Merry, Happy
Spread good cheer! Otherwise, what're we here for? You're all red with the blush of the substance. That is good too, I guess. The world's too mad to keep sane and sober, eh?
Keep your vomit in for a while. Not yet, not until you're in one of those rooms of dire comfort. Spread good cheer! Keep your comforts in.
Let these days be merry for you. Let both the new and the old faces of the dual god reflect your happiness. It is possible, you know. We will sing with friends. We will sing with fine or cracked voices. We will sing! The important song is that which is sung heartily and lustily. Let all your songs be matters of life-and-death then! That should be glad and lively enough! Must you sing your sorrow? Then sing it, put the mic down, and drown it with a mug of something more black. Then gulp and sing the important song.
We will cheer you on!
Let your voice become people, events, ideas, loves. Let it be several yesterdays to remember what you hold on to. Let it be all the dreams to declare what you hold out for. Let your song become this today, this song, this pure consciousness of your own voice.
Spread good cheer! Then smile your red smile and bow.
Don't lurch though. We will not throw up here.
Dis 24, 2003
Dis 18, 2003
UPLB Last Day 2003
This is the record of my last hours at UPLB for the year 2003. Nothing important happened. At least nothing to the sensational level of Blas Ople or Saddam Hussein. I'm just some Dennis anyway. What do you expect?
I just need to commit this to a better memory.
I wake up at dawn to finish up on checking and grading the exams and essays of my criticism class. My black bile seems to have fermented over my dreamless sleep. I try to detoxify it with leftover chocolate cake and take it all down (or at the least, dilute it) with strong, creamless coffee.
I am ahead of my own schedule so I read and edit at a comfortable pace. The past months taught me that it does not do much to rush. It remains a bitter lesson. This is how it is, the months said: "The substance of melancholy is a subtle poison. Stir it too slowly and the bile will clot into a paralyzing tar. Stir it too fast and you risk combustion." There is an art to this. The black fluids and white spaces of life demand a constant, disciplined motion from the man.
I am not afraid of either stasis or explosion. There are things to consider though and so I will fear both until the students' semester is over. For now, I stir with teaspoon, then with red pen.
The cocks are crowing, answering each other as if every assertion is a question. This colloquium of dawn pockmarks the silence of dawn without destroying it. The cocks fill it, make it more eloquent. They make the silence come alive like punctuation marks on the great sentences.
Or have I just mixed my frustrations in editing and pretensions to poetry?
I feel an affinity to the chill of December dawn here. It is unbearable and sleep-inducing when you stop too long. When you move though, it is friendly; it caresses your will - like a spent woman - when you work.
Still, my favorite part of the day in Los Banos is its morning. Despite the face it wears, it is always fresh, vital, and promising in its silence. I bathe in cold water to challenge the geese of my skin and take them to submission. Then I gather the germ of this day with a calm stride.
The workers pound and saw their way somewhere on top of our cubicles. A colleague stands beneath the hole in the ceiling, trying to figure out some secret order behind the beats. He does not notice my approach and I stand very close to him and breathe on his nape to startle him. I succeed. He curses and bellows as I say good morning. He seeks justice from other teachers and I laugh my loud, hollow laugh.
I work some under the rising chatter and pounding. I collect my grading sheets from my desk and exit my department with the plan of finishing the records at the nearby canteen in SEARCA. I get myself a good seat. I am too early for any company except for employees. I am too early for breakfast. The burners are preoccupied with the pots and pans but the only finished product is a plate of fried eggs. I work first.
I register all my grades an hour and a half later and take up "The Crucible" of Miller. I do not get far with it. A fellow passed me with his tray and I learn of breakfast that way. I choose sweet chorizos with a fried egg and a double serving of rice. I concoct my sauce. Because I take my time with the food and the play, the other fellow finishes up ahead with his newspaper. I don't mind except that the cleaners and cooks barely notice me in my nook. So they kid around and some girl or other begins a discussion of pubic hair. I leave Miller's Salem for a while and try to get the jokes. One of them comes across me on her way to install glasses by the steel jug. She starts a bit, then shouts to the jokers to shut up because a customer is present. I wish they do not stop. The joker continues; she either did not hear or did not care. I am further amused by the efforts of this woman with the glasses to try and shut the joker up while beside herself with laughter. I do not keep my smile. But I keep my stare down my book and food.
