My Orison

My soul

is a pen

about to lose ink

fill me up again

i don't want to be

a useless

empty shell.

Today I Am Wearing

Plum-colored jeans.
Faded sky.
Shell-gray shoes.
Devil's tears.
Snow-white confessions.

Wishing Well

Into this well of Night I let go of yet another treasured memory of you seeing through me with nothing but your unsuspecting heart.

This treasured memory we both know to be just one of the countless times that you’ve seen through me, seen through me, with nothing but your oh so trusting soul.

This treasured memory so like the others yet so distinct, unique on its own.

Down, down, down it goes…

So there it goes—falling into the darkness, the silence, the Mouth of Oblivion closing with every creeping second that tugs at the hot blinding ribbons of morning sun.

Morning sun might dry it up and seal it shut.

A gift from me to myself—a brand new day, as they say, or

One memory, precious, shining, like a gold coin tossed along with a wish into a dark but charming well

But one can only wish too well…

(Sigh)

I wish I can let you go.

Easily.

Just like this.

I See Why You Must Pretend to be Fast Asleep

Every bold caress I make
Is a knock on your hardwood heart

For answer, there were your sighs,
Your barely-there moans

Punctuating each steady slide of hand
On smooth toasty skin

How do I begin

To think when
It’s sweltering beneath the linen sheets

I stare, transfixed at

Sweat beads blooming through your pores
Purifying your skin

Of the day’s dust and dreariness
Nothing but a sharp tang on the tongue

That I touched you with
Shocked you with

Bolts of curious desire

A fire you didn’t want to die in

Smuggled In By Tim

I had a laid back delightful night of cakes, conversation, and quirks with Pipit and Tim. I've written quite a bit about Pipit so I'm going to zoom in to Tim.

Tim. Crazy pudgy child prodigy. Perfected his very own complex but logical system of writing. Learned PHP all by himself. Stirred a triangle of chocolate Toblerone into his Mandarin Orange Soda. Smuggled me in The Spectrum Bodega. Nothing abominable happened, so kindly breathe easy everbody.

Would he so mind if I say here that he smuggled me in his lifesphere, past his complicated Doubt and Suspicion and Inscrutability Systems? I think so. He's terribly shy. Which makes him blush an alarming Del Monte Tomato Sauce red. Which makes him feel ultra self-conscious. Which makes him cackle uncontrollably. Which is 50 percent lethal-50 percent life-extending for him. Whatever. The point is, he would mind. Though I won't, that he would. Blog ko kaya 'to!

Remember what Pipit said about us being the cakes that we ordered, Tim? She's the Strawberry Mouse Cake (ekratan); I'm the Pistacchio Sans Rival (mahirap ispellingin) and, you're the Banana Cream Pie (sexually suggestive.) Makes sense, di ba? Whatever that means. Heart communication does the trick.

Basta next time, I won't be breaking the rules on your account. Being contraband feels exciting and sinful and grabe, but the scorch wears off faster than I could say "Wait!"

*Learn more about Tim at timothythegray.com; you might want to buy something he happens to be selling.

When Tomorrow Comes

look for me in the woods

in the heart of the quiet

wonder of trees hugging

one another in whorled

commiseration

One Day, Everything Will Rise

(for Jay, who wrote One Day, Everything Would Fall)

one day, everything will rise

saguaro cactuses stabbing skies,
pinning cumulus clouds in place

shoots from century-shamed trees,
forming arms instead of leaves

arms hugging moon
fiercely,
stirring storm into Fury

stares from eyes wide shut
cries from sewn shut lips

like dust from the pores of weary skyscrapers
flying amok in the steady flood of light

wings
where shoulder blades used to be

daggers from pin cushions
blood clot from deep lacerations

souls in resurrection
like sunshine ending the reign of shadows
or Hope surviving the deathly hallows

yes Hope, never-ending.

Desire on fire
in long hibernating hearts

weeds choking walls
of Hate

deeds, building walls
of Brotherhood and Faith

in Joy,
where none had ever really smiled

yes, Joy,
where none had ever really cried

oh, tears
and rain too
all falling into the sky

falling ever so freely like Love

oh, yes, Love

like poetry not needing words
lovers not choosing death

nations not going to war
or heroes turned villains turned heroes

or i, praying

i, singing
with you,

tender sprigs from the rubble of Nothingness
or winged wonders out of the Dark Chrysalis

blooming fuchsia, tangerine, cerulean,
vermilion, puce, chartreuse

and by far, many a truce

bets
on this game
this Life

all Changes
and lucky stars
out of terrible quasars

you, unbowed
unrelenting

here with me
burning,
rising

like the Legendary Phoenix
out of the ashes of Disbelief,

of Grief,

or the little children in us
outgrowing blind obedience
becoming who we truly are

becoming Miracles

yes, us
like tides from thirst-killed oceans,

like secrets,
or the unknown past bound by
scrolls from all the dead seas.

prophecies.

freed. free. at last.

No Matter What I Tell Myself

I am

scarred soul hiding from the world.

Alberto

a frog’s head
nothing but

a fuzzy faded
olive frog’s head

sporting
a pair of soiled sclera

and pitch-black pupils
that don’t see at all

haha
they don’t see at all

but Alberto
is my friend

and I can see
even if he can’t

I can feel
co’z he can’t

I have everything
that he doesn’t

which is enough
for the both of us

Childhood

elephant-size
cottonball
soaked in
a honeyed pot
of survival
stories

Upon Waking Up This Morning I Said

I deserve to know
what’s inside my head,

what’s making it so
impossibly heavy

to carry around lately.

But while for the answers
I am here waiting, I can

only pray I don’t fall
into a lake or something.

Unfinished Business in Filipino

ngayong gabi
ako'y malayang
nagsusulat

walang sinumang
mapanupil ang
makakaligtas

sa kapalarang
guhit ng aking
matalas

at dumudugong
sandata.
/
paano pa kaya tutula
ang talang tinakluban
ng mapanlinlang langit?
/
kung mag-igib kaya ako
sa bukal ng iyong hinuha
ng mga pira-pirasong alala

ng mga nakaraang Paraisong
hindi mapagkakailang nakamtan
ng nilalang na katulad mo?

makakamtan ko rin kaya
ang kalayaang minsan
mong natamasa kapiling

ang mga talang
kulay bahaghari
/
tingin
sa malayo
sa hindi pa
kailanman
naabot
ng mortal
na paningin

damhin
ang hugis
ng mga planetang
hulma sa mukha
ng Manlilikha

tiisin
ang hapdi
ng pagkasunog
ng mga talang
sing ningning
ng iyong
pagkakasala

sa sugundong
pagtakip
ng Kahapon

magigising
ang tunay
na Ikaw
/
malaya ang buwan

kumakanta
nagliliwaliw

nung minsa'y kaniig
nating dalawa
ang kapwa bilanggo

sa maitim na kawalan
ng dilat nating mga mata

matalinghaga

ang sabay
na pagkakakilanlan

ng mga kaluluwang
hinagpis ang siyang

ikinabubuhay
sa laot ng mapait

na Pag-asa

nang bumuka
ang ating mga bibig

nagwala na parang
mapusok na usok

ang katanungang:
nasaan ba ang langit?
/
ang puso ko'y biyolin.
kung sana alam mong tumugtog nito.

Resilience

the day is cold.
half-dead.

dragged across the
hard craggy face

of this earth by
a raging silver wind.

beaten by the tens
of thousand fists

of the rain.
yet i remain.

vibrant and supple.
alive and afire.

and growing ever
so steadfastly

in love. with you.

