Circles

...still waiting here...it will not matter how you say it.

form your mouth in the shape of an 'o'

blow it in my mouth

melt the tiny pinpricks of slivered icicles embedded within me.

there. that should be enough.

Awit Awards Here We Come

Okay, so I'm literally bouncing with excitement. Received the email from Jay, and it seems that all systems are now go for the Awit Awards on the 15th of June.

Of course, the biggest winners in all this is Jhamie and Jay who are the official photographers of the said event. And when I say official, I mean they ARE actually getting paid. Congrats, mga dudes.

Thanks so much to Jay, for making this possible at idamay pa daw ako sa booty through a free dine out. Hehe!

Jhamie, big time ka na girl! Isama naman kameng mga mortal sa pangarap mo!

I'm so, so excited...one of the biggest events that I will attend for this year.

I already invited Ardee because I need someone to get all dolled and dressed up with at maganda ng may kasama habang busy si Jay at Jhamie. That way, free-for-all ang bashing, gushing, at man-hunting namin ni Ardee niyan. Hehe.

Reminders: Buy new shoes and purse to go with my little black dress. Hehe.

Everything Will End Soon Like All Love Will

"End To the Full Moon"

words by Nerisa Del Carmen Guevara, music by Angry Aspilet (Aia De Leon)

thin filmed and glistening, we are whole

tightly bound in circle, we are whole

everything will end soon like all love will

everything will end soon like all love will

skin reflected, pale fullness of the selves
back to the moon
fingers on my lips

all this space with no words

lover i, i spelled you out of my skin

where the night has broken

thin filmed and glistening, we are whole

tightly bound in circle, we are whole
everything will end soon like all love will

everything will end soon like all love will

skin reflected, pale fullness of the selves

everything will end soon

back to the moon

Why I Won't Have Sex With You (Dinah Rose Baseleres-Ladia)

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

They Never Really Die

Hindi ko in-expect na makita siya dun.

Of all places, dun pa.

Pero ba't nga naman ako magrereklamo, eh balwarte niya yun. Ako lang ang dumayo yun.

Hindi ko lang talaga inaasahan na magkikita pa kame uli.

Siya pa ang unang bumati sa'kin.

Kasama niya yung chuva niya ata yun.

Manonood daw sila ng Davinci Code, may reserved seats daw sila or something.

Ang weird.

Working Hard (pictures galore!)

Some photos that were taken during the Ripe Tomatoes 99.5RT event at Greenhills a few weeks ago. Thanks to Stonefree's manager, Soki, who got my comrade

Jhamie and I passes for the event.
These are my favorite shots, all the others are posted in my Flickr account, whose link can be found somewhere in this blog.

I used Jhamie's Pixie, by the way. (muchas gracias, kapatid!)

Here's Jhamie, with her Lilith

Zach Lucero of Imago

For the girls, Yael of Spongecola

Yael Yuzon

Raymund 'Sugaraims' Marasigan, for Pedicab

Pochoy of Dicta License

Myrene Academia, for Imago

A very drunk Mong Alcaraz of Sandwich

Miro of Stonefree

Diego Mapa for Pedicab (haay, cute)

Chuck Isidro of 6cyclemind

Aia of Imago

6cyclemind

Saving All My Love for You*

* (para sa mga taong ginulo ang buhay ko kahapon: mai, ardee, monyat, ryan)

A few stolen moments is all that we share

You'e got your family and they need you there

Though Ive tried to resist being last on your list

But no other man's gonna do

So I'm saving all my love for you

It's not very easy living all alone

My friends try and tell me find a man of my own

But each time I try I just break down and cry

Cause I'd rather be home feeling blue

So I'm saving all my love for you

You used to tell me we'd run away together

Love gives you the right to be free

You said be patient just wait a little longer

But that's just an old fantasy

I've got to get ready just a few minutes more

Gonna get that old feeling when you walk through that door

Cause tonight is the night for I'm feeling all right

We'll be making love the whole night through

So I'm saving all my love for you

Yes I'm saving all my love

Yes I'm saving all my love for you

No other woman is gonna love you more

Cause tonight is the night that I'm feeling all right

We'll be making love the whole night through

So Im saving all my love for you

Yeah I'm saving all my lovin

Yes I'm saving all my love for you , for you

Igno

Heehee! Reminds me of someone...a lot. ;p.