I text the group leaders to tell their members that they can retrieve their submissions. I want them to note my marginal notes and sometimes copious reactions. I subtly advise them by telling them to "make the best of the season." Some of their papers bleed red, black, and blue because I could not make up my mind which ink seems less vicious. I do hope they make the best of the season.
On my way out, I see a student with her face almost on her chicken macaroni soup. She seemed to enjoy it. I remember how that felt, before I was contaminated with the awful need for refinement. It is indeed wonderful to stoop low with your face so close to the soup. It is intimate that way. You taste the soup down with tongue while feeling it rise to the skin of your face, its steam taking its well-herbed odors to your hungry nostrils. I wish I could eat like that again, with the gusto of my entire self. I take my unfolding wishlist outside and proceed to the department with the papers and blue books.
I deposit the payload on my desk and head for my unit to encode the grades. After this chore, I inform my co-teacher that I will not join him for lunch as previously planned. That done, I figure it will take him around three and a half hours before he comes. We'll proceed to Manila together. He plans to cap off his year by having his playwriting class sing "Pasko na Sinta Ko." I watch a film. The Hours. Have you seen it?
I finish the film, deeply satisfied with my choice ending. My friend knocks. I hand him the dalandan he left. He says he really left it for new year, you know, the lucky round fruits thing. I aim for his face, a cue for him to grab it from me. I make sure the jalousies are shut, the plugs are pulled, and everything is prepared to be coated by the dust of my absence. I lock up. We take the jeep to the bus station.
I count the minutes before I'm home. Have a nice day.
This is the record of my last hours at UPLB for the year 2003. Nothing important happened. At least nothing to the sensational level of Blas Ople or Saddam Hussein. I'm just some Dennis anyway. What do you expect?
I just need to commit this to a better memory.
I wake up at dawn to finish up on checking and grading the exams and essays of my criticism class. My black bile seems to have fermented over my dreamless sleep. I try to detoxify it with leftover chocolate cake and take it all down (or at the least, dilute it) with strong, creamless coffee.
I am ahead of my own schedule so I read and edit at a comfortable pace. The past months taught me that it does not do much to rush. It remains a bitter lesson. This is how it is, the months said: "The substance of melancholy is a subtle poison. Stir it too slowly and the bile will clot into a paralyzing tar. Stir it too fast and you risk combustion." There is an art to this. The black fluids and white spaces of life demand a constant, disciplined motion from the man.
I am not afraid of either stasis or explosion. There are things to consider though and so I will fear both until the students' semester is over. For now, I stir with teaspoon, then with red pen.
The cocks are crowing, answering each other as if every assertion is a question. This colloquium of dawn pockmarks the silence of dawn without destroying it. The cocks fill it, make it more eloquent. They make the silence come alive like punctuation marks on the great sentences.
Or have I just mixed my frustrations in editing and pretensions to poetry?
I feel an affinity to the chill of December dawn here. It is unbearable and sleep-inducing when you stop too long. When you move though, it is friendly; it caresses your will - like a spent woman - when you work.
Still, my favorite part of the day in Los Banos is its morning. Despite the face it wears, it is always fresh, vital, and promising in its silence. I bathe in cold water to challenge the geese of my skin and take them to submission. Then I gather the germ of this day with a calm stride.
The workers pound and saw their way somewhere on top of our cubicles. A colleague stands beneath the hole in the ceiling, trying to figure out some secret order behind the beats. He does not notice my approach and I stand very close to him and breathe on his nape to startle him. I succeed. He curses and bellows as I say good morning. He seeks justice from other teachers and I laugh my loud, hollow laugh.
I work some under the rising chatter and pounding. I collect my grading sheets from my desk and exit my department with the plan of finishing the records at the nearby canteen in SEARCA. I get myself a good seat. I am too early for any company except for employees. I am too early for breakfast. The burners are preoccupied with the pots and pans but the only finished product is a plate of fried eggs. I work first.
I register all my grades an hour and a half later and take up "The Crucible" of Miller. I do not get far with it. A fellow passed me with his tray and I learn of breakfast that way. I choose sweet chorizos with a fried egg and a double serving of rice. I concoct my sauce. Because I take my time with the food and the play, the other fellow finishes up ahead with his newspaper. I don't mind except that the cleaners and cooks barely notice me in my nook. So they kid around and some girl or other begins a discussion of pubic hair. I leave Miller's Salem for a while and try to get the jokes. One of them comes across me on her way to install glasses by the steel jug. She starts a bit, then shouts to the jokers to shut up because a customer is present. I wish they do not stop. The joker continues; she either did not hear or did not care. I am further amused by the efforts of this woman with the glasses to try and shut the joker up while beside herself with laughter. I do not keep my smile. But I keep my stare down my book and food.
