Dahil Napakaganda Mo

(Published sa school-pub nung college pa 'ko.)

Walang duda. Tao na ang pinakamatalinong hayop na nabubuhay sa mundo, at mananatili itong katotohanan hangga’t wala pa akong nakikitang dalmatian na pumupunta kay Dr. Vicky Belo para magpatanggal ng dark spots, o bull frog para magpa-derma. Pero hindi ako sigurado kung anong uri ng palaka o butete yung batang singer na nagpa-botox ayon sa balita noong mga nakaraang buwan.

Sabi ni Aristotle, tao lang ang entity na alam na tao siya. At dahil nga rito, tao nga lang din ang entity na may kakayahang pandirihan ang sarili niya. Salamat na lang talaga kay Dr. Vicky Belo, Dr. Pie Calayan, at sa Adobe Photoshop dahil mula sa buhok, sa kilay, sa ilong, sa labi, pisngi, sa panga, sa ngipin, sa kili-kili, sa balikat, sa dibdib, sa tiyan, sa kuwan, sa hita, sa binti, sa paa, at sa kulay ng balat, kayang-kaya na itong i-molde ng tao, o palitan sa kung ano’ng gusto niyang porma.

Hindi na ako magugulat kung isang beses may magtatayo ng isang anatomical shop kung saan pwede kang bumili at magbenta ng kahit anong parte ng katawan na gusto mo.

Talagang takot na takot sa pangit ang tao. Sino ba kasing nakadiskubre ng lecheng salamin na ‘yan?

Nagsimula ang lahat nang mauso ang Friendster. Bukod sa social networking function nito, kaya ka nitong pasikatin. Paramihan ng friends, ng testi (na pinalitan ng comment dahil daw sa batos nitong konotasyon ex: ‘pare nakita mo testi ko?’), ng pictures kasama ng artista, chiks, ng pictures na naka-yosi, o nakahawak ng bote ng beer. A basta, nagpapasikat na pose. Magugulat ka na lang sa mga may Facebook account sa murang edad na pito. Ang primary picture nila ay pose ala-Katy Perry.

Dahil sa mga social networking site na ito, naging abot-kamay ang pagpapaka-model. Lahat ng tao ay marunong pumose (lalo na ang Korean peace sign sa mata). Burado na ang konsepto ng stolen shots. Bigla na lang naging camera conscious ang sangkatauhan.

Madali na lang sumikat. Basta marami kang friends sa Facebook, mas maraming tao ang makakakita sa ganda mo. Pero may mga tao naman na namimili lang ng pasisikatan, at nagpa-private ng mga retrato.

Samakatuwid, kontrolado na ng tao ang magiging hitsura niya. Kontrolado na rin ng tao kung pa’no ito ipangalandakan sa mundo. Instant artista. Instant cult-following.

At dahil napakadali na lang mag-mukhang celebrity, karamihan ng tao ay napipilitan na ring mag-buhay celebrity, at tuluyan na talagang magmala-celebrity mula katawan hanggang kaluluwa. At lahat ay gusto nang sumali sa mga game show tulad ng Talentadong Pinoy, Showtime, Diz iz It, at syempre ng Pinoy Big Brother, ang teleserye ng tunay na buhay. 

Hindi ba, nakakatuwa ang mundo natin? Ang ordinaryong tao gustong maging artista. Ang artista, gustong maging pulitiko. Ang pulitiko, gustong maging artista. Wala na yatang gustong maging ordinaryong tao—mahusay na magsasaka, mangingisda, guro, o magulang.

Pero malay natin, kaya gustung-gustong mapansin ng maraming tao—mapa-masa o hindi (na karaniwan nga ay nasa Showtime)—ay dahil wala naman talagang pumapansin sa kanila. O baka naman maraming Pilipino ang gustong magpapansin dahil ayaw talaga silang pansinin kahit ng mga kapwa nila Pinoy, dahil mas gusto nilang manalo sa American Idol kaysa maging National Artist, o dahil mas nakaka-starstruck si Katy Perry kaysa kay Angelica Panginiban. Kaya papansin ang grammar ng mga Jejemon dahil walang pumapansin sa kanila kapag tamang grammar ang ginagamit nila. Baka kaya dapat natin ipangalandakan sa mundo na Pilipino tayo at magaling tayo dahil walang pumapansin sa atin, kahit tayo-tayo mismo. O dahil insecure tayo? O baka ako lang, kasi mas gwapo ka sa’kin at inggit ako sa’yo.

