Unrequired Reading: Sirena X This Guy's In Love With You Pare

It's been a while since I posted an Unrequired Reading for everyone's better appreciation of, well, of stuff.

This week's Unrequired Reading is inspired by the recent "Super Sirena" fiasco, the popularity of GMA-7's homoserye "My Husband's Lover", and the absolutely ridiculous Russian policy against the LGBT lifestyle. With these recent events, I took a look at our current pop culture and see if there is positive and supportive LGBT sentiments from straight but not narrow artists. The two examples that easily come to mind are Gloc-9's "SIRENA" and Parokya ni Edgar's "THIS GUY'S IN LOVE WITH YOU, PARE".

I have chosen these two examples because as pop songs, they are narratives (if you are still with me at this point, you will have to start speaking my language; these are more than songs, these are stories) that are most frequently experienced by the ordinary people--compared to movies and TV shows that would take several minutes, as media, to be consumed.

"Sirena" takes in its centerstage an old joke, oft repeated in moments of machismo--after all, when do men need to be more manly than in the intimate company of other men?-- A homophobic father is repeatedly dunking his son's head in a drumfull of water. This reverse waterboarding technique is presumed to convert the gay son straight. As the father interrogates and forces his son to choose between being a girl and being a boy, the gay son willfully defines himself as something else: "A MERMAID!"

Gloc 9's "Sirena" narrative then follows the life of the gay son as he grows up as a troubled teen. Harassed, hated. This does not deter him though from remaining loyal to his abusive father. The song ends at the deathbed of the father, and the gay son, now fully grown, remains loyal to him. Vindictive, perhaps? Or forced by circumstances--after all, a sad reality of the Philippines is the steadfast refusal of the state to recognize same-sex unions.

The music video showcases the likes of prominent LGBT personalities like Danton Remoto, and Boy Abunda, lending some Gay Cred to the project. As Katrina Stuart Santiago praised it, "Sirena is everything I didn't expect."

But there really is nothing new in Gloc 9's narrative, Katrina. On first glance, it may be a narrative proposing an empathic look at members of the LGBT community. True, it dramatized (melodramatized, even) an old joke creating a desensitizing new way of looking at the situation as something more real, more current, but it's an old, tired image: an effeminate son being physically abused to go straight. It offers nothing new.

It's limiting. It defines the LGBT reality as effeminate and that only physical abuse is considered abuse. Whereas it could have broken new grounds by exploring the mental abuse, it shied away (or ignorant of it, ignored) from anything other than the trite and tried Roderick Paulate formula: the gay is depicted as "kumekembot" and his earring dangle ("mga hikaw na gumegewang"), his eyelashes are curled.

Worse, the song defines the gay person's worth by his usefulness to the abusive parent. This sends a strong message to young gay people of the Philippines: "We'll accept you, but you have to take care of us when we grow old." Only when the gay persona is useful can he be tolerated, accepted, welcomed, appreciated.

There is nothing in the song that defined the gay persona as an individual. Whereas the project aimed to humanize the gay persona, it failed by its insistence to stick to the Roderick Paulate image: the opportunity to create a character compromised by the easy route of using a caricature. Like Lolita in Vladimir Nabokov's novel, the gay persona ("Sirena") in the song existed ONLY IN CONTEXT to the abusive father: first, as victim, then ultimately, as the caretaker.

Now, I'd like to turn your attention to a much older song. Parokya ni Edgar's "This Guy's In Love with You, Pare" is a pop rock ditty that tells of a (presumably) heterosexual man's confusion with his best friend's sudden change of heart.

But what's amazing about this song is that it offers a whole new perspective into the LGBT reality. What happens when a gay guy falls for his straight best friend?

The positive vibe of the song makes the narrative catchy, but more importantly, it does not draw importance to its message self-consciously. "Oh, no, my best friend's gay // Is he the same old friend I had yesterday?" the narrator laments, perfectly capturing a sentiment that people have about people coming out of the closet: Will you be different now? Are you still our son? Is our little princess going to shave her head now?

Then, in a brilliant flash of insight, the song explores a common tendency of gay people in fetishizing their straight men friendships: "Oh, di kailangan na mag-on!" // "Converted pa rin, nakikipag-fling sayo."

Sure, the bros did not end up romantically together, but even till the end of the song, even after what the two personas went through, the narrator still insists: "Oh, no, my best friend's gay..." Explicitly refusing to redefine their friendships just because the gay persona fell in love with him.

Whereas Gloc-9's "Sirena" wants to call your attention with how "I feel for gays" the songwriter is ("Acceptance! Tolerance! BUT only if you'll take care of dad), Parokya ni Edgar's "This Guy's In Love With You, Pare" takes on a more creative approach: We're still best friends, it's really not an issue, bro.

Writing At Knifepoint

The reading room at the Graduate Studies Office of our college is open only on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays--and only for four hours each day. Last Friday, I filed for a leave of absence from work so I can get some work done on my thesis. It wasn't an easy task navigating through the shelves of works as they were arranged in adherence to the deconstructionist view of tearing down structures; they were not shelved alphabetically, by year, or even by field of study.

Finally, I managed to hunt down relevant works to the one I have planned. I went through the Thesis Introductions--which were the the critical part of the whole thing, being the writer's self-reflective critical paper on his own literary aesthetics.

Going through them, I discovered how most of my contemporaries began their crazy quest to create literature. Some were poignant--with episodes set in the province, by a grandparent's lap, in the middle of Martial Law and marital wars. Some were accidental, in pursuit of a particular science, say, an epiphany would strike, or forced by circumstances and opportunities, a writer would find himself writing and could no longer stop even if she tried.

This got me to thinking about my own origin story. When is it, really, that I started to become convinced that writing is what I want to do for a living? What moment pushed me to the edge of this madness?

Perhaps, technically: it was when I enrolled in a graduate studies program different from my previous education of the law and philosophy. It was the moment when I committed to pursuing a more technical and theoretical approach to my writing, and to fly with more than raw talent, mental illness, and the belief that my public persona can help me sell books.

But even before that I had always been writing, telling stories. In college, in high school. Though they have taken different forms of telling--from performance poetry to stage plays, fan fiction and blog posts--I had always used my grasp of language to convey meaning, to capture truth, to create worlds with the use of words.

Also, I am too short to do ramp modelling. My face looks too flat and common to register on TV. And my singing does not so much inspire others, as aggravate them. So, yeah. In my relationship with my audience, I had always been great when I'm hidden by the page.

Although, if I have to pick a clear episode in my childhood when I--the adult, 2013 version of me-- can say I started to exhibit a certain predisposition towards writing it would be when I was a first grader in an exclusive school for boys, on the day after I was mugged at knifepoint.

***

I wasn't even supposed to wear that fucking watch. My aunts insisted, despite me informing them that I could hardly tell the time--or its importance to my first grader life, that I should wear the new Swatch Pop Watch they bought me.  In the 80's, the Swatch Pop Watch brought the idea of customizing your watch with your outfit. The actual watch part can be popped in and out of the different straps.

My main contention at that point was the watch had no numbers, but my aunts insisted the watch looked really cute on me. Again, I was in first grade. I was three foot tall; anything you put on me becomes cute. If they had dressed me up as a miniature policeman or a politician, it would still have been cute. I could have dressed up in drag, as Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, and they would have swooned at the cuteness. Apparently, at that age, the only way I could avoid being cute was to not wear a Swatch Pop Watch.

I had to bear that unfamiliar weight on my wrist the whole day. It was no use to me because at first grade, I wasn't really interested in displaying material objects on my persons as a way to gain approval of others; that would come much later, and at a much urgent need, in fifth grade, when I would move schools and be forced to co-educate with girls. All the time that I needed to tell was Recess, and Dismissal.