Futility

inside a cage
of iron mesh

on a bed of
egyptian lace

bedecked with
blackgold

stilettos
is a heart

shaped like
a rose

red like
a vampire's lips

alone like
a work of art

kept from
the world

by the greed
and vanity

of the one
who bought it

but cannot
ever truly

possess it

Makes Sense

the sky is blue gray today.

the sea, a greenish brown.

i see long stretches of yellowgold fields.

i see color in every second-shot

every unfrozen frame of simultaneous

multiple existence of wonder both known

and unfathomable.

this is all. that there is.

that we are. is true. is sure.

makes sense.

Transient

lost. in transit.
in transition.

heart.
needing change.

translocare.
moving house.
moving on.

moving. thoughts.
affections. limbs.

in limbo. by myself.
neither tangos nor fandangos.
flamencos.

the way through all this.
must be swift. short.
searing.

Freedom

then there's the sun.
fiercely giving. burning.

mirroring my thoughts
those little screenshots of me

kissing you. showing you.
what Truth is.

and Madness. Love. Despair.
all that they should mean so well.

like Hell. breaking loose.
setting free the desires of desires.

what can i do with this heart
so like Pandora's quiet little box?

Monotony

today. not unlike the others.
i am ebbing silver sea

on a black sand shore.
i couldn't be more.

i can't escape my fate,
the way i drain into

the half-dead horizon
with the rising of the moon.

I Don't Know Much

...But I know I love you.
Let me be all I need to know.

No Birthday Wish Too Late

lend me the space
in which i will be
the script filling

row upon row
of nothingness
with colors

and light
and love
and me.

let me write about me.
let me be the I
who writes about it all,

who wants to know,
to be sure,
that sometime

in all lifetimes
he has really,
truly lived.

P for Predicament

sun and fish
longing to kiss

but how could it be?
there's more between them

than just the sea

-for Pipit

The Next Ten Minutes

drip. drip. drip...
went my spirit.

i am candle
burning out bright

my life's statement
is my light.

Unbearable Lightness

me.
floating in

a whirlwind
of feathers

plucked from
the whitest

sacrificial
doves.

Come?

to make myself stop not hoping.
i'm tired of not hoping.

i'm tired of dreaming moonshine.
and greenest meadows.

and soft nightwinds.
and holding you. close. still.

whispering to your face, Life.
Magic. Dreams. Us.

Wednesday Resolve

Breathe you.
I must stop breathing you.
Even if it means Death.
Painful than asphyxia.
More gruesome than drowning
Or taking gas.

It’ll be
hanging from
the gallows of Love
suspended.

So spend I
the precious seconds
not breathing you.

And November scents.
Your unsaid sentences.
Songs. Clouds.
Memories. Hope. This.

Wednesday Morning

mornings.
explosions of
yellowhot Hope
across the sky,
upon us all,
they say.

what can I say?

how can I a child of Gloom
ever so truly say I know
the Light they speak of, when

I can’t find it deep inside?
when it can only cast me as
a lone shadow against
the beaming face of Life?

I know I am nothing more
I can’t be more
consequential than that.

Routine

A new day.
Another sun melting on us.

Another stream of minutes and hours.
A sea of ways to follow bliss.

But what is all of this,
When the heart remains the same?

Holding on. To you.

Jeprox and Pipit

Jeprox: Why does happiness have to come in bits, sharp little grains of Love and Light, seeking the most vulnerable part of us, sinking deep into our souls, making us whole in what we can only hope to be?

Pipit: Do you feel that way now?

Jeprox: More than I thought I would.

Pipit: (Sigh) Basta ako, happiness is there so long as it’s not gone. Whatever form it might take.

Jeprox: I’m slipping into ‘downtime’ again. Help.

Pipit: Where ka?

Jeprox: At work. Imagine.

L'attimo Presente

full moon ngayon.
nagdadrama ang mundo.
pati ako.

masaya.
matalinghaga.
amazing.

feeling ko
ako buo.

Outgoing Mail

Jeroen, been working hard since last week: late nights in front of the computer, swamped by survey papers, and all that jazz. I had it all coming. No worries, I’ll get over the worst that things could get around here.


I miss reading your e-mails; I know you are very busy too. Doctors weren’t made to be couch potatoes. I really appreciate the one sentence birthday greeting you dropped for me yesterday. Thank you. When is your birthday, by the way? So I may have the chance to return your kindness.


Your fratello is now 23. That leaves me with 57 years to work on really living Life and winging it. You see, I have a gut feeling I’ll live no further than 80. And some would argue that even that is wishful thinking. Whatever. I wish I’d live to be a ‘full 80 someday.’


Take care of yourself, wherever you may be. I’m hanging on here too, as most people in this tired world do. My writing has somehow run out for the time being. I can’t bleed words all the time fratello. It hurts me so.

/
Dear Jamie, it’s 1:39 AM here. Still have some more work to do. Usual bane of researchers: quantitative data encoding. I have a long tube of Pond’s Clear Solutions in front of me. It has seen me fuss and sigh every other minute for the last 3 hours that I’ve been working. Time for a break. A sandwich. Green tea with honey. A facial wash.


The point is: I’m somehow lonely. To think that it was my birthday just two hours and forty-four minutes ago. My nails somehow badly need a trim. I need to get the dirt and wax off my hair. I need days off. I need.


Tell you what, Little One, hope. Go on and hope. Kakapoy mag indi mag-hope. Take kuya’s word for it. Love, Kuya.

/
Tin, wish you were here. Pipit and I went to SM this afternoon. Window shopped, ate fast food. Talked. We agreed we both miss you so. Guess you’ll make it home for Christmas, no?


So much has happened to me these last couple of months. I call it ‘cooking a revolution of Love.’ Long story. Something to do with my joining the Focolare [a catholic-intiated ecumenical spiritual movement about ‘unity in love.’]


Speaking of love, the object of my affections gets me feeling a little black and bleak. But we’ve talked about this countless of times before, right? And each time I kept hearing myself, ‘it’s a no-win situation right from the start anyway.’ Nevertheless, I’m feeling my way around it. Processing. Processing. Is it a good-bad thing? Take your pick: diminishing marginal utility or dependency/addiction.


I go through my days hoping the nights would cease to be black and full of stars. I can’t take all this wonder anymore. It makes me want to burst when the most I could do is shrink.


I know you’d get past the melancholia, Kuya.

/
Kimee, new e-mail ko ‘to. You know naman me, may issue with ‘permanence.’ Musta?

At This Hour

I am a November snowflake--at once restless and peaceful.

Chiara Inspired

Every heart is a hearth of Love
Its warmth is felt only when it's open

Melancholia in Three Parts

I. last night, i saw sunrise pouring like a flaming waterfall into the starless sky. this morning i woke up to find it kissing my face. as if it wants me, loves me, for all the darkness in my soul.

II. another day of missing you. another sun burning out bright. extra kinesthetic winds. what do i know of nothingness, when i have all this?

III. take me. surrender me. to the breeze. to the purest rain. today. i am ashes of my fondest dreams suffering the kiss of this bloodred earth hugging a hopeful paradise and a generation of dead men dying to be born again. only to be killed again. what do i know of Choice? what do i know of Choice? when it is not mine to make?

