And then comfort from the darkness. And finally nothingness. At that point she would always be referred to in the past tense. She would be part of history. Someone who once existed. Someone who was once
real. This thought made her smile. It gave her enough strength.

But as she dove into the empty street, she saw the sky. Clear, blue sky. She saw the shocked faces peering down from the platform above. She heard the screams and the traffic bel…