Anyway, at the end of my rather quite hectic day in the life of a first grader, I was enjoying a cone of sorbetes hawked by a peddler with a couple of other boys on the same carpool that brought me to-and-from school. I remember sitting on the warm pavement, on a slightly inclined driveway of a house near the school where our carpool service usually picked us up. Maybe we were talking about the wrestling match on TV last night, or trading jokes that only grade schoolers could get. Now, here comes the important detail: a man approached us and asked for time.

Since, as I have insisted the whole day, I could hardly tell the time, much more, from a watch bursting with colors but had no numbers on it, I did what any helpful boy would have done: reached my wrist to him, and let him have a good look at my watch.

He took his time, and apparently, mine. As soon as he was done checking the authenticity of my watch, he promptly whipped out a switchblade and pressed the tip to my abdomen. My good friends ran away at this point, fortunately.

It was over in seconds. The man had expertly freed me from my watch. With no further business with me, he ran off without so much as a word of thanks. That was pretty rude of him.

I remember not crying. My friends flocked back as soon as they saw me alone. Our carpool service came, and we told the driver what happened. Some kid shared a story about another mugging that happened to someone he knew. Our carpool driver sounded mad. They were congratulating me for not crying, in a way that told me I should really start crying by then. I didn't know why everyone wanted me to cry, it wasn't a special watch, I never liked it in the first place.

Ok, so someone took my watch while threatening to stab me with a knife. Big deal.

When I reached home, the carpool driver walked me to the door and told my grandmother what happened.

"He had a knife," I told her, and then I couldn't stop crying anymore.

***

Now here comes the part where we change the camera treatment a little bit, and look at the young Jose Carlos Malvar as he struggled the next day, as he had to recount the ordeal, first, to his homeroom adviser, then to various school well-meaning officials who had to know what happened to ensure it never happen again: the prefect of discipline, the vice-principal, the principal. They were looking at him with pity, like he was the softest, most vulnerable young boy there ever was, and he was extremely lucky to survived at all.

Yet, no one thought of calling on the police.

The boy Jose Carlos wanted to return to class a hero. He had been mortally threatened, and he survived. It was an amazing thing to face off a bad guy, and not cry. Instead, he was now defined as a victim.

His English teacher, at least, had a different approach. And in this, she was unwittingly an agent of change. Instead of asking the boy to recount for the 15th time what happened, she asked everyone to take out a piece of paper, and write "The Most Memorable Thing that Happened to Me", with a special wink in my direction, and quick explanation that he could "write what happened yesterday".

Of course, as a first grader, there really wasn't much material for Jose Carlos to draw from. He was at the disadvantage of having just 10 years, 3 of which he wasn't conscious of, to write a page-long memoir. Having honed the story with repeated telling, he thought of cashing in on my recent tragedy by penning the event in exchange of grades.

He had an obvious flair for dramatics even early on. On the top corner of the paper, he wrote: "Based on a True Story". It was a phrase he learned from the recent crop of Massacre Movies that were popular in those days.

A few minutes before the class ended, the teacher asked everyone to submit their papers. Jose Carlos passed his dutifully, but with a look of worry over his face. Something wasn't right. He wrote as well as he could, going from one event leading to the next, but there was something wrong. He wanted to reach out, and grab his paper back from the teacher. It was all wrong, all wrong. It was as it happened, but there was something wrong.

It would be days afterwards before he realized what he did wrong.

Struggling to capture the event in English--a learned language used only in school, TV, and movies--he had written about how the stranger mugged him at knifepoint and took his "clock".

A clock. A fucking clock.

Thinking in Filipino, he needed to peg down an English word for "relo", a timekeeper. His wandering eyes fell on the wall clock over the teacher's head, his attention diverted from the absence of the Swatch Pop WATCH on his wrist.

Clock or watch? Clock? Or Watch? Clockorwatchorclockorwatch.

He made the call: clock. He wrote "The man asked for my clock. I gave the man my clock."

20 years later, he still haven't forgiven himself for making the wrong call. It was a watch, man. You meant "The man asked for the time, and I let him take my watch."

***

This obsession for finding the right words is what defines a writer. Writers can spend an agonizing long time staring at ceilings trying to craft the perfect opening sentence to a novel. Sometimes the words may come easy, but not in the right order.

The fact that I was more bothered by my wrong choice of words than the actual harrowing ordeal speaks volume about how wired I was to be a writer. It wasn't about the watch at all. It was about calling it a 'clock'. Since then, I've been weighing my words. Stairs or steps? Purple or Violet? Wind or breeze? Door or door frame? Shadow or silhouette? For a writer, the minute difference in connotation and denotation spells a lot. Gray or grey? There's a difference, and if you want to be a good writer, you should know the difference between nude and naked,  proudly and boastfully, forest and jungle, write and wrung.

I was mugged at knifepoint, and that's exactly how it feels like every time I write. That you are being asked to give up something under the threat of your own life. You need to keep a steady mind, and give the man your watch, not your clock, boy, and live to tell the tale. Because being a writer means finding the right words, even at knifepoint.

Selfie-steem

The day seemed like one of those days when birds might burst into song, and the air was positively humming with good vibes. You had have a big presentation coming up, and you dressed up nice. In fact, you were wearing a shirt you don't wear on ordinary days.

In short, you felt fuckin great.

This calls for a selfie.

***

I don't know why some people take offense against selfies. Considering the guy who wrote this is a promoter himself, he should know better than to speak ill against shamelessness and self-promotion. Unless, if we are to believe him, he sees no value in shameless self-promotion... well then, that speaks volume about the kind of service his clients can expect of him.

Anyway, I think what he wrote is bullshit. Here's why:

1.) Selfies are good for self-esteem. When you post selfies, and your supportive friends like it, you immediately feel gratified, your self worth gets a boost. In the age of distrust--when the poster boy next door is a marathon bomber, when the authority figure is a sex offender, when bullies are as vicious online as they are away from their computers-- a little daily dose of niceness is welcome. What's wrong with spreading the positive vibe around? Liking someone's selfie is the digital version of smiling back at strangers. It doesn't hurt anyone, and it makes everyone's day somewhat brighter.

2.) Positive outlook is good for productivity. When you post selfies and people like it, you feel empowered. You feel good about yourself. A positive comment about your outfit of the day will give you that boost of confidence to nail that tricky client presentation. Maybe you're dealing with a lot lately, but you still managed to force a smile for a selfie.... people liking that selfie tells you it's OK, you can soldier on.

3.) Shameless Self Promotion. In the age where content is king, everyone can use a lesson in branding. By regularly posting selfies, you are never off the people's imagination. Your face is always top of mind. Why should you wait for other people to upload your digital likeness when you can be in total control of your digital content and post your selfies? Trust me, I'm the guy who had to upload gigabytes of self-tagged photos just to bury a couple of embarrassing naked photos. You have to be in control of what get's online, and what keeps forgotten in your desktop folders.

4.) Selfies send a positive image about how we define "beautiful". For the longest time, people have been complaining about the imposition of the anorexic blonde girl as the standard of beauty. Attempts to put plus-sized women of different age and color on beauty magazines have been applauded and cheered. Now, selfies take that on step further. Now that everyone's armed with the capability to publish and publicize their own digital contents, everyone's part of the dialogue. What's beautiful? we ask. Selfies are. As we continuously pose and post photos, we continuously define and redefine what we think is beautiful. The fact that people LIKE selfies that are far from cover girl material is a great testament to how we are veering away from one standard of beauty, and owning the concept, instead, to define who we think we are.

So, excuse me while I take this selfie.

With All Due Respect, Sirs

This is a short and shallow rant about the middleaged men in the gym where I go to.

First, Dude Who's Always Naked. Sir, please put some clothes on. Please don't walk around the locker room swinging your tiny dick, standing in front of the electric fan to dry your pubes off. It's gross. Yes, we're all men. But seeing a limp dick on someone on the downhill of life is disheartening, and stirs up fears inside our heads. You are not an attractive man. And, please don't try to chat me up, or chat my friends up, or chat just about any random strangers up, trying to find some common interest with guys you barely knew. This is the gym's locker room, not a dating lounge where you can approach your type and try to get them to give you their numbers.