Excess Baggage

A lot of people have been going in and out of my place these past few weeks.

I can't complain though. Its better than moping about homesickness most of the times.

Besides, I'll never get tired of my friends' company.

But one of them had left something behind that is freaking out my roommate and I.

I hope it goes away soon.

I'll be bombarding my place with religious articles...I might as well have it blessed.

I've been living there peacefully since moving in, and an unseen entity is the last thing I need right now.

Entwined

"and he kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, little by little by little."

- Gregory Maguire

Somehow I've finally managed to learn how to sleep without fretting while you're arms were entwined around me. I woke up the way I was when sleep finally summoned me. I haven't moved a muscle which made me think that I'm getting used to you. The tossing and turning had somehow stopped.

I take pleasure in burrowing in your warmth, despite the sonorous sounds of your rhythmic breathing when you sleep. It makes me forget the uncertainty of everything that I am holding dear right now.

I will never like the smell of cigarette smoke, but a whiff of it mixed with the scent of your perfume and bath soap that lingers in the surface of your skin brings a heady clarity in my senses that gets trapped inside my nostrils. If I could only hold my breath in, and never let go of that scent without being killed in the process, I probably would’ve. Still, I would have to exhale and let go.

Sometimes in sleep, you drop light and subtle kisses in my hair. But then again, I may be just dreaming and cannot exactly tell. Sometimes you’ll make your presence known and you would enfold me in a sudden bear hug; I have to suppress a gasp.

You never let go of my hands. Even if I turn my back on you, or yours on me, you’d clasp my hands fully in yours. I get amazed when I see how the bigness of your hands envelops mine.

Despite the rickety and unstable circumstance that we have, I’ve never felt so safe.

Timeout

Jhamie is right, I'm so all about him right now.

I promise that my entry after this will be the last of its kind. For awhile, anyway.

Then I'll be back to the pseudo-existential angsty rants that I used to write.

Suddenly I miss my friends...one of them in particular.

Poison

Minsan wala lang talaga akong pakialam sa iniisip ng ibang tao sa'kin.


Nagta-trabaho ako ng marangal, at kung trip nila pag-usapan ang buhay ko dahil wala silang buhay, keri lang din sa'kin yun.


Oh ayan, magpopost ako ng picture, para may pagpiyestahan pa kayo.



Oh, baka bukas pagpasok ko, hindi lang si Ardee at Rowald ang 'pumila' sa'kin...baka mamaya, buong Medicall, nakaone night stand ko na.

Sleeps With Butterflies (Tori Amos)

(and here I'm now singing a different tune)

Airplanes, take you away again

Are you flying above where we live
Then I look up a glare in my eyes
Are you having regrets about last night?

I’m not

But I like rivers that rush in
So then I dove in
Is there trouble ahead for you the acrobat?
I won’t push you unless you have a net

You say the word you know I will find you
Or if you need some time I don’t mind
I don’t hold on to the tail of your kite
I’m not like the girls that you’ve known
But I believe I’m worth coming home to
Kiss away night
This girl only sleeps with Butterflies
with Butterflies
So go on and fly then boy

Balloons look good from on the ground
I fear with pins and needles around
We may fall then stumble upon a carousel
It could take us anywhere

I’m not like the girls that you’ve known
But I believe I’m worth coming home to
Kiss away night
This girl only sleeps with Butterflies
with Butterflies
with Butterflies
So go on and fly boy

Playing It Safe

Every thing will end soon, like all love will.

