to you i send
my desiccated head,
in jaded prose as dreary
as last year’s budget flicks;
the thrill of writing has fled like fleas
before an exterminator’s hose.
to you i leave
my ailing heart,
fatigued by thwarted hopes.
as laughable as it is,
i clutch at my delusions
that you will respond in kind.
since last night, i have been struggling to write four articles. i find two of them extremely depressing in terms of topic. one is about marital separation and how to help children cope; the other is about abuse in intimate relationships. the process of researching and writing these stories remind me painfully that after riding into the sunset, most people find potholes, cliffs, hairpin turns, falling boulders, and various other hazards on the road to happy ever after. there is so much that can go wrong, so many mistakes that can be made, and so many people who can get hurt.
not to mention the millions of bad drivers on the highway (bike path?) of life.
I should be happy to be finally free.
I shouldn’t be depressed.
But I am.
And even if you associate with all the bimbos in the world,
I shouldn’t care.
But I do.
I should stop moping.
I’ve got a great life ahead.
I really should move on.
But I can’t.
Oo, aaminin ko na. Marami akong kinikimkim na ilusyon at ambiyson. Hindi ko lang ipinagsasabi dahil baka ma-unsyami.
Pero ngayon –kung kailan ang mga pangarap ay naghihingalo na– ngayon nagkaroon ng mga pagkakataon. Di ko sukat akalain.
Sana nga’y ito na ang umpisa ng tagmupay. Ipagdasal nyo po ako. 
question: why do i keep receiving these offers for erection enhancers and penis patches when i don’t even have an effing penis?!?!?!?
grrr. thank goodness for spam filters.
dean+juls+white wine+dark beer = a return to sanity. guys, i owe you one.
ps: lynette!!!! you should have been there!!
Long distance relationships are like yoyo diets. Alternate cycles of feast and famine. Binge and starve, binge and starve.
There are short, blissful hours, days, (if you’re lucky, weeks) that overflow with sweet words and kisses, movie dates and leisurely walks; when you cuddle and giggle and hold hands as if the world might end tomorrow. And end it does, with a drought that leaves your heart barren and desolate as you struggle to survive on occasional phone calls and text messages. Never quite enough. But certainly better than nothing.
Thank goodness for ICT. The world gets smaller. Distances get shorter. It’s like you’re almost there. But not really. The tinny voice on the receiver, the blurry picture on the LCD screen: these are mere dextrose IVs and tube-feeds. They don’t tickle your tastebuds or satisfy your sweet tooth. But they do keep you alive. Sort of. At least until the next feast comes around and your heart can binge again.
Minsan sa mga kalye at eskinita ng ating buhay, mapapansin mo nalang na may nagdeposito ng kayamanan sa sa gitna ng daan. Isang malaking tumpok ng taeng mainit-init, basa, malambot, at malata. Higit sa lahat, may amoy itong tunay namang makaahon-sikmura, na siyang hudyat sa paglusob ng libo-libong langaw. Pusang galang impaktita. Sinong damuhong ang nag-iwan nyan diyan? (Siyempre pag ang nalaglag sa daan ay pera o relo o cellphone, pinag-aagawan ito. Pero pag tae, walang gustong umamin na iyon ay kanya. Kawawang nilalang. Malamang nangungulila siya.)
Sa totoo lang, hindi na mahalagang malaman kung kaninong puwitan nanggaling ang natural na yaman. Ang mahalaga ay dakutin at linisin ito bago pa may makaapak nito at magkalat ng tae sa ibang bahagi ng daan.
Pero minsan ay nakakatamad o nakakapandiring magdakot at maglinis ng tae sa mga kalye at eskinita ng ating buhay. Minsan nga hindi natin alam na may tae pala sa daan. Kaya napapabayaan nalang natin itong langawin at mabulok.
Wag mag-alala. Oo, sa ngayon ay mabaho yan at nakapandidiring tignan. Pero sa paglipas ng panahon — sa pagsikat ng araw at pagbuhos ng ulan, sa sama-samang pagkilos ng mga mikrobyo at bulati– unti-unti ring mawawala ang kalat at baho, at bumabalik ito sa alabok. Darating din ang araw, ni hindi mo na maalalang minsan ay may kalamay sa gabukan.
Hari nawa. Dahil ang buhay ay puno ng tae.
It used to be the music that my parents couldn’t understand, the music that I played until the woofers on our stereo broke. It was the music that was supposed to have expressed the angst of the so-called "generation next ". (Opo, feel na feel ko na noon ang pagrerebelde sa simpleng pagpapalakas ng volume ng radyo. You can roll your eyes if you want.) So it felt strange when i heard that music being described as “retro” by the cricket-voiced DJ on the weekend rewind. And it felt even stranger when I opened a magazine and saw that baston pants, ultra-wide belts, and big hair –- the very things that were so uso when we were kids but so baduy when we were teens — were making a comeback as retro chic.
Retro. It was not a word that had applied to me before. Retro was bell bottoms and Beatles, beehive hairdos and disco. Retro used to be a term for the artifacts of my parents’ lost youth. But now, it seems that I have been officially reclassified from the ranks of the “young ones” and grouped together with the “young once” as well.
But that’s okay. Growing up does have its perks. For one thing, it’s great to be finally past all that peer pressure and conformity. For another, my mom is actually treating me like a human being now. I’ve met so many wise, funny, beautiful people and learned so much from them. Somewhere along the line, I’ve finally gained a semblance of control over my hair, which used to look like chewed-up steel wool when I was in high school. And I’m finally taking my MS and enjoying it.
To be sure, I’ve said and done a lot of stupid things through the years. The stupidity probably won’t end there. But I’m hoping to gain a little bit of wisdom to balance out the idiocy. And anyway, it’s no big deal. After all that brouhaha, I can finally live with myself. At the ripe old age of 25, I’m happy where I am.J
The apartment is quiet at 2 am.
The air, freshly scrubbed by the afternoon’s rain,
is perfumed by the scent of damp laundry.
I listen contentedly to the comforting thrum
of the washing machine,
the chirping of the crickets,
the ticking of the occasional lizard
and to the slurping sound of thick, infected mucus
being sucked into someone’s nostril.
Detachedly,
I note how the snorts and ticks provide a rhythmic counterpoint
to the washer’s thrumming
and the crickets’ chirping,
and how nostril and lizard call out to each other
in musical dialogue.