Second, the Whole Lot of You Who Wear Brightly Colored Printed Underwear. I believe that men over the age of 30 should not wear loud, attention seeking underwear from Bench in the locker room. I am barely out of my 20's, and I already respect myself enough to stick to basic whites and blacks. You are going to the gym, you are not walking the ramp in a fashion show. It's sad how you want to call attention to your crotch in a room full of other men. And you're not even physically fit.

My problem is that you guys represent a Future Possibility that's scary for any man in his twenties: That someday, I might be one of those sad, desperate middleaged guys who'll compromise decency for attention.

Please grow up, and get dressed.

Siege Malvar's Abangers Playlist

Admit it. At one point in your life, you have fallen for someone already taken by someone else. We've all been in that situation of hoping from the sidelines, waiting by the bench. Here's my soundtrack for all the lonely hearts out there who are pining for a chance.

1.) Gallery / Galleria - Mario Vasquez // Halaga - Parokya ni Edgar

 "I can't take seeing you with him, coz I know exactly what you'll be in his gallery."

"Binabasura lang ng iba ang siya'y pinapangarap ko."

Baby, you're worth so much more than you give credit for.

2.) Lie About Us - Avant feat. Nicole Scherzinger

"And I know you've been waiting patiently for that day when we no longer have to lie about us."

Sabi nga sa pelikula, "Walang babaeng nangarap maging kabit!"

3.) Maybe - Neocolors

"Maybe it's wrong to say please love me too, coz I know you'll never. Somebody else is waiting there inside for you..."

And that's why I never did. 

4.) Can't Help But Wait - Trey Songz

"I don't want to come between you and your man, eventhough I know I treat you better than he can. I can't help but wait."

Derechahan: "Abang-abang na lang pag may time."

5.) Dilemma - Nelly feat. Kelly Rowland

"But oh, noooo, she got a man and a son, oh-oh, but that's OK, coz I wait for my cue, and just listen, play my position."

Dito lang me. Dyan lang you. No matter what I do, all I think about is you.

6.) Kabet - Gagong Rapper

The entire song is quote worthy.  Brings on the pain from the first line to the outro.

7.) Saving All My Love - Whitney Houston

"A few stolen moments is all that we shared. You have your family, and they need you there."

Hindi lahat ng kabit gustong maging legal. Minsan, OK na yung mga nakaw sa saglit. Hindi dahil OK na yun, pero dahil hanggang dun lang talaga. 

8.) Para Sa Akin - Sitti

"Kung ako'y mamalasin, at mayroon ka nang ibang mahal. Nguni't patuloy ang aking pag-ibig, magpakailan man. Di kita pipipilitin, sundin mo pa ang iyong damdamin. Hayaan na lang tumibok ang puso mo... para sa akin."

Beh. :p

9.) Akin Ka Na Lang - Itchyworms

"Akin ka na lang, akin ka na lang. Iingatan ko ang puso mo."

Promise yan.


10.) Senti - Yano

"Mahal ka ba niya talaga? Ako mahal kita. Mahal na mahal."

Sapul. Mahal na mahal na mahal na mahal na mahal na mahal na mahal na mahal kita. 

11.) Best Friend - Ravaughn

"I'm not your fucking best friend. I've been sitting on this bench too long while you're playing with those basic, fake chicks. Don't come complaining when they go wrong."

Ginusto mo yan, eh.

12.) Mahirap Magmahal ng Syota ng Iba - Apo Hiking Society

"Mahirap magmahal ng syota ng iba. Di mo matawagan kahit OK sa kanya."

Hi. Kaw ba boyfriend niya? Pwede pakausap sa jowa mo? Thanks. 

13.) Bukas na Lang Kita Mamahalin - Lani Misalucha

"Bukas na lang kita mamahalin. Sabay sa paglaya ng ating mga puso."

Can you help me build this playlist? Did I miss anything out? 

Video Blog - I can't sleep

Branded

Dun tayo sa totoo? Di ako natutuwang makita mga lovemarks niya. And we both know it's not just a marketing term.

Do you know the etymology of the word "brand"?

Before it became a marketing term, "brand" means putting a stamp, a logo of ownership, on the skin of livestock, particularly cattle.

Ownership on the skin.

It's usually done through the process of heating iron, and then pressing it on the skin of the cattle till it scars.

Just like he presses his mouth on your skin.

It must have hurt for the cattle to be burnt like that.

Brands can hurt. I should know.

The Assumption of Heterosexuality

I would like you to imagine something. This exercise is pretty easy. Imagination is a faculty that comes packaged with the very basic package of human functions.

Imagine a comic creator making assumptions that his hairdresser, an effeminate man prone to singing along to Mariah Carey songs, used to have a girlfriend.

Note that I did not specify the sexual orientation and gender identity of the effeminate man. All we know about him is that he is effeminate and his musical preference. Who he sleeps with is a mystery to us, as much as to the comic creator. For all we know, the hairdresser is a studmuffin who penetrates as many pussies as a private school administrator does (again, note my very careful aversion from specifying the gender identity of said private school administrator).

In any case, an assumption was made: that the hairdresser is heterosexual. This assumption was verbalized through a joke: "Pare, kayong mga parlorista, siguro ang dami ninyong chicks. Puro pwede pumipila sa inyo araw-araw eh."

I don't want to be the judge on how funny or ridiculous this joke is.

What I know is this: If we do not find anything DISHONORABLE about the assumption of heterosexuality, then we should not find anything dishonorable in the assumption of lesbianism. Every time we presume someone is straight should be just as offensive as presuming he's gay. When we ask about the existence of a girlfriend or a boyfriend, our mere choice of gender marker is offensive considering the availability in our vocabularies of the gender neutral term "partner".

This is a clear cut case of double standards where we are imposing a "normal" against an "abnormal", where people are being "offended" by other' people's private choices.

"Sorry I dishonored you," wrote Pol Medina Jr. to his publisher in his resignation letter.

I'm sorry, sir. But you have nothing to be sorry about.

Nothing Less than Great Expectations

I'm working on an epic project, and part of that project is taking a survey of great romances as depicted in literature. I plan on touching the kind of obsession shown in The Great Gatsby and Possession (A.S. Byatt).

I'm re-reading Great Expectations (Charles Dickens). I love the emotional range that Dickens made Pip explore and discover through the course of the narrative. I dream of someday being tapped to write a Tagalog adaptation of the novel. I think I'd modernize it, and set it in Manila. I'd have Coco Martin playing Pip, and Chinchin Gutierrez as Miss Havisham. I want to make the story easy to relate with for the Filipino youth.

Anyway, I'm wondering, what other works of literature have you guys read? Which ones stirred in you emotions so great that it changed your perspective on love and romance? I don't want to hear any of that Twilight crap, because the moment anyone of you suggests it, I'm going to bitchslap your vampire fangs out of your filthy vampire mouths.

Help me build a reading list of the world's greatest literary romances! Leave comments.

Someday, Somehow

I will chase you through the labyrinth
Of impossible monsters and probable causes
Until we both take a right turn
into each other.

See, I have been cursed with a mind
That can unlock possibilities at the quantum level
And I won't stop until I find the one
Where you are as much mine as I am yours,
And I'll hold that ion and stretch it into eons,
Until Time runs out and find us dancing
In the dark of dying stars.

And When I'm Tired of Loving You, I'll Sleep and Dream of Loving You

Minsan wala ka ng ibang magagawa kundi magpaka-senti. Kasi yun lang ang tamang gawin. Ano pa man yung ibang gusto mong gawin, mali na. Hindi tama. 

At hindi ikaw yung tipo na gagawa ng mali. 

Kaya kahit masakit, basta alam mong tama, titiisin mo. 

Hihintayin mo.