At least in here, I'd be safe.

-Nerisa Del Carmen Guevara

And I would try and walk far enough away

that people would not assume I was with him.

-Neil Gaiman

So many questions have been left unanswered already. You know how the fear creeps in little by little? It started at the base of my spine, until it reached my nape where I suddenly realized that I couldn't move.

Paralyzed.

How I dreaded this state.

Haven't I've been battling emotional atrophy since the last couple of years?

And now here I'm back again.

I want to take a step backward.

Regain my footing again.

Before the floor that I'm stepping upon crumbles completely and I find myself wading again in a space so constricting that breathing will be specially hard to do.

I want to go back while there is time. Where I can still regain myself.

This uncertainty is pending doom. I fear hearing the truth. The dreaded three words when I ask you what am I to you, and you will shrug and say, "Hindi ko alam."

Our moments just keep on piling up and I've nowhere to put them.

I have no claim on you. Nor you on me.

You can just simply walk away if and when you want to.

And while there is still time for me, I might as well start backing away.

I've managed to live without for so long, I can do it still.

At least, I'll be saf(n)e.

In Medias Res

So much has been happening.

I got depressed when I got this message:

05-01-2006, 10:16am.

Coz we are destructive in togetherness. We need to grow apart a little, maybe.

* * *

I refuse to concede to that. There's always something that we can do. It's not the answer. We all have been through worse.

So what if He's in love with Her?

So what if She's not?

What if She's just going through a lot that's why She sniped at Her Friends?

Surely, it doesn't mean that we have to sacrifice the friendship, right?

Right?

* * *

I hate feeling like a yo-yo.

Would somebody please cut off the thread?

And So We Met Again...

Biruin mo yun...nung Friday, may booth ang Canon sa SM-Ayala.

Eh sinong nagbabantay ng booth?

Si Boy Canon.

Shet.

Hindi ko kinaya.

Ang sama-sama kong tao.

Pero sabi nga nila, tao lang....

Not Just Yet

...I'm so sorry. I'm not quite ready to talk about you.

No odes will be offered.

Not just yet.

But you exist under the folds of my skin.

I'd rather keep you there.

Well...well...well.

Random Notes (R. Zamora Linmarck)

One of my favorite writer.

I loved his "Rolling the R's."

Somewhere in my PC, I attempted to write a paper which I ambitiously entitled, "Attempting to Abrogate Cultural Hegemony in R. Zamora Linmarck's Rolling the R's."

Of course, that paper is yet to be written, and the stacks of references and research materials that I gathered are now probably rotting away in this continuum that I call as my 'old room.'

Flashback, senior year, 1st semester, My all time favorite professor, the uber-chichi Oscar Campomanes invited us to attend the 11th USTingan at UST-CCW (that's UST Center for Creative Writing).

Zack gave this wonderful, wonderful speech about being a Literature major and lo and behold, somewhere in this site, Nat actually posted the entire speech.

And, I, who have always been dancing around the edges of disillusionment can't help but sigh.

I wish I'm back at school. I miss school. Honestly.

- - -

Random Notes
By Ringhardt Zamora Lindmark
(delivered during the 11th USTingan in UST-CCWS)

It is 1980-something. You are a college student trapped in the middle of the Pacific. A closeted eccentric, a New Wave rebel, you walk around campus in London Fog raincoat bought at a thrift store owned and run by Presbyterians, your upper lip curling into a Billy Idol snarl, your identity sneering at the useless world behind a pair of Ray Ban shades. The blue skies and cool breeze of Honolulu, where winter is defined as below sixty-five, repel you. As it should. Otherwise, you are not an English major with a minor in Poetry writing. Otherwise you won’t be telling the Social Services Department four years later, when you apply for welfare and food stamps, that your special skills include time-travellig, voyeurism, and collecting words. Otherwise, you’ll be just another case-study freak profiled in a Psychology 100 textbook, or indexed in a Cultural Anthropology book written by a white man whose National-Geographic-claim-to-fame is that he’d spent a few months in the Philippine rain forest in the late seventies with Manda Elizalde studying Mada’s jungle bastards, the hoax-or-not Tasadays. Otherwise you’ll just be another Kerouac wanna-be hanging out in the jazz section of Tower Records, reciting from memory your grocery list and passing it off as poetry.


