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.