Hanggang ang mali ay maging tama, dahil tinamaan ka, at balangaraw, magiging tama ang lahat.

Gratuitious Siege Malvar Photos

Sometimes, I get school children writing me requests for photographs to use in their book reports. I think these would be awesome. So, if you're one of those students Google Image Searching for photos of me (Carlos Malvar, Siege Malvar), well, you're welcome.

Freshly Squeezed

(120 or so), Sammertime.

(15), After Sammer.

At 5 in the Morning

It's 5 in the morning, and I haven't slept at all. Lately, as I've mentioned, I've been suffering from hives/rashes. So, I took an anti-histamine last night without prior consultation on its side effect. Sleeplessness is probably one of them.

Yes, blaming it on the anti-histamine is more logical.

I woke up parched, so I thought, hey, maybe I'll read some e-books on my tablet in the dark until I doze off. Didn't work.

So, I tried blogging using my tablet. WHY, GOOGLE, WOULD YOU NOT HAVE A BLOGGER APP FOR ANDROID on Google Play? It's really, really counter productive. I want to blog on the go. I want a way to dump my thoughts directly into the cloud. Wordpress has one, and it got good reviews!

Blue as Deep as Black

What's imperative is that I function. That for the hours that everyone's up and running, I need to run along. So I laugh, because some jokes are funny. They really are. And I smile, because everyone else does.

But at night, when I'm alone, the sadness creeps in. Jokes aren't enough. I don't have to function anymore, and I can't, so it's just me and the blue as deep as black coming from all over all at once.

I don't want to drag anyone else into this, so let's not talk about it. Don't feel bad for me, I don't want to ruin your day. Keep calm. Carry on. Move along. I hate drama, I don't want to be dramatic.

I'm calling myself out as overly dramatic, and craving for attention. Yeah, it'll be easier to define this as a simple need for an audience. That this isn't real, this is just being self-centred. So, let's not talk about it. This isn't real. There are bigger problems to deal with. This isn't real.

Sometimes, I just want to close my eyes and never open them again.

hey

I am just so fucking sad right now. So fucking sad.

Displacement of Hurt

I wish I'm not such a boy with my feelings, because it really hurts my knuckles when I punch walls. I really shouldn't bottle things up until they reach the brim and overflow. I can't lose it every time I can no longer suppress my anger.

Ok, so there I was, on the floor, doing push ups. Zuen was pacing around the room saying things like "You'll never be together" and "Keep it together" which sounds like he was talking about the same thing, but he's not, well not exactly.

I'm doing push ups because I'm already hurting from punching the walls.

"I don't like this feeling," I said. "I want to uninstall it."

20, 25, 30. How'd I get to 30 so quickly?

I dropped, rolled over, and stared at the ceiling. "I don't ever want to get up," I announced.

There's a concept called "displacement of hurt". To distract the brain from pinpointing the pain where it hurts the most, you cause pain somewhere else where it's bearable. So we clench our teeth, dig our fingers through our palm, pinch ourselves, knock our heads on the door.

Punch walls.

Because where it hurts is here, where two set of rib cages cannot protect it from the exquisite tenderness of pain imagined.

Sleepless

Second time this week I'm losing sleep. I keep waking up in the middle of the night because my hives are getting worse, and the weather's not getting any better.

I don't have airconditioning in my room.

So, it's 5 in the morning, I'm scratching myself, and my hyperactive imagination takes me to places I'd rather not be in, and I can't even sleep it off because I'M FUCKING SCRATCHING MYSELF. Fuck.

Every Quantum Leap Through Every Sliding Doors

The trouble with having a hyperactive imagination is the persistence of hope.

That in the face of insurmountable odds, there is that tiny, iota of quantum possibility that there was a sliding door somewhere through the great offices of fate, and there was a left turn, or a right one, and stars aligned differently, and butterflies fluttered by causing ripples of alternate details and...

Jazz music. Spilled beer. Flyers for an open mic next week, poster of this week's. We are barely 20's, and I am in love with you in ways I can't be, shouldn't be, and...

A ripple, a rip through the fabric, a run through lady luck's whorish stockings, and

Tuesday afternoon, and you enter the class for the first time, and this isn't the last time I'll insist on getting your number, and...

One day, in Guatemala, an earthquake opened the ground beneath Guillermo Perez's house, and swallowed his dog. And...

The MRT station is crowded, and I'm scared of getting pushed in front of the oncoming train. You are holding someone else's hand. Your free hand lightly brushes against my crotch, and I'm not sure if you smiled. And...

Someone threw an empty can from a moving car. It rolled down the road, and Peter failed to see it on his bike.

Jazz music. Spilled beer. Flyers for next, next week's open mic, poster for the one this Friday. "Hey, why don't you come?" I tell you. "I'm not sure," you say. "I'm reading," I say. "You never write about me," you tease. If you only  knew that every world I created with every word I've written I made just to contain your beauty for eternity. If you only knew that this world itself was created just for that purpose. If you only knew the many millions of possibilities imagined for you, for me, for us. "I might," I say, taking a swig from the beer I'm holding.

"The trouble with hope," I told you on a lazy afternoon. "Is that it makes you imagine fantasies against the persistence of reality."

"Is this real, then?" you cared to ask. "What is real?"

"This," I told you. "Is fiction. We are quantum possibilities that never happened, but could have had. You are not here with me, we never were together. This isn't my hand holding yours. We, my dear, are neurons firing at each other, chemicals reacting inside someone's brain, constructed from air."

"Whose brain?"

I smiled at you. "The one with nothing to lose, and everything to gain."

"How do you know that?"

"Because the one with everything to lose can't possibly imagine anything better."

Unstoppable

My right leg cramped while I was on the treadmill at the gym, so I hopped to the side and turned the machine off.

There I was. Pissed at my body's weakness and how it was ruining my work out. I had planned on really hitting the treadmill for an hour so I can burn off a lot of calories tonight.

Then I decided, I wouldn't let a little cramping ruin my workout! So, I hopped and dragged myself to the weights machine, and really pumped some iron. In lieu of a cardio workout, I lifted light, but with high number of reps and sets. The idea is to keep my heart beating fast, and my muscles engaged.

Which, I think, is a good metaphor for how I deal with problems. Yeah, I hit snag now and then, and they hurt like a motherfucker. They hurt so much I have no choice but to stand there. But if I don't keep moving, I'll waste my time and my life. So I carry on. I find a work around. I focus on other things I can work on.

Awesome Dream Sequence of the Day

There were two treasure hunters, and they finally stumbled into the hoard they were looking for. The room was filled with gold and gems, and at its center was a huge bust.

Except it wasn't just a bust. It was a bound god.

As the treasure hunters looted the place, one of them cracked the gems in the bust not knowing those were what was keeping the god bound. As the god woke from its slumber, it changed into a vengeful, ugly god. Slowly, it freed itself, its wrath strengthening it.

That's when I woke up. I think it looks like the first 3 minutes of a CGI-filled blockbuster.

This is a Dumb Kind of Sad, but It's Sad Anyway

Look, before you get your panties all bunched up, I know what I'm about to say is shallow, and superficial, and horribly insensitive of the living conditions of a lot of people in the world. But this is how I feel right now, and you don't have to read it.

But I feel really bad for lacking the self control to stop myself from binge eating. Earlier this morning, I made a resolve to go on a cleanse. No, I'm not on a weight loss crash diet. I want to go on a cleanse because I heard it does wonders for the digestive system.

By 4 pm, I was stuffing my face with french fries.

This isn't the first time I failed at going on a cleanse. I've attempted it several times before, but I keep giving up. I lack the self-control to stop myself from stuffing my face with food. For dinner, I thought of saving up a few bucks by going on a budget meal. But when I went to Pizza Hut, the budget meal I wanted wasn't available, so I ordered soup, thinking, hey, I'll save some bucks if I just order soup. Except after ordering soup, I had, like, a personal sized pizza too. Which is a lot of baked bread and bacon and cheese, and totally defeats the purpose of a.) the budget dinner, and b.) the cleanse. I ended up spending more than twice what I was supposed to spend to save up on the little cash I had left until payday.

