Showing posts from February, 2014

this afternoon

I am here in this cafe on a slow, quiet afternoon reading a book. For now, the pain and sorrow are at bay. My life seems momentarily frozen in this hour and I am glad that I am aware of the simple pleasure this moment is giving me. I try to place it among the other things that give me pleasure. Definitely it is not the same as fucking under the influence when my skin breaks into a thousand mouths voracious for sensation. But my head is similarly ensconced up in the clouds. Yes I do derive pleasure, in this moment, right here, right now, as the sun sets and I have on the table a half-empty cup of coffee, a book that has been read half-way and a smouldering cigarette about to be extinguished to a stub.

night time blues

Damien has an almost obsessive fear of night.  The sight of the setting sun alone is enough to make him anxious. His heart beats a little faster. “Artificial light is no use against the darkness,” he once told his sister. “I could still feel it encroaching me like a heavy breathing cloak.” But what it is about night time that scares him so much, he couldn’t tell. All he knows is that when night comes he could feel every part of his body being torn apart as if his innards are being pulled by imaginary vultures. “Oh they do come,” he told her. “They come every night under the stealth of darkness and they go straight for my heart, ripping it out of my chest and I could do nothing but endure the excruciating pain.”
But, of course, just like Prometheus’ liver, by the next day, Damien always finds his heart whole again.   

When one falls in love, one suddenly becomes aware of the time and distance between him and his beloved. One begins to wonder if by any chance he is also thinking of him…

sabi nga ng ciudad: 'there's a lonely road to sunday night'

If I’m really brave I’ll stop fooling myself into believing that I like what I’m doing. I’ll just walk away and find new means of paying the bills. But the thing is I don’t really know what I want anymore. My mood’s fucked up. My mind is fucked up. I’m an emotional wreck and I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. Sometimes there are thoughts that come up like a mirage on an extremely lonely week. Should I follow these thoughts and see where it would lead me?
It’s a Joni Mitchell night and hopefully a bottle of gin will materialize beside my laptop. Cig, gin and a blank sheet of paper, these would probably make my night right. But if I’m really brave I wouldn’t smoke tonight. I wouldn’t drink tonight.  I wouldn’t fuck. I would just ride the funk out. Detox. And write. Just fucking write.


It’s past midnight. I am not writing. I’m listening to old Bamboo songs with cigarette burning on an ashtray and a tepid gin on my side. I need to have my head checked. Seriously. 

si conchita at si marcelino

“Marcelito! Marcelito!” sigaw ni Conchita sa kanyang kasama. Nakasilip siya sa munting siwang mula kanilang pintuan, pinagmamasdan ang mga kapit-bahay.
Nagmadaling lumapit si Marcelito. “Ano ba yan?”
“Hay naku, etong mga kapit-bahay natin, walang tigil kung maka-chismis!”
“O anong chismis?”
“Etong katabi natin, aalis na daw.”
“Ah, yung matandang yun.”
“Naku, inis na inis talaga ako sa matandang yun.”
“Oo nga, ke-tanda-tanda na nagko-kolorete pa sa mukha! Ang asim pa ng amoy. Nakakasuka!”
“Nung minsan ngang nakasalubong ko siya inisniban ko nga!”
“Dapat lang! Buti na lang at aalis na ang matandang yan e kung hindi kakagatin ko talaga siya. Magkademandahan na kung magkademandahan!”
“Huy, Marcelito, wag ka ngang ganyan. Delikado yan! Gusto mo bang pati amo natin eh mapatalsik sa apartment na ito.”
Nag-iba ang timpla ng mukha ni Marcelito. Bumalik siya sa kinauupuan at kinuha ang bolang kanina pang pinaglalaruan.
“Eh mabuti na siguro kung ganun,” sabi niya kay Conchita. “Eh mukhang nalulungkot lang…

What is a piece of land if you can't call it home?

What is shame in a moment of desperation? Stripped bare in conflict with the mind going haywire, she struggles to keep her feet on the ground, on a piece of land that she doesn’t own and is now being taken away from her.
This is her home, she thinks. In this small piece of muddy land where she was born and where she gave birth to her sons and daughters.  
And this is her country. She has never known any place other than this one. And now it feels as if she is being ripped from its very womb.

If this isn’t home then where is it?