Computer Shop

Instead of giving myself a rest, I choose to burn the rest of my day inside a computer shop trying to finish a story that has been itching at the surface of my dreams. There is this gay right in front of my computer unit singing gibberish in an apocalyptic falsetto that would make my head burst in three more minutes.

A unit away from my unit at the left side is a guy video-chatting with his girlfriend elsewhere in the world. All around me are noisy puberty boys trash-talking each other over DOTA. I could be inside my boarding house, safely typing stuff on my laptop. I could have done this at the office. But strangely, my solace is right here, inside this computer shop just along the yellow Dominga street somewhere Malate, Manila.

I owe the discovery of the concept of solace at a computer shop in Dasmariñas, Cavite. There, I finished a story that was meant for some folio. On that specific computer shop, I discovered that each computer unit is a chance to extend the borders of the mind in a very controllable universe.

Each cubicle, equipped with a single monitor, keyboard, mouse, camera, headset, necessary softwares and internet connection, is a chance of a human being to control a universe and explore like a curious god in a middle class midnight in the middle of cold cussing teenage strangers.

Thank God for Pirates!

PIRATE

Piracy, legally termed as Copyright Infringement (not to be confused with plagiarism), done in many different forms: photocopying, online file sharing, unauthorized mass reproduction of books, films, photos, or any work of art .

It's a crime, the law says--robbery--stealing someone's property--intellectual property.

INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY

Who owns intellect anyway?

The Greeks told a story of a hero named Prometheus, a Titan, who whispered the secrets of the gods to the human race. In return, the gods punished him by sending ugly, hungry fowls to feast on his liver which regenerates time and time again--so infinite pain.

The 21st century, however, tells us a different myth; one which tells the stories about gods named oligarchs and slaves called consumers.

Before the the turn of the 21st century, the Oligarchs, especially in countries like the Philippines, enjoy much of their self-righteous business schemes. They made cash out of ownership of record labels, publications, production houses, corporations--each of them claiming possession of wisdom from artists whose works are by nature expressive and made for free consumption.

On the other hand, consumers, the Filipino mass to be specific, suffers economically, strives to live; working more, enjoying less; feeding stomachs, starving minds--all of these supported by laws made by legislators who are businessmen themselves.

Aside: I'm not an avid of Jose Rizal or any of his Illustrados but his concept of making the elite Hispanic knowledge of the 18th century available to the mass is utterly cool. Rizal knew that armed with knowledge and wisdom, oppression can be defeated.

Rizal himself was a benefactor of the age of enlightenment. And in a subconscious way (as Renato Constantino puts it), Rizal wanted to be a Prometheus for the Indios.


FILE SHARING AS REBELLION

Retrospectively, the earlier forms of Piracy which was mimeograph, benefited a lot of activists who learned Marx not by the original books, but by photocopied ones (especially during the Martial Law).

Even until the late 90's, one can still see college geeks photocopying Kafka or Ginsberg. But came our generation geeks can not only explore Kafka's mind but also find other relevant real time info through Facebook, Twitter, Google, Youtube, or elsewhere the Internet (Piso Net?).

This fire--the technology--sent shivers to the ever-lofty Oligarchs who felt they can fool around with people for eternity. And who'd they turn to keep their businesses alive? Politicians. Blacksmiths of the Anti-Piracy Law.

Think of it this way: who's hurt getting free copies of rare B-side tracks, the music lover or the rich record-label owner. Think what enlightenment comes to a street vendor who takes home a copy of films by Tarantino, what revolution happens in the head?

PIRACY ENCOURAGES ART

If the artist refuse to let the Oligarchs put value for their work, they can do it. This could be bourgeois by nature. But reality check, good art deserves compensation that the petty artist needs. As long as the artist pours heart into his craft, by nature it will pay. Shakespeare never claimed his works are good. But it stood the test of time. So it became.

An artist, an underground band for example, with so much talent can benefit a lot from file-sharing and social networking sites. A better example would be the now-known indie scene. Adam David's Xeroxography for indie-literature. Cinemalaya and Universities for indie-film. Comicon for indie-comics. Of course, internet for indie-music. All of these making an art scene more diverse as ever...makes art evolve!

Prelude to Graveyard Shift, Sheep, Ship, Shit, Sleep...