My friend Denis said it's because I have an emptiness in my heart that I'm trying to fill with food. I think he's right, that cheeky bastard. Since I seem to have no control over my lovelife, and that people leave me and I can't stop them from doing so, I exercise control over the one thing I still have control over: my consumption of food.

So I eat. I consume. I devour. Because I may not be attractive enough to pique the interest of someone who'd take me out to dinner, but I am so fucking gonna eat my way through this motherfucking pizza.

But I'm afraid that's just one more thing that I'm losing control over. I can't even control my food intake. I can't control anything.

I think I'm losing it.

Notes From a Disenfranchised

I got disenfranchised.

Last night, I checked this lovely app on a website that locates my voting precinct for me, and found out that I am no longer a registered voter because I missed out on two consecutive elections. I think it's fair enough that people who don't participate as much should have their right to elect people in government revoked because when you stand to lose something, you appreciate it more.

But I can't believe I missed out on two elections! Ok, so I think I may have let the Baranggay elections slipped out of my mind, but I'm pretty sure I voted on the last National Elections. So, I had my sister check out my Timeline to see what I was doing on May 9-12 of 2010.

Thanks to Facebook's fully explorable Timeline, we came across these following clues that explained what I was preoccupied with at that time: A photo of me holding my grandmother's hand in the ICU, a check-in at the St. Luke's Hospital, and a photo of me goofing with the hopital's K9 guard dog.

So, yeah. I wasn't able to participate in that election because I was busy taking care of my grandmother. And I'd miss every election for her. I'd miss everything for her.

But, it's such a big letdown that I can't vote. So, in lieu of actual voting, I'm sharing my list so that I may somehow influence someone else. I know that's not enough of a participation, but every little counts.

Here is how I would have voted had I not been disenfranchised....

Partylist: 

Ang Ladlad needs a good tagline. Seriously, bekis, what's up with the drab campaign? The Ladlad's campaign materials all proclaimed its importance as the partylist that stands for the LGBT community. But it forgot to play on its strength: fierceness in the face of adversity. With no memorable battlecry, Ang Ladlad stands to be forgotten in the polls. (How hard is it to come up with something like "Sa Ladlad, Winner Ka!"?)

But I would have voted for Ladlad despite their lackluster campaign. It's the only partylist that's brave enough to face discrimination head on. What convinced me is my father. One afternoon, after bringing my sister and her friends to the swimming pool at the clubhouse, my father remarked "I think those guys are gay. Malalaki pa ang katawan sa akin ng mga putangina."

My father's narrow vision of sexuality is something I have to live with all my life. Sexuality is not the only aspect of humanity that my father knows so little of. Among them, race, religion, animal rights, territoriality. My father thinks the US shouldn't trust Obama, and that a warship is more valuable than Tubbataha reef. My father asserts this with the sure voice of one whose opinions do not invite disagreement.

But before you think badly of him, let us all appreciate the fact that I own half of my awesome genes from him. The fact that you're reading this blog entry this far means you trust me and my ideas, and if you do, then we owe that from that man.

Ang Ladlad is a partylist that's brave enough to educate and standup against men like my father. While the other partylist espouses vague promises such as better this and better that, Ang Ladlad knows exactly not only what it's fighting for, but what it's fighting against.

But, come on, you guys really to step up and play to your strengths. Sayang ang campaign!

Senatoriables:

I want to vote for Nancy Binay, but I won't. Nancy Binay is a nice woman. Pitted against Vice Ganda, she makes more sense. Whereas the miseducated stand-up comedian used rhetoric and comedic timing, Nancy Binay made her points clear: When it comes to serving the country, she's born into it. She has spent her whole life learning by the feet of her father, she has worked closely with her parents. She knows so much more about running a state than Vice Ganda ever will. She is educated in the country's premiere state university, THE University of the Philippines.

 I don't value experience over wisdom and insight. Nancy Binay has a lot of insight when it comes to what's good for Makati, and if so, maybe she'll use that insight in drafting laws that's good for the Philippines.

I want to vote for Nancy Binay, but I won't. Nancy Binay is a nice woman, but there's a lot at stake here. Think of it as the finals for American Idol. Thousands want to be counted in so they audition. But from that, a panel selects the best hundred or so. Now, from the hundreds who passed the audition, they have to select a handful. That handful is the final 12. There is no doubt that the hundreds who made the cut are full of talent, ambition, and the need to make people happy. But there are only 12 slots, and we must choose wisely. Nancy Binay WOULD MAKE A GOOD SENATOR, but I don't think this is her breakout year. Maybe a few more years in the public's eye, and she can turn that around.

I don't want to vote for Rissa Hontiveros and Teddy Casino, but I should. Something turned me off when I saw Rissa Hontiveros use her alampay/scarf to resolve the problems of the nation. I don't understand how, even metaphorically, her alampay can be imbibed with superpowers. There's a certain shamelessness to how she desperately wants to be in power, and I don't trust people who wants to be in power so bad, they'll wear an alampay everywhere they go to whip out corruption. I'm distrustful too of how Teddy Casino is being branded as the "Karaniwang Tao" because ordinary people don't go to the schools he or his sons went to. Also, his son is kinda a hot mess. I don't trust parents who let their kids enter the TV-movie industry without prior training in the stage.

But they both say the right things, and they're fighting for the right causes. Election is not about what I want, but what I think is good for the country. Rissa Hontiveros and Teddy Casino are both good for the country.  We need them in the Legislative.

Bro. Eddie Villanueva stands for everything I oppose. He is conservative, anti-RH, and can only operate within the parameters of his values system. But that is why WE NEED BRO. EDDIE VILLANUEVA IN THE SENATE. Because he's a well-meaning man, with clean intentions, and old school values. He represents a life that we look back on with nostalgia, he stands for the goodness inside us that makes society worth fighting for. His will and conscience is strong enough to approximate ours. I really hope he wins in this election.

I'm voting for Angara because he's crazy sexy. Look, given that I get to vote 12 people, I owe it to myself to throw away one of those just for Crazy Sexy Vote. Also, he looks like he's not particularly FOR anything, and that he's receptive to what the people want, so I think he'll be one of those senators who listens to public opinion before listening to his own. So, yey. I am so gay for Angara, I'll vote for him.

On the other end of that decision is my decision to vote for Action Gordon and Hagedorn. They're the sort who will listen to their own opinions first before consulting the people because they're so sure that they know better than to trust the "wisdom of the crowd". I don't trust the wisdom of the crowd. If we let it to the majority, our government will be in the form of a noontime TV show where people get rewarded for making fools of themselves on air. Gordon and Hagedorn seem like the sort who will roll up their sleeves, stop thinking, and start doing.

The rest I'm kinda lumping together for their track record, platform, and general appeal: Jun Magsaysay, Jamby Madrigal (also, points for standing up against Manny Villar), Loren Legarda (she's like an elderly school principal; you kinda don't want to be close to her, but you have to trust her that she knows what's good for you), Chiz Escudero (only because I can't think of a reason why I shouldn't vote for him), Bam Aquino (because he's the only person who can make a microfinancing infrastructure work for the masses), and Alan Peter Cayetano (again, because I can't think of a reason why I shouldn't vote for him over killers, drug lords, bigos, etc).

I lost my right to vote this year. I should have ensured that I hold that right months ago, but I was too sure of my participation in the past, that I didn't even consider that I might have lost it.

I hope those of you who can vote do so. And vote with the good of the country in mind.








 

The Silver Lining in the Clouded Judgment

Early Thursday evening, I was browsing through the shelves of the Powerbooks at the Greenbelt 4. I was too early for the dinner I had set with Cam-b and Raprap, so I thought I'd grab a book to keep me company.

And to stop me from wrecking everything in my path.