You are a student of Literature, Your darkness-driven heart reeks of poetry. The world does not understand your kind, your penchant for isolation, the color black, the mood swings. You understand Emily’s antics in the attic. The lyrics to Whitman’s songs come to you as you navigate yourself in the labyrinth of a bathhouse. In the morning, you fantasize waking up transformed into a Kafka bug. At night, in between the sentences of your dreams, you roast in Rimbaud’s inferno. And the butterflies of Garcia Lorca appear each time you swallow olive seeds.

You are a student of literature and that’s that: a fatalist in the making.
Besides, you know zilch about the outside world. Mathematics produces Nobel-prize winning neurotics. But you’re not, and never will be, one of them. True, you’ve been misdiagnosed a schizophrenic twice; you were actually manic-depressive with recurring hallucinations of your levitating in the backyard, amongst blooming flowers and monsoon-soaked sheets on the clothesline.

But those were during those two trying hard years when Sylvia Plath invaded your kitchen to bake herself at 500-degree Fahrenheit. As for the Sciences, they belong in Mars. At one point, you entertained the thought of going into Philisophy, talking shop with Nietzche. Godot never showed up. Had you stuck it out, Foucault could’ve explained to you the inextricable relationship between your power and knowledge and your fixation with nineteenth-century prison life.

Your identity, whether you like it or not, revolved around literature—the reading and writing of it. End of story. Or, rather, “the start of the end of your life,” as your parents often told you when you confessed your major to them. They’re right. Literature, whether teaching or writing it, pays jack sh!t; for most poets, the reward is two complementary copies of the journal in which the poem and their epitaph appear.

But you’re Filipino, steadfast, stoic, often willing to bend, yet remain unbreakable. Your history began, and will probably end, in the womb of a bamboo. A tempestuous future, you stick it out, determined to relive “A Hunger Artist” by Kafka; the artist in a cage, aping the gorilla. “Why, Anak? Why major in interpreting books?” And you tell you mother flat-out it’s because books teach you how to get away with murder. Through books, you’re discovering you are the most quixotic of God’s creatures and therefore have every right to christen yourself a knight, disturb the peace, and create fantastical adventures as you search for a dyke on a bike named Dulcinea.

That’s not all. You majored in Literature because your only talent in this world, aside from breaking lines, is interpreting and quoting passages with the patience of a recovered drug addict turned Born-Again Christian.

You are a bookworm. Feasting on other people’s words.

Paragraph by paragraph.

A maggot. Gnawing at other people’s imagination.

If there is anyone to blame for the bags under your eyes and split personality, aim the gun’s barrel at the Asian-American writer who visited your campus a few months back. Who inspired you to write after she told you she killed memories for a living.

In your third year as a Lit major, you enroll in a class called “Multicultural Literature”. It is a cross-disciplines course opened to English and American Studies majors. Offered for the first time in the university. You sign up because you like the sound of “multi culti lit”. A sixties craze, an academic phenomenon, in college campuses across the country. That was two decades ago, which is the length of time it takes for fashion and other craze to hit the islands. But no on is complaining. House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros is on the reading list. Which gives you a head strat because you used to live on a street like Mango Street. Ghetto of lively characters courting death and love at two in the afternoon.