The Vigil

dawn passing into morn
saw our heads so close together
on the soft muslin pillow

my eyes wide open took in
the smooth white skin serenely
covering your unfettered sleep

there’s so much wonder in
the mere rise and fall of your chest
as air played in and out your lungs

with your head close to mine
only a lucid whisper separating us
i drank willfully the sight of you in repose,

breathed in deeply
your long rhythmic sighs,
felt the course springy hair on your

head, marveled how its scent—
soap, sleep, and something else,
something only you possess, can make

me feel all sorts of things at once:
electrified bees in my stomach,
vines of desire creeping through my veins,

Hope finding its way in
the abandoned dungeons of the heart;
knowing Light for the second time

each time your lazy limbs
brushed a patch of my anticipating
body—I feel so deliciously alive,

a bonfire blazing boldly
at the first kiss of fire, licking the skies,
throwing no caution, but rage, to the winds

how could I bask in all this?
how could I so recklessly hope
it is Love sleeping so closely

before me, warming me
all over, stirring all the
wonder I could muster

how could I risk second death on
my newfound shot at somethingness?
the heart can only want so much when

Love can only give one fine bedfellow
lost in the folds of Oblivion while
I drown in my silent wishes

each one fading like smoke
from stoic vigil candles,
blown by uncaring zephyrs

The Secret Keeper

Across the churchyard we walked
You touched my shoulder with
Your lazy trusting hand (softly I sighed)
You looked me in the eye as if
You did it all the time
In another lifetime long ago

I felt my heart blossom
Like a newborn lily drinking rain
After a long season of sun
I let the spot your hand claimed
Burn for as long as it can
For as long as I can hang on
To the childish way you twist
Your lips, the twinkle of mirth
In your precocious hazel eyes,
The feel of your smile, so smooth,
Like buttermilk on the tongue

You talk to me as if
We have known each other to be
Each other’s secret keeper
All our lives—indeed I am
A secret keeper:
How I get a rainbow glow
Inside whenever I look at you,
Feel you, touch you, taste you
In the draught of your breath,
What little of it I can breathe in
Secretly

As we walk out of the churchyard
As I walk into trouble I know
As I walk my own risk for what
It’s worth—you for what you are to me—
I blink away what I can never be to you

The Gallows

This can’t be
My last soliloquy
Of you

For how can the moon
Not shine
When the Night needs it so?

Do you need me so?

I am moon cut
Into shreds by daggers
Of steel-cold clouds

I know you do not need me so.

For you love someone else
Someone everyone would say
Is right for you than me

What is Me?

A lover of Night
Never of courage to face the sun
And see under its light

The faultlines that bear witness
To a life begrudged of release
Oh, to hell with that

As this can’t be
My last soliloquy
Of you

Let Me

Bask in the light of your being
What little of it can be spared for me
As Night spares the weakest of moonrays

To be a string of light
Where Hope can hang from
A second before it lets go

I need you so

For how can the heart
Not feed on Love, when
It has nothing else to live on by?

Two Days After My Last Haircut

Saturday. I cut my hair again. For several reasons. I'll write about them as soon as I can. Before the week ends, I hope. Meanwhile, here are some photos of my new look taken with friends at lunch today:

I could use some more wax, you know.

With Leslie, who paid for my haircut.
Girl in tan, Ana, promised to buy me a tube of gel. But, I've already bought a tub of wax and another of hair polish.

Highlights na lang kaya ang e-shoulder mo, girl?
Hereby witnessed and documented this 22nd day of September 2008, Dunkin Donuts, Gatuslao Street, Bacolod City. (Sgd) Jeprox, (Sgd) Leslie, (Sgd) Ana.

Eleven Hundred Teardrops

I feel them all inside me
Every single one of them
Eleven hundred teardrops

Burning me charred, scarred
Eleven hundred times as much
As that first time I let you go

And now, I’m letting you go
Again, as hurtfully as I’m draining
What feels like an ocean of Pain

With every burning path each acid
Tear takes on my weary cheek
As slowly and heavily as I filled

Last night with sighs of Yesteryears
And Today, and Tomorrows blurred
By the swell of eleven hundred tears

I will free, every single one of them,
As I have set you free this second time
As I had set you free that first time too

I will take, every single one of them,
As I have embraced Life (ten hours
Running since I said we’re over) in

So many ways, as I have embraced
The shards of my broken soul cutting
Me deep: I am hurt; I am alive; I will

Live through all this: eleven hundred
Times purified and feeling like eleven
Hundred years old—and better. Amen.


*For Ana’s heart, breaking at last. Freeing her. At last.

So I Cut My Hair

Dear Mama,

I love you.

In my own way.

At my own pace.

For all Time.

Your Unpredictable Child,

Jeprox

Heartbreak-in-the-Making

Midnight came quietly
As if it knew I needed Silence
To make me listen to my thoughts

(As if one could help not hearing
Rolling thunder despite the howling
Storm—unless one is hopelessly deaf

Which I am not)

Oh well, my thoughts:

[][][][][]

How wonderful that “you”
And “me”
Became “us”

Again
After a painful setback
“Back then”

Back when, really?
Not so way-back-then
Actually

Meaning?
The scars are fresh. Pink.
Like mouths itching to tell tales.

How easily we are reminded
Of the things we make ourselves
Believe we have forgotten

Sometimes

[][][][][]

Relentlessly. Ruthlessly.

How the past never seems
To let me go and let me be
When by all means it should

Because “you” and “me”
Became “us” once more
A window shut opened as a door

Now it seems like this door
Has but two sides to it and nothing more:
What Took Place Before

And What Will, In The Future?

Stuck in the Now
Whichever way I look
I see this one thing:

Myself Where You Are Concerned

[][][][][]

Have I every reason to hurt like this?
Have I every reason not to
When I can’t seem to have you

When I so need you the most?
And when is that, pray tell?
Is it when I don’t feel you near me?

Is it when this heart I’m holding you with
Yearns to know you are carrying it too?
Or is it when I have to make do with Doubt

Because I can no longer deny it is there?

[][][][][]

How do I get to weigh things right
When I myself am floating, drifting
In an ocean of raging but repressed

ISCUFONO

Otherwise known as

EOLV?

[][][][][]

Amazing how Hurt could come in different
Ways: as sleeplessness induced by smoking
Iced Coffee; as a friend’s wounded heart wishing

It isn’t bleeding alone; or as Midnight
Falling ever so quietly upon the world
As if it knew I needed to be heard this time

Because this time, I hurt.

I hurt everywhere.

[][][][][]

Amazing how Hurt could point at different
Directions—at the same time: the Past we so
Labor to hide beneath the fragile shroud of

Our Minds; Today, which we so preoccupy
Ourselves to define and capture as our own;
And Tomorrow, which we can only hope would

Turn out for the best.

No matter how livid the scars of the heart may be.
No matter how imperious Doubt may seem.
No matter how charred the stakes could get.

No matter how “Amen” could sound like hoping against Hope…

Amen… No matter.

*I had to write this for my friend Ana, who’s going through a hell lot now, when I couldn’t make myself say “I know how you feel,” because even that is as dark and hollow as the growing tunnel of my Unknowing. The blind may not do well in leading another of his kind. But he sure can keep the other from being alone, by being there.

Trash of A Doggone-Day-Gone-Okay

The fading of another sweltering day into dusk saw Team Joshua shrugging off the fact that the August 30th paycheck has been delayed for exactly eighteen days now. Everyone in the team knew how to count, of course. Everyone knew who to blame for this major misfortune, and why. And definitely, everyone knew how infuriating the entire “state of business” is, in ways that even a 100-per-cent-salary-bonus-as-peace-offering-for-the-delay couldn’t make up for. (Flying fancy to greater heights was super fun, mind you!)

Today, however, everyone seemed too exhausted to keep belaboring the point—verbally, at least. After all, after seventeen days of nonstop ranting about it, we needed a respite. So, instead of the usual oratory and theatrics, Gani charmed an indulgent Ana with stories of the olden days (good and not-so-good ones) at La Salle, while I chatted with a Yahoo Messenger Buddy about how straining “not hoping” could be (”Kakapoy mag ‘indi mag-hope’ noh?”)