My friend Bogs said I have a "Hulk Mode". It's when I go berserk, and smash everything close at hand. Which is another way of saying I hurt everyone close to me.

Real reason why I came early for dinner that night: I had an episode at the office. I freaked out. I dramatically cleared my table of everything, I threw things around, I shouted and screamed at my friends.

It wasn't a good feeling. It's the worst. I have had managed my anger quite successfully for the longest time now. I have been taking classes in mixed martial arts  so that I have an outlet for all my pent-up destructive energy. I have his thing where I block out everything by playing one song on a loop the whole day to effectively distract me from whatever was pissing me off.

I have anger management issues. I have ruined one too many relationships because of it. I can justify myself and say all those times I lost it, I was provoked. But I want to take responsibility for my weakness. I have rage issues. It's a flaw that people sometimes accidentally trigger.

Generally, I'm not a violent person. I have honed my wits enough to know that I can win any conflict simply with the sharpness of my mind, the strengths of my arguments, the stamina of my convictions.

But look, a bear in hibernation would fucking rip you to pieces if you don't stop poking it with a stick. You may think it's a joke, and bears are generally warm and fuzzy, but I'm still a fucking bear, man, and bears are like the only fucking animals that have no natural predator (except, Ok, a man with a shotgun).

I'm a bear, and sometimes, I lose it.

So, while I was browsing at the bookstore, I came across the novel The Silver Lining Playbook, and read this from the short description at the back cover:

Meet Pat. Pat has a theory: his life is a movie produced by God. And his God-given mission is to become physically fit and emotionally literate, whereupon God will ensure a happy ending for him -- the return of his estranged wife Nikki. (It might not come as a surprise to learn that Pat has spent time in a mental health facility.) The problem is, Pat's now home, and everything feels off. No one will talk to him about Nikki; his beloved Philadelphia Eagles keep losing; he's being pursued by the deeply odd Tiffany; his new therapist seems to recommend adultery as a form of theraphy. Plus, he's being hunted by Kenny G!

Which is basically my life in novel form. As my close friends know, I have always, always believed that I exist solely to entertain God. God throws plotlines my way to test my character.

Also, Pat is crazy obsessed about being physically fit. Like Siege Malvar. Also, he has anger management issues.

I'm still, like, a third into the book, but already I'm loving it. I rarely come across a book that I can strongly connect with. I love this book. You guys should read it too. 

Saturday, After the Rain

Just one of those days where the rain makes everything smell like wet wool, and I can smell the yellowness of the second-hand Rushdie paperback in my hands, and I have never deserved a Marlboro more than now, and dreams are not limited by timelines or Visa or age, and dreams are not piled on by the bills in the mailbox, and it's cool to improvise lyrics to French jazz songs, and every stranger is stranger than you.

Letter to the Management of All Things

To The Management of All Things
In Heaven, Hell, and the Philosophies of Man,

Dear God,

This is with regards to the recent storylines in the on-going series "Life Under Siege", and my dissatisfaction with said developments.

As someone who have been part of the project since it's--rather, my-- conception, I can confidently claim that I am discussing this with nothing but the best interest for everyone involved in my mind. I have soldiered on through the most convoluted plot twists, I have weathered through the craziest storms.

I believe my recent performance handling the very tricky "Unholy Trinity" plotline should impress on you the kind of dedication I have for good storytelling.

However, quite recently, You have taken it upon Yourself to introduce a new character whose role is, as of current episode, growing in significance. Upon careful analysis of possible trajectories in which we can take the plot, I have come to the conclusion that this is a tragic, if not pathetic, course. We are all bound for a hot mess, and I refuse to participate in this storyline any further.

Having said that, I would like to express my eagerness for the next plotline which we would rather pursue. I still believe that there's a very, very big story coming up in the next few episodes, and the anticipation of that is why I keep hanging on.

Thank you, and hoping for your kind consideration.

Yours,
Siege Malvar

The Value of Pretty

Something someone said on Facebook caught my attention a few days ago. One of my social network peers was apparently offended by something someone on his network said about him, along the lines of "being nothing but just fair skinned".

To defend himself, my peer insisted on being "pretty" no matter what shade of skin he wears. It went on to raise other points, most of them arguing about his relative beauty against others. It was a superficial, petty quarrel that piqued my interest for its anthropological implications.

First: why is there a need to defend, and argue for, someone's beauty? Regardless if it's yours, or of someone you care about. An attack on one's physical attractiveness deserves no reply by my books. It's a ridiculous debate to determine who is beautiful and who is not because of a multitude of reasons, some of the ones I can throw from the top of my head are:

- Beauty is a social construct. What is "beautiful" for us "now" is a matter of what society grew to agree on as beautiful. What society agrees on is temporary, like territorial lines, and most moral systems. This means that you are "beautiful" only because most people "say" so TODAY, and RIGHT HERE. That doesn't make you "beautiful" THEN or FOR ETERNITY, and even for EVERYWHERE.

- Being pretty is a matter of genetic lottery. Bragging about your height, or your cheekbones, or your flawless skin, or your full lips is like being proud your father won a raffle draw. You absolutely HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH IT. You are just a product of two sets of genes mixing together in your mother's womb, and coming out right for a particular here and now* (see argument above).


Also, what perplexed me with their online debacle is the issue it implies: What is the value of beauty?

Indeed, what is "being pretty" for?

I'm really baffled by the amount of money we throw to people who stood above the median height of the population, and the opportunities that we offer to people simply because they look foreign enough to be "uncommon".

"Being pretty" is pretty useless. You cannot create anything out of your cuteness. It is not creative, it is not productive, it is not useful to be pretty, or cute. You will achieve nothing out of your cuteness.

Even if you win the argument, and has indeed defended the honor of your physical attractiveness, in the end, you fought for something temporary and useless.

You cannot achieve any of your goals by looking pretty; unless you goal is to have a large set of options for mating purposes.

You do not become a better person just because you look good. What you DO is what makes you a good person.

You do not earn people's respect because you look hot. How you treat others is what will.

When you define yourself by how you look, you put limitations on yourself because you ignore what it is you CAN DO. By focusing on your physical attributes, you shortchange your potential. You are wasting your life by defining your life with your looks.

But then again, why should you care about what I think? You look good, and that's all that matters.

Hipsters Under Siege

One thing about social networking sites like Facebook, you get to see what idiots the people you know are. Some people you kinda like from a distance, occasionally they will surprise you with their unique insights.

But sometimes, people you respect go online, and they just post the stupidest shit.

I'm talking about certain people in my network. In small doses, their passion for standing up for their beliefs is admirable. In moderation, they can be helpful.

But when they're riled up, they're really fckin riled up, man.

And they say the dumbest, stupidest shit. Here are some quick rebuttals on some dumb issues that dumb people on my network are so riled up about.

I. Glorifying Suicide

There is NO NOBILITY in giving up. It's the most desperate form of emotional blackmail. It's fingerpointing at its worst. It's victim is the crime's own perpetrator. It wants to lay blame on another party for a crime that the victim himself committed.

Worse, some people think this is the best illustration of an unjust society victimizing its citizens.

It's not.

There's no nobility in it. It belittles the struggle of everyone else who survived. Just because I didn't take a bullet into my own head doesn't mean that my problems are less than those who did. Just because I can fight back doesn't make my struggles any lesser.

STOP JUSTIFYING SUICIDE. Already we are seeing the ill effects of that dumb thing you guys did. A couple of students recently killed themselves for having low grades. That's just dumb. Those are just grades, man. They don't measure how much you've learned. They only quantify how much you adhered to the educational system that your teacher was trying to force on you.

II. ANTI MASA SENTIMENTS

What I really, really, really hate about hipsters is their lack of critical thinking.

They think they are above the mainstream because they do no adhere to trends. "HIP" is defined by your appreciation of the obscure, the "difficult", the "sublime".