Regular-working people wake up at 9:00 in the morning and think they're late. On a graveyard shift, you will wake up at night and the day is just starting. For a while, it should be fine. But after four months, it starts to bother you. Especially when these things become synonymous with each other:

Dinner, Breakfast and Meryenda
Day and Night
Buses and Home
Restaurants and comfort rooms
Coffee and water
Male and Female ( on jeepneys or Harrison street)
People and Shadows (at the most dizzy times)

********

1. Dizzy but Gillespie

         Streetlights are taking over empty streets. A portion of my latest dream--the last fibers of my sleep--is still in the corners of my vision, creating blots of violet confusion that blurs the definition of walking and floating. It could be the origin of moonwalking. Good thing, the memory of my feet turns me into a train that follows a geographic cliche leading to the right places.

          Everything becomes sound. Only light is real: embossed from the dim and foggy ends of spaces between things and me. I whistle in my head while listening on cellphone-radio. The pace of travel dictates rhythm. Unpredictable like jazz. Traffic has its ways of surprising you even during ungodly hours. There's the soundtrack of hurrying that features a bassline from the late-80's fingers of Flea. There's the soundtrack of apprehension that features the sophistication of Pink Floyd. There are nights when a lonely howl of a cheesy Dong Abay sneaks into the scene with blood--sometimes as passionate as U2. But the overall sense of travel never fails to deliver Bob Dylan free-versing solo.

2. Mantra-volta

           Approaching the office, I see myself as a pair of lips slowly touching the surface of burning brewed coffee. It wakes me up, strips me off the dust of sleep, and  reduces me to a machine, or some sort of mechanism in the service of the company feeding me.
       
             There are times that coming to the office is a not a bitter pill to swallow, but an oversized suppository approaching my ass.
         
             People at work would talk to me. I wouldn't talk back most of the time. I prefer talking to people online. Maybe it's because of generation gap. My co-workers at night are in every way older than me. They always talk about other people, about their accomplishments, about their failures. They're older than me. It's better if I just listen. I also have this feeling that office-talk is not the arena of my tongue. I'm loud over beer and friends. I'm loud when I should, silent when I should, and passive if pissed. Mantra is focus.

            Work, that cage, would always remind of the vastness of my small ipis-infested dormitory in Cavite. We were all complete: the actor, the couple, the athlete-slash-cool guy, the religious and monks, the clairvoyant, the artists, the writers, the money-driven proud chub, the new kid in town, the happy-go lucky, the lonely, the happy, the broken. A talk would go a long way. Over beer, over coffee, over nothing, over hunger..it doesn't matter. Free-verse, rhyme, whatever...it doesn't matter. Nothing else matters. Philosophy, literature, reality, love, loss, memory, morality, porn, science, God, gibberish...all is one and connected. It was a universe created while we were talking and laughing and singing and suddenly. Beat.

3. Sleep

            At the end of the day, a graveyard worker's real enemy is sleep. It's not the kind of enemy you want to kill. It's the enemy you want alive. You want it fresh. But sleep is mischievous and sneaky under the light of the sun. Here's how sleep becomes evil:

           Sleep, wearing a coat without a tie, visits you on the bus while you're trying to finish some book. It comes along with tiredness and blesses you with comfort. You sleep and find hard to wake up at the end of the ride. Slowly, sleep will walk away, away, away, leaving you with sun-filled energy inside.

            At home, you eat, watch TV, try to relax, but where the hell is sleep? Nowhere. No jumping sheep. Reading makes you anxious or excited. Thinking is no use, Sleepiness is absence or at least complete disregard of thoughts. Then you get creative. Try milk, try TV again, try music, try radio, try walking, try counting dust, try porn, try praying the rosary, try eating again, try banging your head to the wall, try water, try taking another bath, try talking to someone, try laughing, try thinking about...try forgetting about. You end up sleeping 4 hours late and waking up early. Then sleep attacks you at work. Evil son of a bitch.

4. Sleep Part 2


              It takes a lot of strength to pursue a craft. Artists do deserve to be called artists in this third-world post-colonial, post-GMA, pre-post-Pacquiao, post-war-pre-war time-space. From my point of view, I can clearly see the worthiness of art--visual, literary, sound, etc.--how it is a flower yellowing on a pile of 21st century junk--the middle finger that stands tall and proud over folded expressions, limited motion, second-hand decision, dead people working for living not truly living neither leaving.