I text the group leaders to tell their members that they can retrieve their submissions. I want them to note my marginal notes and sometimes copious reactions. I subtly advise them by telling them to "make the best of the season." Some of their papers bleed red, black, and blue because I could not make up my mind which ink seems less vicious. I do hope they make the best of the season.
On my way out, I see a student with her face almost on her chicken macaroni soup. She seemed to enjoy it. I remember how that felt, before I was contaminated with the awful need for refinement. It is indeed wonderful to stoop low with your face so close to the soup. It is intimate that way. You taste the soup down with tongue while feeling it rise to the skin of your face, its steam taking its well-herbed odors to your hungry nostrils. I wish I could eat like that again, with the gusto of my entire self. I take my unfolding wishlist outside and proceed to the department with the papers and blue books.
I deposit the payload on my desk and head for my unit to encode the grades. After this chore, I inform my co-teacher that I will not join him for lunch as previously planned. That done, I figure it will take him around three and a half hours before he comes. We'll proceed to Manila together. He plans to cap off his year by having his playwriting class sing "Pasko na Sinta Ko." I watch a film. The Hours. Have you seen it?
I finish the film, deeply satisfied with my choice ending. My friend knocks. I hand him the dalandan he left. He says he really left it for new year, you know, the lucky round fruits thing. I aim for his face, a cue for him to grab it from me. I make sure the jalousies are shut, the plugs are pulled, and everything is prepared to be coated by the dust of my absence. I lock up. We take the jeep to the bus station.
I count the minutes before I'm home. Have a nice day.
Dis 6, 2003
Filler
you cannot quit me so quickly
there's no hope in you for me
no corner you could squeeze me
but i've got all the time for you love
the space between the tears we cried
is the laughter that keeps us coming back for more
the space between the wicked lies we tell
and the hope to keep safe from the pain
but will i hold you again?
The cursor on the white electronic notepad asks me to make sense again. I take and move it without agreeing with it. Sense is neither my anvil nor my metal. I cannot make it. The cursor has no say in the matter. It's mine.
I need greater fire for my forge because of the chill of December's first week. The damned chill interferes even with the tempering of my irons. I feel the need to pour my Ahab-blood into the working of this weapon. The devil take it! That should heat it up.
these fickle, fuddled words confuse me
like will it rain today?
we waste the hours with talking and talking
these twisted games we play
we estrange our lives with warring hearts
while the wild-eyed and amazed you'll be
the space between the wicked lies we tell
and the hope to keep safe from the pain
but will i hold you again?
will i hold you?
My brother watches basketball contests from a fetal position on the sofa. The day will come when I will give him a show. He will sit up then. Or rise. Meanwhile, the music of Matthews plays in my head and I drive the cursor. Further. I am in Makati but I am not here.
The Bay of Laguna is a walking distance from my niche in Los Banos. Walking distance is not a good index of any distance though. I've long known that I can walk distances that drive stronger people insane. I still think I'm most sane when I'm on my feet, putting one before the other and the other before the other that came before. And so. Forth.
Look at us spinning out
in the madness of a rollercoaster
you know you went up like a devil
in a touch in the middle of a crowded room
all we could do my love is hope
we don't take this ship down
Both of my parents have something to attend to today. So do both of my sisters. They divide the capital region among the four of them. The day of distances will come and those who came before will have their seats and fetal positions before their games. The four who came after will divide the world among themselves.
I am neither in Laguna nor in Makati. I cannot sense any of the world beneath my feet. I have only eyes for the black cursor. I have them, these eyes wired to my simian brain, and I see white heat, red metal, and yellow sparks. I have ears for the music tuned to the 24 second shot clock, the whistles, the cheers, the cool commentators' excited voices, and the music in my head. My fingers tap the keys lightly but I hear the fell mallet angry on metal and the sweat of my arms slapping against the skin of my sides.
the space between your smiling eyes
is where you'll find me if i get to go
the space between the bullets in the firefight
is you'll find me hiding waiting for you
the rain that falls splash in your heart around
like sadness down down the window into
the space between the wicked lies we tell
is the hope to keep safe from pain
take my hand as we're walking out of here
right out of here
love is all we need dear
It won't be long now until the cursor will know its defeat. It will not find sense because I am not the province of sense. And from where I stand, this place without earth, I cannot make it. It is not mine. Only the cursor is, and I drive it further with blows, calling it by its name. Cursor. It won't be long now until my father will sit down then lie and my brother will sit up then stand. It won't be long now until they divide the world among themselves.