Oh, god. Some people even think being "dense" is a good quality for a work to have. Like a really 'dense' novel counts for what is the height of literature. Like a really 'dense' poem is what you should bring to the weekly poetry reading attended by the same old people who were there probably because they were in the line up.

Then, there's that anti-masa article. No surprise, no less than the hippest of the hipster crowd in my network shared it on my newsfeed.

I am a big fan of the masa culture. I like my noontime shows LOUD, and ridiculous. I like my movies predictable, and if there's a scene where Eugene Domingo steals the show, I'm on my feet applauding. I like Bob Ong--he has a certain way of cutting down the bullshit, and slapping people hard with his insights. I like FM radio stations that play silly rap songs. I know the words to "Pusong Bato". 

Hipster culture is basically an umbrella term for kids who are too weird to be with other people, so they form circle jerks around common passion points (80's cinema, climate-inappropriate fashion, academe approved literature, poetry nights, Cubao X) in order to validate the importance of their aesthetic choices.

These miseducated hipsters have mistaken exposure for education. They think their access to works beyond the mainstream places them in an elevated position to dismiss the "masa", the "mainstream", as something passe, of bad taste.

Here's the thing. Your dumb hipster choices are just as narrowminded. In making your dumb hipster choices, you fail at one thing: the exercise of critical thinking. You have blindly accepted everything Western, everything "not mainstream" as good. You did not take the experience and process it into your own set of aesthetic standards.

So you end up with a subculture of people sharing the SAME STANDARDS FOR WHAT IS HIP. You like the same set of independent cinema, read the same post modern novels, admire the same set of unsigned bands.

At the end of the day, YOU ALL SAY THE SAME. And this is something you must realize about yourself: That you are no better than the masses you abhor. You are no better than sheeps, except you're the sheep wearing the polyester beret.

Also, you btches haven't published shit. So suck it.

Let's Skip This Rerun

"NO," I pleaded. "Please don't."

And he didn't.

"Ok," I said, after taking a deep breath. "Go. Wait. Ok, go. Wait, let me just..." I took another breath, deeper, slower. "All right, give it to me."

And Jamie did. "You'll hate me for this. You have my permission to punch me afterwards."

"Just give it to me," I said. "Tell me all about it."

"It" happened in high school. Jamie and I were classmates, as we always were through high school. Jamie was part of the swim team, and was groomed to lead us as the Corp Commander of our CAT-1. I was a malnourished, awkward guy who creeped out most people with my anti-social charms. How we ended up as friends may be attributed more to proximity than choice.

That doesn't mean to say I don't love him. Because I do. Jamie and I are kindred souls, both passionate storytellers. He is now a filmmaker whose ideas are really amazing, and I write product launches scripts so celebrities can help multi-million peso brands sell more SIM cards. Tomato, Potato.

"You were writing someone a letter. Probably Carizza," Jamie said. "I was watching you writing this letter, and it got me really curious because you crumpled it up, and threw it away."

"So of course," he continued. "I went to the trash and fished it out."

Me in high school.

"Oh my god," I said. "What was in the letter?"

"Well," he said. "You were telling her about a wet dream you had."

"That does sound like me," I agreed.

"It was a wet dream you had about Alexander (not his real name). You wrote 'I was with him and things got out of hand and I woke up covered in...' uhm. You know what covers you when you're having a wet dream?"

The event we were talking about happened way over a decade ago. But still, hearing it from Jamie made me wince. Cringe. Shove my face up in my hands, and want to stab myself with the barbecue stick of the Chicken Inasal we were eating.

"I had a wet dream with a guy. How can I not remember this?" I asked, muffled by the hands I want to choke myself with.

"Well, that's not all..."

Jamie Dumancas in high school.

I whipped my head up in panic. "Please tell me you didn't tell him."

Jamie was silent. He took a sip from his Sola iced tea.

"Oh, god, Jamie. What did you do?"

"I kindof told everyone." He raised his hands. "I told you you can punch me afterwards."

"Everyone?" I shrieked, alarming everyone in the restaurant. "Who is everyone?"

"Everyone who read it in the bulletin board."

"WHAT BULLETIN BOARD?"

"The one where I posted your letter on."

I felt colors draining from my face.

"You didn't talk to me for a week after that. I'm really sorry I did that," Jamie said. His tone suggested otherwise. His tone said, "Isn't that the funniest thing we did together?"

I calmed myself down. Sliced a piece of chicken meat, and ate in silence.

"This is sooooo going in Life Under Siege, my upcoming collection of hilarious essays about my life," I told him matter-of-factly.

Till Death, Do We Part?

I have almost always been single. Perhaps, there's the occasional season where I find myself trapped in an arrangement of sorts with someone, and said arrangement can be called a "relationship" by some. But, at the end of the day, I have built my world around no one but myself.

Which is why I find some of my friends silly. I know people who can't exist without a significant other. It's like the very fabric of reality that gives them consistency is shred when they're not tied to someone else. Like they exist only through some transitive property of existence which depends on their current paramour.

Anyway, so, point is: I'm single, always have been, and I'm good with it.

Except, I went to the hospital alone the other day. I've been suffering through some stomach pains lately. I thought I had finally caught amoebiasis from the fishball peddler who drop by every afternoon to enable us into stuffing our faces with his fried food stuff. Doctor said it's because I've been drinking too many coffee, and getting myself stressed out.

I have been medically advised to avoid stress. I wonder how far I can take that in the office, so I asked the doctor to write that in the prescription: "Avoid stress, like working after 6 pm", but she thought I was kidding.

Anyway, while waiting for the nurse to discharge me, I couldn't help but overhear the conversations of the other patients around me. Like, there was this old guy talking to his son/daughter on the phone, and they were arguing about where to get the money for the appendectomy needed to save the old guy's life.

It was at that moment that the triage nurse's comment came back to haunt me: "No companion, sir?"

Sometimes, when one's mortality is in question, people couldn't help but have some expectations. Such as, "who would be there when I leave this world?" And at that moment, as I surf Facebook alone on my hospital bed at the emergency room, I realized that I built myself so strong that I had no need for anyone else to be there.

But others do.

For others, leaving this world alone is a scary thought. They need to comfort of family and friends to hold their hands, and tell them things will get better, and it's always not as bad as you think.

And for some, the government is denying them this right.

As long as the government (and some small minded individuals) refuse to acknowledge that there is a need to redefine what constitutes a family, we will be denying people the most basic of human right:

To live and die as a human person. To spend's one life with a mate of one's choosing. To enter a social, legal, and binding contract with another person to spend their lives together for better or for worse.

The thing is, the people against the legalization of same sex marriages GET NOTHING from stopping it. Which is something I really, really, really do not understand. What do you get from stopping two people from spending their lives together?

See, I love being alone. I get to do a lot with my time. As a writer, I cherish every moment I can spend away from the real world and immersed in the ones I've created for my characters.

But loneliness shouldn't be something one enforces on other. It's their business, not yours.

Let her kiss the bride. Let him take his man home to mom. The world can be an amazing place, if we would let it.

Today's OBB

Ok, so I'm here in a coffeeshop, trying to work on mmy new book.

I have this thing where to shut the whole world up, I enclose myself in a wall of sound. It's the only way I can focus. I have a pretty short attention span, and unless I'm totally lost in the reality I'm creating, I can't function. So, I have this thing where I plug in to a playlist, and it's like three songs stuck on repeat. I don't like the mood/tempo of the songs shifting, so I have, like, playlists customized to the kind of mood that I'm trying to capture with my writing.

Mostly, it's epic. It's all Clint Mansell, and Mozart, and big, dramatic orchestra music.

Today, I'm listening to Pachelbel's Canon in D Major, with Edvard Grieg's Hall of the Mountain King occassionally breaking the loop. It makes my writing sound like a very ironic Korean movie where I fall in love with someone, and either one of us dies in the end.