              Pursuing art is still rebellious! It's what my beard and my receding hairline longs for. The rebel in me has been dwarfed for sometime now. It used to be a condensed universe gearing up for its big bang. Now it's a deep thirsty black hole empty, pulling lost energy. Sleeping. Noynoying. Everyday I write yet I am dissatisfied. Something's wrong. Really wrong. Sleeping. It's wrong. Especially when your grandmother is dying. Poems and stories and music are all gathered in one place enjoying free beer, live band...guests are coming: God, Plato, Ginsberg, Horace, Platypuses, John Lennon, Borges the blind librarian, Khalil Gibran, Pepe not smith, Marcelo del Pilar, greek gods...goddesses, muses..Luther, people laughing while everybody else is working like tiny little ants.

Sabado

1. Life

Yesterday was the overall meaning of the word 'alive.' Twenty-freakin-four tough hours of fighting sleep for a few good things.

2. Bicycle

Two-wheeled trip to Nanay's grave to say my prayers. Two wheels on my mind: first wheel turning back to memories; second wheel heading towards white uncertainties.

3. Dust

 We're nothing but dust, I was told. Funny how people spent a lot of time wiping dust off their most precious possessions.

4. Death

Can I ever look at you squarely in the eyes? If not, stop staring.

5. Lotto

I used to believe that all numbers start at 1 until I discovered negative numbers, decimals, and fraction. People, lining up in front of a lotto outlet believe in numbers. Erpats has a number of beliefs.

6. Basketball

Dribble up the court, between the legs, behind the back, turn around, crossover, pin point pass, timely catch, eyes on the basket, mind on the floor, beware of defenders, slide and go for a jumpshot, quick lay up, or if possible, a nasty killer dunk...true freedom is inside the basketball court.

7. Food

Is more of a food when hungry.

8. Sleep

Sun

Today, news agencies from all over the world is expecting an intensified solar storm. Disruption on satellite signals are likely to happen, scientists said. Philippines' weather agency, PAG-ASA, on the other hand  believes the country will be spared by possible effect citing its position near the equator.

Today, I went out of the office at about 7:10 in the morning to find a friendly shot of gold from the young-looking sun. I did not feel radioactive. Sun seemed normal. No traces of cosmic storm in the atmosphere.

My vigilance on signs of the solar storm was broken by two beautiful ladies in white shirt jogging around CCP Complex. Smiles became evident as they came closer towards my direction. 

Meanwhile, a man on bicycle almost hit me, I didn't mind.

Two men in army cut, probably members of the Philippine Navy crossed paths with the two wonderful ladies.

Nothing happened but it seemed perfectly right.

As I continued heading to Roxas Boulevard, a panoramic view of human life occurred like a cosmic revelation of hope:

About 4 rows of Navy students doing drills, sunlight diffused on bottled waters held up high by two ragged vendors in love with their work, gentlemanly dogs on leash carried by aristocratic soldiers of morning walks, a number of couples sitting on gutters laughing vehemently, white chiks playing tennis in deep concentration, sweat on the face of a chubby woman warming up, a stampede of joggers sensitive with their shapes circling around the front yard of CCP like sundial or clocks or the circle of life; a taho vendor scoops down for a plastic cup before an old woman tired of workout; everything moving in a rhythm perfect like the combination of brewed black coffee, humming birds, sizzling sinangag aroma, roosters crowing....like a circle drawn in green crayon on a plywood by a curious child...like the slightest shake of trees on sunday noons....everything perfectly in position..not for war, nor for peace, but for no reason at all.

Everything pans across my vision and peripheral visions and aura detecting hormones. I was everywhere and between every human being on my view. Omnipresent, omnipotent, omnihumming, omniwatching, oh mi goodness it was amazing.

Slowly, I walked away from the milky way like a murmur of wind dwindling towards an FX sliding along Roxas Boulevard. 

Amen.

Pasig City

A few months ago, the city of Pasig started to abandon the use of plastics in commercial establishments. At least, that what they said. At least, that's what a DJ from Pasig said. At least, that's what the girl at the the counter of Ministop said while handing me the sweets I bought inside a paper bag.