Very quickly, you discover that multicultural literature is the literature of the non-whites, about non-whites, by non-whites. No Melville, no Hawthorne, no Updike. White writers are excluded. This does not surprise. You’re from Hawaii. And from your encounters with the white folks in Hawaii, you can honestly say they’re culturally chanllenged, deprived, bland as a Yorkshire pie. Their ancestors settled in Hawaii to exploit the land and its natural and human resources. Their culture is capital-based. This is why they are, to use a Hawaiian word, “Haoles”—without breath, without soul. They lack what Garcia Lorca calls duende, the bluest flam from within. They can’t jump, they can’t dance. And those that do dance don’t move their arms and panic whenever the beat changes.

Despite centuries of world dominance, of converting pagans and savages into law-abiding Christians, of gutting cultures and replacing it with theirs, the white race is finally starting to realize that no matter how many missionaries are sent to proseltize, no matter how many teachers force their students to standardize English, no matter how many bullets it take to domesticate the untamed, one true thing remains: colonialism results in a multitude of parodies, complexes, contradictions. The minstrel, Banana Man, the snake eating its tail.

Multicultural literature is the literature of the oppressed, colonized, marginalized. The books on the syllabi support your theory. The author bios on the book jackets tell you they are either hyphenated American or have made the United States their home. Jessica Hagedorn (Dogeaters) is Filipina-American; Maxine Hong Kingston (the Woman Warrior) id Chinese-American; Toni Morrison (Beloved) is African-American, and Bharati Mukherjee, a South Asian from Canada, is currently residing in California. Ironically, the novelists, the professor, a white female transplant from the East Coast, were all women; the poets, men (Garret Hong, Amiri Baraka, Li Young Lee, etc.)

For once, you can relate to the stories and poems. You develop an affinity with the writers and their works. You yourself are a person of color, a colonial bastard. To be specific—a strayed mongrel scavenging for home. You were born in the Philippines and grew up and educated in Hawaii. Philippines or Hawaii, you were born destined to be a child of the tropics where the year is divided between rain and sun. Both islands, as your grade school teachers did not inform you, have a particular shared history of colonial oppression and re-education. It isn’t until you take up an Honors cross-discipline class called “Culture and Colonialism” that you learn Hawaii and the Philippines have stron parallel history, parales pains and wounds. With one major difference: Hawaii made it to statehood, a last-minute addition triggered by the bombing of Pearl Harbor; the Philippines, heavily damaged by the war, were granted their independence.

Why? A white student asks during discussion of Dogeaters. He admitted he could not get past the first chapter of Haedorn’s novel, a critique of coños and squatters during the Marcos years, because the Taglish threw him off.

Why Hawaii and not the Philippines? At the tip of my tongue lies the possible answer: because who wants to rule an archipelago of damaged brown people and screwed-up coños?

Hagedorn’s words hit home, perhaps too close to home. Your anger fueled by her imagination, her sad and dangerous arias of loss and longing. For once, you can relate to text. For once the text is a mirror, allowing you a closer, if not better, glimse of yourself, and the home that awaits you.

Such affinities, such revelation, such disturbance afflict you throughout the semester. You begin to develop your own discourse on multicultural literature, specifically in the United States, its majot components, its popular characteristics. You re-hash your definition.

Multicultural literature is the literature about non-whites by non-whites. A 20th century feat—five centuries late but better late than never. Here, the darkies that, for hundreds of years, were relegated to shadows and echoes, are heard. They possess multiple points of view.

The shadows have form.

The shadows, too, are storytellers and poets.

Multicultural literature deals with race and gender identity formation, race and gender relations. IT deals with dispossession, disorientation, displacement, particularly, but not limited to, migrant narratives. IT deals with the construct of home, as a broken nation, as memory salvaged through imagination. It deals with the English language—how it is borrowed, butchered, redeemed. English as an oral, second, sign language.

At the end of the semester, the novels have performed their function. They’ve opened a can of worms and made you a better thinker, more knowledgeable of yourself, your relations with others, your history, and your home, or the absence of. And leave you with questions about race and gender relations, home and homelessness, and questions about yourself you may never have answers to.