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.