A few months ago, the city of Pasig is beefing up it's campaign against traffic violators. At least, that's what they said. At least, that's what the traffic enforcers (?) mean when they hunt down colorum tricycles along the narrow streets of Countryside Ave. going to the smaller hump-and-hole-wrecked streets of our village. At least, that's what traffic enforcers mean when they hunt down motorcycle riders without helmets, licenses or LTO registration papers. At least, that's what the traffic enforcer watching jeepneys fly in ecstasy along Ortigas Extension at three in the morning mean.

(A few centuries ago, one can smell the breeze along Pasig river..few centuries later, people run to bring that long lost breeze back.)

And at least, few months to go before the elections start in the city of Pasig!

A few moments later I shall sleep and a few F-U's for you who stole my jumping sheep.

Strange days

Everything is tainted with the color of dreams. Highways like EDSA, Ayala Ave., and Buendia seemed so familiar until the death of Nanay two nights ago.

My mind craves for dreams just as a hungry stomach longs for food.

Flashbacks are becoming the habit of my head.

Thought flashes by; then goes back; split seconds turning into minutes and hours.

It occupies most of my idle moments. 

For awhile, I thought that the pathways inside this crematory, Loyola in Guadalupe, looks like the catacombs in Europe--the ones I used to watch in the defunct TV show, the Scariest Places on Earth.

Though it doesn't necessarily scare me, I feel a medieval sense of sadness with one-way, yellow-lit hallways: reminds me of torch-lit dungeons in TV shows (for TV is all the reference I have for the medieval period). 

I can see that obtuse angled edges have the tendency to trick the eyes that the hallways are longer. It also confuses the sense of direction for you never really no where every turn will lead you.

Small coconut trees and some plastic-looking plants sprout on the eye of this building.

There is no silence at night. People keep coming at nearby chapels. They come with tears and reluctant steps. After a few minutes, family talk raises spirits. This is natural--reunions at funerals.

No matter how busy, broken, or sad; people would always stop by for dead people.

But EDSA and its hard-honking buses and jeepneys born to race with space, time, and life; shall ever numbly move.

Rest in Peace, Nanay Lydia Alemania

Died on a leap year while the moon's half-lit and the stars are out.

Old Man

It was awkward, how the thin old man walked along the sidewalks of Ayala avenue near PBCom building past 9 in the evening. From about 40 adult steps away, I could see he was bending on his stomach, pushing his left hand on its lower part. Probably something he ate, I thought.

But I knew there was something terribly wrong when I saw his face that resembled a dying Christ. At about 10 adult steps away, he was so much thinner. His eyes were almost shut. The remnants of his teeth were grinding. Something's terribly wrong with this man, I thought as he slowly passed me by.

In curiosity (I'm pretty sure it's not sympathy), I stopped, looked back, and approached the old man. Old man says he has liver cancer. Doctors said he's gonna die soon. How soon, I don't know. I didn't bother asking. He's dying anyway and I can't do anything about it.

Old man showed me papers. He had just went to Malacañang Palace and sought some help. I wanted to die in Leyte, old man said. The problem is, he had no money (to die in Leyte). Old man said fare was too high.

At that point, excessive pain was pretty obvious in his face. I was at 2-arms length. He wasn't looking at anything. I'm not sure if he's looking at anything in front of him. I was thinking he was looking at Leyte in his head. Mind over matter.

Old man continued talking about Leyte, his hometown. I wasn't listening. I was looking dead at him. Waiting for sympathy to come and kick me in the heart. But there were no sympathies for that evening. I was too sleepy, in a hurry for work.

He ranted about the government. Malacañang won't help. Six senators turned him down. Promises from DSWD were eaten by cancer cells celebrating inside his liver. Fuck the government, I thought what he really wanted to say. Better yet, fuck hope.

Old man suddenly turned silent. I heard whispers. Not sure if he was cussing. I don't care. I told him to ride a bus and go to Cubao and from there ask some bus driver to get him to Leyte for free. But he was mad and dying. I was cussing like a machine in my mind.

I handed him a hundred and fifty pesos. It was not because of sympathy. Maybe yes. I just thought it was the right thing to do. Old man gripped hard on the money, slowly looked at me, and threw the paper bills on the cold sidewalk of Ayala avenue.

Old man turned his back cussing and cussing cussing cussing cussing fuck it I'm dying anyway. Old man left me alone between intersecting streetlights and headlights. I was late for work. Always late. I picked up my money. Bought some chips and ate it like the cancer cells eating the old man's body up.