I will take only this lake, this mythic, filthy flower between Rizal and Laguna. I will get there. Then the hunt will commence where I cannot walk. I will see froth and cloud as one and know heaven and water. I will hear sweat and tears on torsos and cheeks. I will feel my blood live anew, apart from me, my vital tool. But for now, among flames and blows of wind, flesh, and hammer, there is only the forging of this. My weapon.
the space between your heart and mine
is space to fill the time
the space between
you cannot quit me so quickly
there's no hope in you for me
no corner you could squeeze me
but i've got all the time for you love
the space between the tears we cried
is the laughter that keeps us coming back for more
the space between the wicked lies we tell
and the hope to keep safe from the pain
but will i hold you again?
The cursor on the white electronic notepad asks me to make sense again. I take and move it without agreeing with it. Sense is neither my anvil nor my metal. I cannot make it. The cursor has no say in the matter. It's mine.
I need greater fire for my forge because of the chill of December's first week. The damned chill interferes even with the tempering of my irons. I feel the need to pour my Ahab-blood into the working of this weapon. The devil take it! That should heat it up.
these fickle, fuddled words confuse me
like will it rain today?
we waste the hours with talking and talking
these twisted games we play
we estrange our lives with warring hearts
while the wild-eyed and amazed you'll be
the space between the wicked lies we tell
and the hope to keep safe from the pain
but will i hold you again?
will i hold you?
My brother watches basketball contests from a fetal position on the sofa. The day will come when I will give him a show. He will sit up then. Or rise. Meanwhile, the music of Matthews plays in my head and I drive the cursor. Further. I am in Makati but I am not here.
The Bay of Laguna is a walking distance from my niche in Los Banos. Walking distance is not a good index of any distance though. I've long known that I can walk distances that drive stronger people insane. I still think I'm most sane when I'm on my feet, putting one before the other and the other before the other that came before. And so. Forth.
Look at us spinning out
in the madness of a rollercoaster
you know you went up like a devil
in a touch in the middle of a crowded room
all we could do my love is hope
we don't take this ship down
Both of my parents have something to attend to today. So do both of my sisters. They divide the capital region among the four of them. The day of distances will come and those who came before will have their seats and fetal positions before their games. The four who came after will divide the world among themselves.
I am neither in Laguna nor in Makati. I cannot sense any of the world beneath my feet. I have only eyes for the black cursor. I have them, these eyes wired to my simian brain, and I see white heat, red metal, and yellow sparks. I have ears for the music tuned to the 24 second shot clock, the whistles, the cheers, the cool commentators' excited voices, and the music in my head. My fingers tap the keys lightly but I hear the fell mallet angry on metal and the sweat of my arms slapping against the skin of my sides.
the space between your smiling eyes
is where you'll find me if i get to go
the space between the bullets in the firefight
is you'll find me hiding waiting for you
the rain that falls splash in your heart around
like sadness down down the window into
the space between the wicked lies we tell
is the hope to keep safe from pain
take my hand as we're walking out of here
right out of here
love is all we need dear
It won't be long now until the cursor will know its defeat. It will not find sense because I am not the province of sense. And from where I stand, this place without earth, I cannot make it. It is not mine. Only the cursor is, and I drive it further with blows, calling it by its name. Cursor. It won't be long now until my father will sit down then lie and my brother will sit up then stand. It won't be long now until they divide the world among themselves.
I will take only this lake, this mythic, filthy flower between Rizal and Laguna. I will get there. Then the hunt will commence where I cannot walk. I will see froth and cloud as one and know heaven and water. I will hear sweat and tears on torsos and cheeks. I will feel my blood live anew, apart from me, my vital tool. But for now, among flames and blows of wind, flesh, and hammer, there is only the forging of this. My weapon.
the space between your heart and mine
is space to fill the time
the space between
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