(Leslie deliberately missed the office’s afternoon scene in malum inse; some humans could only take so much of bulldung, you know)

You can say that at that moment, in eighteen days, the House of Joshua had Negative Peace (absence of direct violence i.e. breathing invectives, smashing ceramic cups against the wall et. al. but structural violence is present and people’s needs remain unmet.) I had a corny metaphorically-faulty thought for it: If a doggone day is a hotdog, at least, we fried it in butter. Whatever. Kakapoy mag “indi mag-hope” bala!

When Gani bid us goodbye, Ana and I thought we’d turn to our usual “De-stressing Activity.” We texted Leslie that we’d meet her at StarMart-East for iced coffee, junk food, and tsismis. A jeepney ride for eight minutes and the-hell-it-matters seconds and we were there. My friend Pipit also appeared, in exhilarating shades of lime and pink. We four talked about the usual stuff: Love and How It’s All That Matters Sometimes; The Merits of Junk Food; Transcending Commiseration to Proactive Empathy; Inherent Cracks in the Human Nature and How Some People Use Them as Justifications for the Stupidest Self Serving Reasons; Joshua’s Troubles Are Our Troubles; and, Whatnots. I talked like a rollercoaster with vocal chords. Leslie giggled and teased in her signature un-showbiz way. Pipit affirmed in her sweet-bitchy way. And Ana dutifully documented the proceedings, clicking her digicam at a rate of two clicks for every one sound thesis statement uttered. Whew.

Time stretched like dough in a breadstick maker’s hand. We four parted, somewhat de-stressed. Recharged. In shape Like dough in a breadstick maker’s hands.

I arrived at the bus terminal alone, relaxed, and in a life-affirming mood. The day ended fine enough. I had enough load to say “Hi” to a hundred people. The bus filled up with passengers in less than half-an-hour. The world, I was gracious to say, was okay =)

I texted Ana, Leslie, and Pipit:

Jeprox: Hope nakaabot na kamo sa inyo.

Only Ana replied. I presumed Leslie had no load and Pipit’s on webcam with a Korean needing to learn English.

Ana: Sweet ba. We’re home na. Ikaw ya?

Jeprox: Ari sa bus. Kis-a lang ko bala sweet. Nakatughung bi Iced Coffee mong. Namnamin mo na lang.

Ana: Mmm… Namit!

Jeprox: Daw… Iced Coffee ay?

Ana: Yup. Daw ikaw guid.

Jeprox: Ako Iced Coffee? Flattering. But you could have said “tuba” and it would have been more flattering.

Ana: Fartering guro. Hahaha.

Jeprox: Tuod? Wala pa ko bi katilaw sina mong. E-google ko na bala bwas. Better yet, ma “tuba” party ta bwas.

Ana: Pajama Party over tuba. Oist, Movie ta ya bwas!

Jeprox: For the First Time naman na ay? Sigh.

Ana: Ahaha. Kis-a man lang ta galantaw ah.

Jeprox: Xia, donasyon ko na lang na sa Pinoy Movie Industry. Kag sa pag-abyanay ta eh. If anything.

Ana: Yehey!

Jeprox: As always, intensyon mo ang i-misundestand ako. Kay pabor sa imo. Sigh.

Ana: That’s being too mushy.

Jeprox: Mushy? Pureed!

Ana: Woohoo. Nothing bad intended. Love you. Mwah. Mwah. Mwah.

Jeprox: Pamahid. Pamahid. Panapi.

Ana: Mwah. Mwah. Mwah.

Jeprox: Sigh.

Heaven spare me from friends of this sort. From mushy, to pureed, most probably to distilled—Dio Mio, I must steer clear of any more of these influences! But fat chance! Even For the First Time, as it is, couldn’t be much of a help. I wish Tomorrow would come ten minutes late and ten times better than today. Kakapoy mag “indi mag-hope” eh!

Yeah right.

First Erotic Tiptoeing

come, lie with me
on the moon-drenched
grass. the Night will be

our witness as Love
seeps into every pore
of our united bodies.

I have you in my blood,
a shimmering presence
lighting up every darkened

spot, healing every torn
part in me. you have me
in the tempest of your sleep,

holding you close, still,
breathing in your sighs,
tracing ever so softly on

your stomach Paradise,
tonight, we are gloriously
alive and tomorrow still,

we shall be each other’s
touch and feel. light and
shadow. breath and bliss.

Against the Light

Photo by Ana Alegada

Minutes Before Dozing Off

Joan: Uy, lapit na lang Christmas. Gift ko ha? Una ko!

Jeprox: Okay lang sa imo ang Boy Bawang?

Joan: Huhu... pwede mug na lang kay amo na ang collection ko.

Jeprox: Tagaan kita mug nga daw tadyaw ka dako.

Joan: Ako gift ko sa imo Vitamin C. As in 'chicharon.'

Jeprox: Ako ya pun-on ko ang mug nga daw tadyaw kadako sang gadakal-dakal nga tubig. Himuon kita tinola.

Joan: Oi, bad ka. Ngaa himuon mo ko tinola nga angel ko ya. Gapanghatag ko gani Vitamin C.

Jeprox: Ako ya saint kay bawtisohan taka gani.

[][][][][]

Jeprox: Ano ang opisyo ta da?

Karlyn: Dinner date kami ni Joan.

Jeprox: Daw indi ka na depressed ah.

Karlyn: Tapos na ko sa amo to nga stage ya.

Jeprox: Ay. i-ula ang margarita!

Karlyn: Nag Margarita Party na kami ni Joan sang last ya.

Jeprox: Maayo eh. Kamo lang pirmi nga duwa. Exclusive ya ang sadya ninyo.

Karlyn: Sa sunod updon ka namon ah.

Jeprox: Yehey, mapatubod gid ko tequila.

Karlyn: Mapatubod gid ya? Masalod gid ko eh.

Jeprox: Bisan masalom pa.

Karlyn: Ano na swimming pool?

Jeprox: Busay.

Karlyn: Hehe, abi ko Pacific Ocean.

Jeprox: Sobra ka naman. Indi man gid ako amo na ka 'richness.'

Karlyn: Don't worry, indi man gid ko amo na ka alcoholic.

Jeprox: Ah, teh pagasugudan ko eh.

Karlyn: Ano ang pagasugudan mo?

Jeprox: Ang paghimo superalcoholic out of you.

Collapsed

Team Joshua (Gani, Jeprox, Leslie, and Ana) had just finished Survey Qualitative Data Collapsing for Negros and Cebu. Four study areas more (Baguio, Metro Manila, Davao, and Cagayan de Oro) and we move on to The-Next-Big-Task-That-I’d-Rather-Not-Name-Now. My little gray cells are quite happy. But more than that, they throbbing want a rest. So rest it is which I shall give them. No calls 'til Wednesday morning, please? Grazie mille i genti mio! zzzZZ

Exile to Self

the hair beneath my fingertips

felt like tendrils of morning sun

lulling me into Forgetfulness

where yesteryears are nothing more

than the coffeebrown of my eyes

where I dream of rain falling into

the heavens and hitting the gods

but how do I not hear thee when

you are calling from deep inside?

The Eyes of Love

Two in the afternoon. My humidity-kissed family gathered round the telly. Wowowee ng bayan is on. Chorale of blind people singing in a semi-circle. Laarni of Pinoy Dream Academy in full musical blooming and soft, soft fuchsia. A rendition of “Looking Through the Eyes of Love” ardently calling, reaching out for the soul.