Hall of the Mountain King is a really good music for stalking people. It's what I'm listening to when I'm shadowing a crush, and they begin to notice, so I have to duck into an alley, or dart behind someone.

Samsung Galaxy Products I'm Using - Short Review

There's a recent study that says consumers nowadays consult up to 21 sources of information before making a purchase of a gadget. Which is I think quite truthful, as I consult several blogs and friends first before buying anything. So, as a way of paying back that digital karma, here are two quick reviews of the gadgets I'm using from the Samsung Galaxy family.

SAMSUNG GALAXY TAB 2 7.0 (P3100)

 

This model delivers as it promised. It's slim, lightweight, works fast, responds quickly. It has phone functionality, so you can send and receive SMS, MMS, and CALLS. More than OK battery life (which by my standards means it can last 24 hours with moderate usage).

What it's not good for: heavy functions like editing documents. I thought getting one would help me write documents more nomadically. I imagined myself hooking it up with a Bluetooth keyboard, and typing away. As a writer, I have very low requirements for a mobile device. As long as it has a decent word processor, I'm good. I downloaded apps that can create and edit documents (Kingsoft and Polaris), and the Photoshop Touch. The interface has a steep learning curve, and the small screen makes me fidget with the zoom and the display, plus I can't navigate through the document as deftly as I'm used too on my laptop. This is a matter of personal preference, though. I believe that this is less of the gadget's shortcoming, and more of an incompatibility between my expectations and its capabilities.

What it's good for: MEDIA CONSUMPTION. Now if you like watching videos, reading e-books, listening to music, surfing the web, this is the device for you. It's very portable, and it can display a wide range of media. Games play great because its display is big enough to be immersive, yet it's handy enough to be portable. It displays websites really well too, so you can totally wallow in your friends' newsfeed and timelines and tumblr posts. It plays videos really great. It's very nearly the size of typical books, so the reading experience has a natural feel to it when you're holding the device. Also, I've installed FLIPBOARD, and I spend literally hours flipping through the digital content that I'm following.

My only beef is that GOOGLE PLAY STORE doesn't have the BLOGGER APP available for the Philippines. Which really, really sucks. It's a Google product in the first place! This device would have been amazing if I can use it to blog on the go. Which is a shortcoming it shares with my other Galaxy device.

SAMSUNG GALAXY S3 MINI (I8190)

I had no plans of buying this phone. Our company offered to get us SAMSUNG GALAXY S3 MINI on installment, so, on impulse, I bought one.

I love it. It's an amazing smartphone, and more so because I'm powering it with my SMART postpaid sim--because, let's face it, I don't want to ruin a great product with a network that has a horrible mobile internet connection, causes my text messages to get delayed, and has a heavily congested system. I'm not wasting all my money on a smartphone that a faulty network would render useless. That's why for my gadgets, I only trust SMART, it's the country'st strongest network, and it has FOUR TIMES more fiber optic infrastructure that allows the fastest transmission of data.

I have nothing to say against it. It's sleek and lightweight enough as a phone to carry around. Battery life is... OK enough.  It feels so natural in my hands. It has a very clear and bright display, and it works really fast. It has all the cool functions of its bigger brother, the S3. For a midrange phone, it's amazing.

Except for the camera. I feel like at that price range, Samsung could have gone all out and equipped the S3 Mini with at least an 8MP main camera at the back. Even if it bumps the cost a little upwards, it would still be worth it, and it would really, really, really make this a killer smartphone. Instead, they stuck a mediocre camera with a phone that has an amazing range of functionality. Media consumption wise, it's great too. It's a compact media player too. 



 

Siege Malvar is a Camwhore

Imma SEO this shiz and go all like SIEGE MALVAR SIEGE MALVAR SIEGE MALVAR SIEGE MALVAR on this post coz I don't want people image searching me on Google, and they end up on some random page where I'm picking my nose.

So here are some SIEGE MALVAR branded camwhoring. Also works with SEIGE MALVAR.

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Where Is This

I had a dream last night where I was travelling with a guy named Paolo or Paulo, and he's not an actual person I know or a friend I have, but he's like this dream amalgam of people I know, and we were travelling and it was to a place much colder than Manila (could be Baguio, Moscow, Seoul). Anyway, we were shopping for groceries and other necessities, when I realized that I packed a lot of clothes, but forgot to bring underwear. My friend said "You can use mine for the mean time, we're basically the same size", which makes me doubt if I wasn't just hallucinating, and was in fact, travelling alone.

When we reached the place where we were staying, my sister was there, and she was freaking out because she saw a baby crocodile scampering around the floor. And if there was a baby croc, the momma croc must be near.

Anyway, that's where the dream ended. With the three of us looking for the baby crocodile, and hoping its mother wasn't knocking on the door.

[I'm mentioning this dream now not for any particular detail, but for the eerie feeling that this dream is a continuation of a previous dream. Not exactly a recurring dream, but one that is continued. I just can't remember the details of the previous dream---or maybe it was a TV show I was watching? Anyway, the dream made me realize how much I'm yearning to travel for this year.]

Hard to Write Romance

I find it hard to write romance because it feels so much like lying. Like, look, do we have to spend this much time and energy when we all know how things will end? There's heartbreak ahead, kid. Cheating, and lying, and disappointment.

No, you don't find the great love. In the end, you find someone who'll lie, cheat, and disappoint you still, but you'll be too old and too tired to let it get to you, so you find it easier to forgive all the lying, and cheating and disappointment.

That's the truth, kid. So, we can pretend this whole dance of romance is magical. Maybe it's worth pretending that for a few moments, love works because of magic. But at the end of the day, love will work not because of magic, but because of desperation, co-dependency, and the acceptance of defeat.

Just Your Luck, You Traded a Sure Thing for a Quick F*ck

There's a special place in hell for cheaters. I see it in my mind as a cage. Cheaters will wake up in hell upon death, and find themselves in a cage. This cage has bars that vibrate at such a high speed that they whistle as they violate the air.

There is a door to this cage, and sometimes the watchman turns his back around to get himself some coffee. It is in this opportune time that cheaters can seize  the opportunity to escape. They wait until no one is watching and slip out.

But see, therre never was a cage in the first place. And the watchman had better things to do than keep an eye on cheaters.

So, the real horror here is upon exiting the cage in their heads, cheaters will turn around to find everything gone, and they have nowhere to go in the vast emptiness they have escaped into.

Takes a Spell to Break One

"Dude," I said over the phone to GP. "I need a spell to dispel heartbreak. Do you have one?"

"I'll come up with something," he said.

Yes, I have a shaman on speed dial. It's not like I consult him before making big life decisions. But it's great to know that someone cosmic got my back. Also, he's my access point to substances that raise consciousness, which is what's really great about the whole thing.

Writer's Block

Nakakabaliw ang Writer's Block that I'm experiencing right now. Seriously. I've wasted a lot of hours na trying to get the words right. The frustration is like tearing a room apart. Like, just going at it. Throw things against the wall.

It's very frustrating kasi I don't usually have the time to write, and now that I make time to write, I can't seem to push myself to do it. I really treasure every little moments that I can steal away from the world and just write stories, and now, I can't even do that. Sayang ang oras, tumatakbo ang metro, di ako makapagsulat.

Siege Malvar Photos

Here are some photos of Siege Malvar.

Siege Malvar Goes to the Bear Farm Alone

Recently, my office doll Enzo Noooo was taken from me. It was really upsetting, and my officemates can't believe how upset I was.

Here's the thing. I write stories in my head. All the time. It's not like I can turn it off. I just do. I compose stories, write out dialogues. I need dolls around me so I can have a point to throw the dialogues to. Without dolls, I'll go crazy. I'll hear the voices in my head, and I won't be able to tell which one's mine and which one's made up.

As a sample to my madness, here's a clip of me going to a BEAR FARM (more of a museum, actually) alone because my friends won't go with me. Guess what I did in the Bear Farm. That's right. I talked to the Teddy Bears on display. ALONE.