Please, don't let this feeling end,
It's ev'rything I am,
Ev'rything I wanna be;
I can see what's mine now,
Finding out what's true,
Since I've found you
Lookin' through the eyes of love

Now I can take the time,
I can see my life
As it comes on shining now;
Reachin' out to touch you,
I can feel so much,
Since I've found you
Lookin' through the eyes of love.

The song went on. Inside me its million magenta echos stirred. I looked over my shoulder. Kweng’s Ovaltine-heaped spoon paused midway to her mouth. Mott squirmed in her seat, twirling a tangerine ribbon with her fingers. Mama’s gaze glistened a bit. Papa openly wept.

And now I do believe, that even in a storm, we'll find some light; knowing you're beside me, I'm alright. I stood there, humming along. Flowing along. My heart looking on. Holding on. Telling me more.


*For what the eyes alone so often seek but so seldom find, when all we really need to see and feel and tell is the [thinking] heart.

Frigid Friday

Basta ara ko sa StarMart-East (katultol na kamo na ah), manug-sira na lang guid ko ref ya. Anum ka beses guid sa ini nga gab-i, Biyernes. Mapabata man ukon tigulang, lalaki ukon babahi; nagapangita man makahulubog nga ilimnon, Gatorade, Chocolait, ukon Nature Spring Purified Drinking Water, may ara guid ya ginabilin nga abri ang ref.

(Whenever I’m in StartMart East (a 24-hour convenience store about a half-hour jeepney ride away from downtown Bacolod,) I’m naturally a shutter of refrigerators. Whether it’s a child or an aged, male or female; whether looking for hard liquor, Gatorade, Chocolait, or Nature Spring Purified Drinking Water, someone always manages to leave a chiller open.)

Pwede ko lang man pabay-an, sa tuod lang. Ugaling nagapatak ang kuryente. Kag ang akon kabalaka.

(I could actually just let those open fridges be. But the electricity meter is running. And so is my concern.)

Kag katugnaw sa lumo bala. Sa atubangan guid nga daan kami sang pito ka chillers nagaplastar.

(Plus, those fridges couldn’t help chilling my entire pulmonary complex. We just happen to be seated in front of all seven of them.)

Ginhambalan ko ang babahi nga nagabantay nga manukot ako lima ka pisos sa kada sira ko sang ref. Nagkadlaw lang siya. Seryoso ko ya bala.

(I told one of the staff that I am going to charge five pesos each time I close an open fridge. She just laughed. When I was serious.)

Ngaa kabudlay guid magsira sang ref noh? Pwede lang man na mabalikdan para masiguro kung nasira bala ukon wala ang letse nga mga refs. Siguro nahinayan lang sila sang aircon sa StarMart, ining mga kustomers nga ini, kay luyag guid nila patugnawon ang lugar paagi sa nagasungaw nga tugnaw sang mga refs. Sa ina nga hugada, makahalanghag ang kontribusyon sang mga refs!

(Why is it so hard to shut an open fridge, eh? One can just take a twice-over to check whether it’s closed or not. Perhaps, these customers just felt the store’s air-conditioning needed a little boost because they wanted the place cooler, with all the help they can get from those cold-blasting fridges. And what an amazing contribution from those fridges, indeed!)

Ang isyu ko lang man: Gakadugangan na nga daan ang palangurog ko, gakadugangan pa gid ang init kag rimpuwal sang ulo ko. Ka gamay nga buluhaton nga makapamaayo, wala gina himo sang ini nga mga tawo.

(My thing here is: Not only is my shivering intensified by all this, but my temper and murderous agitation too. A little right-thing-to-do, these people can't or won't do.)

Gani ginhuna-huna ko nga ginapamuka ko ang pito ka refs, isa-isa ko sila nga ginpanghampas sang sansalon nga bangko, gatalabog ang kristal kag mga ilimnon sa bisan diin lang, sa kakibot sang mga tawo sa palibot.

(Hence, I imagined myself smashing all seven fridges with a wrought iron chair, drinks and crytal shards flying everywhere, and the people around standing, staring, transfixed.)

Sa ulihi, ako nag-unyat lang sg kilay sa kaibabawan, naghirit gamay sa mga abyan kag empleyado, gintuslok sang masakit nga tulok ang mga lampingasan nga kustomers. Kag nagsira sang ref—nga may diutay nga lagabung.

(In the end, I just stretched an eyebrow to the zenith, squirted sarcasm to my friends and the staff, impaled those uneducated customers with my tiger look. And closed the gaping fridge—with just the slightest of slams.)

Natsky

One look at him and Socrates, as typically modeled in plaster or drawn in paint, comes to mind. But in my opinion, he’s way better-looking than the Greek sage in that he has a bit more bump on the forehead, a bit more hair cushioning his head, and a more quirky stoop of the shoulders. And, well, if I may add, he wears glasses. I can go on and on here—but I won’t. On we move to more importantly interesting matters (such that transcend the physical.)

I hadn’t confirmed if he truly fought during the Japanese-Filipino War. (At the moment, I have no idea how to contact him.) I’m pretty sure though that he’s a teacher, a Philosophy professor, who’s fond of telling wartime stories—in first person (sometimes omniscient) point of view. My favorite among them tells of him walking home alone one quiet evening, when suddenly, he heard someone call his name. He turned around and came face to face with the ghosts of his comrades in war. There was a battalion of them, in full army formation and combat regalia, hopeful smiles livening up their cold pale faces.

“O, ari man kamo haw?” he asked.
(Why are you here?)

“Ari kami kay gusto namon magsunod sa imo,” said they.
(We’re here because we want to follow you.)

“Ngaa man gusto niyo magsunod sa akon?”
(Why would you want to follow me?)

“Gusto namon nga ikaw mag-command sa amon. Gapati kami sa imo.”
(We want you to be our commander. We believe in your ability.)

“Ah, teh sige.”
(Okay.)

(Hinugyaw)
(Rejoicing)

His voice sliced through the boisterous cheer. Sharp. Definitive. Every decibel in command.

“Attention!” (Ghostly cessation of movement)

“About face!” (Not a sound of feet sweeping concrete is heard)

“Forward march!”

And with that he kicked the ground hard too, in a spate of adrenalin and middle-aged brown leather steps, running the opposite way and not looking back.
[][][][]
In college, I was seldom early for an exam. One morning, around half-past nine, I was dallying along Solomon Hall, unknowing of my exam room assignment for “8:30 AM – Inductive Reasoning.” I was about to head to the General Exams Schedule when a khaki barong wearing Prof. Natsky emerged from S13.

“Good morning Jeprox. You took your time,” he greeted. His glasses were too thick; I couldn’t see the motive in his eyes.

“Hi, Sir Natz! I met an accident on my way here.”

“What accident?”

“I was seated beside a woman with a baby on the jeep. The ride was bumpy. The baby vomited. Right on my milky speck-free barong. I reeked of milk and baby morning breath. So I went back home to change.”

He pointed his finger at me. Gin-uwaan sang bata! (Child threw up on you!) He laughed. And beckoned me inside.
[][][][]
Endterm exam on Inductive Reasoning. I made it on time this time. I sat on the rightmost armchair on the front row, not because I’m a bright student, but because I wanted to get away from the room fast. My plan was set: I’ll breeze through the test items, stand up unobtrusively, submit my paper, and walk out. I couldn’t help smiling as I glanced at the questionnaire’s frontpage: Multiple Choice. I happen to be quite good at drawing circles.

I did breeze through the exam, then stood up, unobtrusively (as someone who submits his paper barely seven minutes after start time can), and made for light-drenched freedom streaming through the door.

“Jeprox, diin imo Test Three?” Natsky queried. (Jeprox, where’s your answer to Test Three?)

Test Three required us to make a Truth Table based on a given problem. I didn’t do it. Truth Tables are time consuming. Especially if you don’t understand a thing about them.

“Wala man gid ko Truth Table Sir. Pero okay lang man sa akon ah,” I gripped the doorframe. (I don’t actually have an answer for it, Sir. But I’m okay with that.)

“Balik to sa bangko mo, kag tapusa ini. Gisi-on ko ni karon.” (Sit down and finish this. Or I’ll tear this up.)

I took my paper back. Sat down. Worried my brains to jelly. How indeed does one make a Truth Table? It’s just a table with "True" and "False" scattered all over it, my fearful-of-being-jellified brain said. So I drew a table, peppered it with Truths and Falsities, making sure they’re nicely distributed, careful to create a more or less cohesive logical pattern.

Natsky’s face was straight when he saw my Truth Table. No more unanswered item left on my exam. This time, I really was going. My body was barely half-way in its twist for the door when—

“Jeprox, palantawa ko na bi sang ginakaptan mo.” (Jeprox can I see what’s that you’re holding?)

“Columns ni Tito Conrad (De Quiros) ah.” (Just opinion column clips of Uncle Conrad.)

He flipped through them, unfastened one entitled “Religion,” and said, “Photocopyhi ko ‘to sang ini bi, please?” (Have this one photocopied for me, please?)

He smiled at me. Tossed a peso coin on the table. And said “Thank you.”
[][][][]
I figured he’s a diabetic when he came to class, gave us a surprise quiz, set two slices of plain bread and a half-bottle of Extra Joss (an energy drink) on his table, and talked to us about Diabetes while munching on his “lunch”—and while 80 per cent of the class was osteurizing brains at an ungodly hour (it was around 2:00 PM.)

One day, nearing dusk, I passed by the College of Arts and Sciences’ Chairpersons’ offices and found him lying on a bench by the window. He looked so… still, that I rapped on the closed window and the closed door too. What if he's having hyperglycemia? What if he’s slipping away on that bench? Unnerved, I looked wildly around me. Not a single soul in sight. Worry metamorphosed to downright Terror. I looked back at him; he was looking back at me, just a tad too moodily. What can I say? I looked every inch the unsophisticated voyeur, pressed against the glass.

“Sir, okay ka lang da? Abi ko kung naano ka na.” (Sir, are you okay? I thought something’s happened to you in there.)

“Nagtulog-tulog lang ko ya,” he said. (I was just napping a little.)
[][][][]
He’s fond of inventing names for his students. I’m clearly Jeffrey Gil G. Lingamen on the class list and my name and picture are both well brandished by the student paper, which (I believe) he read, on a monthly basis. But he still called me Procopio, Constancio, or when he’s polysyllabic-tired, simply “Ling.” I may like the Ally McBeal series but I seethe at the Lucy Liu character association that “Ling” conjures. One day, at the CAS office:

“Oh, Ling ari ka.” (Oh, you’re here Ling.)

“Maayong aga Mr. Fernandez.” (Good morning Mr. Fernandez.)

He smirked. That was the last time he called me Ling. (Or any other name aside from what my loved ones had given me.)

He’s Mr. Natalaray, you see.
[][][][]
I was walking alone, on the path between Solomon and Cody. Again, it was nearing dusk. La Salle was settling itself to Peace and Quiet, as the rooms are emptied of freedom-hungry students. Whereas I… I’m stuck in school ‘til 9:00 PM. Tons of work at The Spectrum. Why did I choose to be a student journalist anyway? Oh well, my choice, my consequence. Chaarrrggge! I watched my shoes inch forward on gray concrete. A voice—the extra-strong-mint-flavored-cotton-candy kind—made me look up. Natsky. Hand outstretched. Smiling.

“Jeprox, makaon ka dulsi?” (Do you want a candy?)

On his palm was a Dynamite. “Why not?” I smiled, taking the candy and moving on. It tasted just as a Dynamite should taste: minty, chocolatey, like brownies basking in Zonrox fumes. I got to the office and pinned the candy wrapper on my corkboard. It stuck there for months.
[][][][]
I was a rebel where the wearing of uniform is concerned. Tak-an ko ya magsuksok. (I couldn’t suffer wearing it.) Kainit. (It’s sweltering.) Hiligkuon (Prone to getting soiled.) Boring. In Natsky’s class, one Uniform Day afternoon, I wore a yellow collared tee, faded jeans, and brown patent tarsals-and-phalanges-exposing sandals.

“Ngaa wala ka ga-uniform ya Jeprox?” he asked. (Why aren’t you in uniform, Jeprox?)

“I don’t think wearing a uniform would make me think better in class, Sir,” I replied, sweetly.

“Teh, kung dakpon ka bi sg D.O.?” (What if the Discipline Officer catches you?)

“Indi man ko magpalagas ah. Indi ko bala kaintsindi ngaa kinahanglan ma-uniform gid. Ano ang bearing sina sa pagtuon ko man?” I said, knotting my eyebrows, bracing myself for the ID confiscation. (Worry not, I won’t have him chase me. I just don’t understand why I must be in uniform. What bearing does it hold on my education?)

He said: “Huo man noh?” (I reckon so.)

And the class went on. My ID hung around my relieved neck. Until the next class only, for my mentor and friend, Ping Varela had me surrender it. For wearing comfy clothes on a Thursday. (Sigh)
[][][][]
Natsky is the only person to have ever laughed at me when, months after college, he’d asked how I was doing, and I replied: Ari ho, inching towards my dreams. How I appreciated that! Getting my drift was one thing, laughing at it as if I’m about to wing it all is another. You see, Sympathy and Support need not always come across lugubriously.
[][][][]
I didn’t write this in memoriam of him, a wacky persona I called Teacher for most of the time that I was in his class, and thought of as Friend only now that I’m making my way in a bigger world where Truth Tables, maybe in a different but bigger way, matter even more. By the grace of God he is still up and about. He’s only retired, after years and years of teaching. I wish he’s at it gracefully, incorrigibly. I’d hate to know he’s sighing away diabetes, or boredom, or whatever else. If that’s the case, I’d eagerly put him up on the offer his ghost war comrades once tendered. I can well imagine him saying “Why not?” while laughter kneads his fuzzy face flat and wide. But Sir, your ghastly pals’ whereabouts elude me? How do we, er…summon them round?

Oh, I forgot, they could still be well under he’s command. I bet they’d surely like a breather.

Forty-eight-fold Amen

One cup of salted peanuts. One scrumptious balut. About four hundred sixty-seven granules of cooked rice and a can of chunky corned beef. A cup of water then C2 Apple. An ascorbic acid tablet. A rolling of thin shoulders. Seven blinks in rapid succession. Three hours of Survey Qualitative Data listing. Twelve 19-page questionnaires have bitten the dust so far. Forty-eight more will meet the same fate. Before the sun rises (which is about five hours away.) The Yin and the Yang so conspire in my favor. May it be so... May it be so...

Soliloquy of Light

11.30.07
Light,
seek someone else but me.
i need the darkness so.
it fills me so.
makes me whole.
i cannot let you in.
i cannot risk it.
/
03.22.08
what is it with you Light
that you give yourself too much?
to me, who do not want you so.
what really is your warmth?
an unwelcome visitor
to what darkness has left
yearning, yearning cold.
/
07.18.08
Light
do I say what I need you to do for me
now that darkness has begun to feel
a little less vivid, like memories
of things long past
falling like hair
with each brush of Time?
do shed a little of yourself
to set my soul apart from
the unseen lives that walk
in circles, making the world
turn in endless monotony
like a hardened ball of clay
in a bored master potter’s hand

Morning Four-Way Crack

today i will not use my voice. today i give to silence.
<><><>
this pathetic scribbling is all that is left of me.
<><><>
ink of this pen, run out now and i will be helpless.
<><><>
butterball sun rising so fast, so high. i go after it and die.

*Artwork created 05.21.08 retrieved from Recycle Bin 09.02.08

Stan

A friend said that he woke up to September with the memory of dinosaurs roaming in the mall the day before in his mind. I took it as a quip and chortled like a Triceratop giving shoppers—uhuh, young and old—free rides, an amazing photo backdrop, and, obviously, the time of their lives.

But when I got to think of what the advent of September has me remembering, I ceased being the merry touchy-feely giant. For it was in the previous September that I got keenly acquainted with Stan Rice, poet, painter, and husband to (in)famous novelist Anne Rice. That time, I was lent a copy of the latter’s The Witching Hour, at the beginning of which was a poem by Stan, the first one of his I have ever read. It whispered:

To which I breathed back, ethereally, as if in a trance, unwithholdingly:

I knew I was tumbling into an entire field of knowing. Verdant and burning. The mind crisp as kindling. A change growing from deep within, embroidering the heart, shooting wildly through the pores, bursting bravely, carefreely. I have my way. This is my way. With words, and images, and vibrant somethings seeking kindred somethings. Nevermore will I bed with Fear, or Shame, or Despair when I name myself poet… creator… human… god… Me.

Thanks Stan =)

*Bloody artwork by bloody me.

Attempt at Schadenfreude

*Perfunctory thanks to Microsoft Windows Paint and Adobe Photoshop CS3. I haven't felt so technologically well at ease (as opposed to being technologically ill at ease) in a little while.

Mi Voglio

I was going through some old shoeboxes at home, flipping through old notebooks, organizers, and magazines, in a haze of electrified curiosity and minutely balletic dust. It's just the "blog bug" catching up on me and I'm just extra-perceptive for whatever "find," worth writing about, I may somehow providentially come across with.

Then a fat frog's face smiled at me in green rubbery relief from a little mauve notebook. I smiled in return and tweaked its cheek. I opened the notebook and found only white blue-lined empty pages, somewhat as deadstill as the disappointment it spawned in me. Truly, you are a cheerful little fellow, my dear Freddy, but I would have liked it better if you had something more subtantial to offer. His smile seemed to pale and tighten a little, as if he's realized he's in for a dive back into the pile. I admit it was a little too brusque of me, specially to a frog (even if he was all rubber), and especially when the inside backpage revealed a couple of index cards with dark broad permanent scrawls on them. Geessh, Freddy, if this isn't my twenty year-old self bringing on the drama full-blast on five 2x3 index cards on May 4th, 2006! They read:

A guy at twenty could only want so much. But how about when he's twenty-two (and feeling thirty?)

Well, I feel things haven't really changed much in this regard. And whether or not two years is relatively too short, or too long, to be talking weltanschauung twists isn't really much of an issue for me. This is what it is: I still want pretty much those same things. I'm still me. And I want me.

*Photos by Ana Alegada, who couldn't trust me with a digital camera, but is wise and prudent enough not to let it show so much.

Notes from the Doughnut Shop

This little boy alone in the doughnut shop has only to figure out how to taste the hole of his Choco Wacko.
/
Ever tried staring into an empty cup for a full twenty minutes? Falling in love is like staring into an empty styro cup for a full twenty minutes and wishing you could stay at it for a little more than an entire lifetime.
/
Whitney’s (Houston) all over the place.
Is she talking to me? I sure could use some talking to now.
/
Shaved head. Big weary shoulders. Shame worn on the neck and back. What proud little Miss dumped you among Love’s many trashed fools?
/
What do I know of Love?
What do I know of Love?
A waterfall of hearts shunned

Elementally Yours

Sabato. Morning light
streaming through dirty
glass louvers.

Fatigue creeping up my back
and around my sunken eyes.
Life just grinding on when
I just want to be left alone.

By you. With you. Or both.
I do not know.

One thing I do know: It's you I feel everytime I hit the pit
of what I thought was my bottomless soul.

It's you I have for despair
each time I pick up and define
an exquisite shard, a gossamery
shred of me.

It's you I know whenever
I wonder just what I am
really made up of.

It's you I sense. It's you I live. It's you
I cannot ever really have.

Isn't It Ironic, Dear Alanis?

Tomorrow in your eyes my heart so tightly clutched to itself the way gnarled mud-smeared Hope-chapped fingers close around a prized ticket to the fullest and bluest of full blue moons in quiet rigor mortis.

To A Close Friend, Faraway

Dear Jeroen,

I’m at home now, in bed, writing intensively on a laptop for nearly 34 hours now. So many papers to write; so much work to finish; so many worries to free one’s mind from. Sigh. I wish I could take a real vacation. The last one I had was way back in summer of 2007. It sure feels like a lifetime ago.

How’s Palestine? How’s your heart breaking with compassion—or, is it rage?—at the face of her people’s plight? I may not know just yet how “compassion fatigue” assails the heart, and I’m just guessing you must have had some knowledge of it—what with your travels and volunteer experience—but I want you to know I believe in what you do. And I appreciate the wisdom of why you do it. It can never be too futile finding meaning in one’s life, even more so when you’re not alone in searching for it. May our friendship make you feel that it is so. As warmly as the sun embraces the earth with morning light. As beautifully as Spring adorns the trees with bright fragrant blooms. As gently as the sea smoothes away the wrinkles of the still gray shore.

As fondly as I close this email—

Il fratello tuo nel cuore e lo spirito, Jeprox


(Drawing courtesy of my meager visuo-spatial intelligence)

*Jeroen, 26, has just earned his MD at the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven. He visited Negros Island last March for some medical missions (in which I served as his interpreter.) He is currently doing research in Palestine.

28 Questions and Paper Napkins

A year ago to this day, August 29, 2008, I had one of the loneliest nights ever in Bacolod City. I was alone on a table at Dunkin' Donuts-Lacson, with no book, just a lowbatt cellphone and a half-empty gel pen, waiting for the clock to strike 2:15 AM so I could take the tryke to the South Ceres Terminal and board the first morning bus trip home. People came and went, some lingered, others wolfed down their food. None of them took courage to look me in the eye and strike a witty conversation. The newspaper was in the hands of a portly gentleman, looking positively enamored with what's inside those brackish pages. I admonished myself: The next time you get yourself stranded, be sure to bring your rambunctious cousins and the entire school library along.

Nevertheless, I remembered my half-empty gel pen, so I rose and walked towards the counter, asked for a wad of paper napkins, sat back, caught my nape with my left hand, knotted my brows, and wrote:

Will the winds rock me in my sleep?

Will the rain wash away my memories?

Will the sun dry up my days?

Will the night lay my foes to rest?

Will the trees bow to my humility?

Will the birds sing about my death?

Will the rainbow herald my soft renaissance into the world?

Will my friends write my story with their footprints?

Will my life become a penciled illustration in a child’s well-loved storybook?

Will the cars run the distance my too-young feet once covered?

Will city lights dim when I blink goodbye?

Will the poets bleed verse when they remember my name?

Will lightning carve my name on a mountain that knew the weight of the skies too?

Will God give me a cross when I ask him for a coffin?

Will love be like a sick dove when my iron heart manages to trap it in?

Will music grow arms and feet in the still-death dance floor of my mind?

Will Cassandra talk about the past when I tell her I’m scared of things to come?

Will the angels soil their robes when I ask them to dig up my sins?

Will Summer cry in torrents when my soul chooses Fall and my heart freezes like Winter?

Will love look at me and see why I see even if I’m not looking, even if there’s nothing there?

Will my phone stop ringing in my imagination?

Will hot chocolate taste like the sea when my tongue couldn’t tell anymore what is sweet?

Will my dreams sprout wings when they break free from my mind?

Will my poems take root in the hearts I long to have?

Will my voice drift unheard in the breeze of history?

Will Spring sing mournful songs when I’m no longer around to hear them?

Will the End cease to birth New Beginnings when I’m no more and I couldn’t go on?

Will life be different when I’m gone?

Those 28 napkins were lost to me forever just hours after I took them home with me from the doughnut shop. In my hurry to jump into bed, I left them in the pocket of my jeans. The woman who does our laundry took my jeans off the "to-be-recycled hook" and did her job. How history can be reduced to a lump of dried wet tissue! But the heart remembers. Even the beauty of loneliness lost can be reclaimed. It all came into being a year ago to this day. But I still have these songs, in a place where neither exhaustion nor a laundrywoman can take them away.

Wala Ba Kayong mga Load Diyan?

Thirteen lucky strikes—and counting
Jeprox G. Lingamen
August 27, 2008

Wednesday night, on the usual boring bus with the usual boring people. I’m soaked in sweat down to my seatmate’s Polo Sports jersey, sighing thrice every two minutes, and (by the gut-feel of it) fast nearing expiration. I am lonely, and home (sigh) is a whole episode of The Singing Bee and DYOSA (plus commercials) away—if evening traffic relents and the driver turns out to be Gabby de la Merced. The tired yellow screen of my trusty long-suffering Nokia 3410 said it was 09:17 PM on this side of busted long-suffering Earth. I got a slightly “emo” feeling out of it, something sort of “emobilizing.” To snap out of it, I did a balance inquiry on my phone. I only have “0 minutes worth of local calls and 13 free text messages,” it said. Not exactly joy-inspiring, I breathed back, futilely.

But then I thought of William Tell (of all people), aiming the one Life-or-Death arrow at the bloodiest apple sitting smugly on his young son’s head. And then I thought of me, having “thirteen,” and the potential misses that go with them, something everyone must deal with, anyhow, anyway. Oh well, better take my shots at the smugness and bloodiness of things than never at all. (And so long as I’m careful to keep my shots from hurting the winsome little life so dear to me, I’ll be just fine.) With that, I felt my self-grin burgeoned into the freest of smiles I had all day. Softly. Bit by bit. Not without mischief. I flexed my fingers and gripped my phone. Tastiera attiva. 3 messaggi ricevuti. Leggi:

(1. Blame it on the blood glucose plunge)

Ana: Prox, bring ka sud-an ta sa panyapon ha? Madala ko rice cooker kag bugas. Hehe. Kung may ara. Kabay pa.

Jeprox: Huo ah. Lihapon ko ang pusog-pusogan ni Dada.

Ana: Ano pa gid?

Jeprox: Ang mga nagkalapulak nga ibà sa ugsaran.

Ana: Wow, aslom ba.

Jeprox: Madala ko kalamay.

(2. Texting takes its toll)

Karlyn: Nainit-init gid ko subong nga gab-i ah.

Jeprox: Ngaa man?

Karlyn: Kay gapangita ko bayo nga green, wala ko may makita… Hehehe…

Jeprox: Green nga pinta na lang eh. Ibasya mo sa bayo.

Karlyn: Wala gani… kailinit gid ya… hehehe… teh, nag-abot ka na sa inyo?

Jeprox: Bago pa lang ko ayon. Girl, tawhayan ko anay phalanges ko ha? Gabiring sa kakatext eh. In one hour, kung ara ka pa, text taka. Ok lang?

Karlyn: ‘K lang ah, wala kaso.

Jeprox: Gabinhud sila actually, kay naka-vertical ang akon radius kag ulna magtext para lapit sa’kun nawong kay myopic ko. Teh, ang circulation medyo issue.

Karlyn: Hehehe… gintun-an mo gid na… teh, pahuwayan mo lang anay imo kamot eh…

Jeprox: Huo na, huo na. Registered Nurse ka na.

(3. Cheesy Chum—as opposed to Fun Chum)

Nhaye: Manugpuli ka na? Indi ko carry ang strength mo for your job. Bravo. Pray anay ko hon ha.

Jeprox: Ang swerte naman ni Allah.

Nhaye: Tayo ang maswerte hon. Hehe.

Jeprox: Oo nga. We have each other in a time when we are at our best and worst. We are us at our most real.

Nhaye: Ok hon ah, basta ara gid ko pirmi para sa imo as long as may lakas ako. Hehe. Kamo ang mahalaga sakin.

Jeprox: Indi man pagpasobrahi abi. Daw mabudlay mag-gaab diri sa bus.

(4. When Inner Beauty paid a visit)

Jeprox: Good eve Jess, Jeprox ’to :-) Bisita man ko sa Inbox mo ah. Hope you’re Godspeeding. Tira-tira!

Jess: Good eve man Jeprox. Thanks gid sa pagbisita sa Inbox ko ah. Charge complete na eh.

Jeprox: Pwede ka na gali mag-Super Saiyan eh :-) Carry mo na part. Kung gwapa ka, gwapa ka gid na ya—a friendly reminder from Myra 300e, Belo Medical Group, and Jeprox.

(5. A push too far)

Jeprox: Dada, Mabini na ko ayon. Ako indi man gid busog, indi man gid gutom.

”Verificare Servizi Operatore”

(Sigh)

I went home to a doting mom, a dad laughing heartily with my brother on the phone, a snoring little sister, Julian frantically catching Jasmine’s “shotgun kisses,” and four-and-a-half tender juicy beef chunks on a salted rice bowl. I changed into my favorite flannel shorts and chomped away, careful not to chuckle too hard on the thought that at anytime tonight I might just get a Pasaload from someone, somewhere. Who knows? Sometimes, even thirteen couldn’t mean the worst of luck there is.

Jeprox G. Lingamen is a daily commuter of the San Enrique < > Bacolod bus.
He’s known better than to “text” most of the bus ride boredom away.
His mobile number is +63 [0]921 440 9011.

Let Me Be

i am a well of Night
you don't want to come near me

the stars, all the bright things
had left me wailing soundlessly

even my tears won't come
to fill me up.
/
for even just seconds
let the world dim,
make the sun blink,

for the Light is too much
for me, a creature of Darkness
never used to seeing Life in color,

afraid of seeing Beauty
i cannot manifest.
/
Loneliness is just
a small withered leaf
falling in Time as i am
/
the full moon blinked
and in that heartbeat
of darkness

i knew
how gravely Light
has lied to me

all along
/
tonight
i decide
to remain

eternally
broken

i am crystal
breaking as
a bad omen

but please
please

pick me up
hold me close
and let me be

let me be
the brutal beauty

they so
refuse to see

On Love At 12:42 AM

eighteen minutes
to 1:00 AM

scruffy dogs bark
at orange cats

the world outside
is cold and dark

the moon no longer
gives a damn

everything seems
willing to give up--

the peeling yellow
paint on the wall,

the blinking cursor
on Microsoft Word,

Life falling in Time
as Haettenschweiler

size 12,
boldfaced,

underlined,
justified.

but what of
this heart

beating you
feeling you

every second
everywhere

anyhow?
i do not know.