INSIDE A VOID AND I FOUND A SINEGWELAS TREE. QUAECUMQUAE…

I wanna sulk in the corner. I want it to rain. A drizzle will do. Then I could just snug under the sheets and turn into fungus the whole day. Maybe for the rest of my life.

Quaecumquae…

December 15, 2006. Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, People Support, Makati. It’s 11 pm in the evening. Umiskapo ako sa office with the blessing of my boss. So, is it still iskapo?

Bagbag, this morning, flew off to Amsterdam. Then to France. Then to some island in the Bahamas, a little island France hasn’t nuked yet. Echoes from the lifestyle of the rich and famous? Not!

Bagbag is on his way to his next assignment as a UN medical volunteer. His destination would be Haiti. There, coup d’etats have been raised into an art-form. The Philippines’ merely pales to compare. As a UN Volunteer, my hubby will be serving the UN forces as a physician. Why my Bagbag? He’s the only physician in the Philippines who specialized on voodoo. No, he’s not from Surigao. Marikina, rather. But, hey, an international physician nonetheless. That’s my Bagbag.


There I see my Bagbag go somewhere... but not away.

Last night, Bagbag and I were both Lea Salonga immersed in last-night-of-the-world histrionics. But I refused to let go of some tears. The very same countenance I was harboring when my sister died a month ago. Honest. Serious. With unfeigned sincerity. Gods! Why do I feel that nobody believes me? C’mon, throw me the benefit of the doubt here. My hubby is away for six months and I could be depressed anytime soon. I may be your next-door type of bully but I still have a heart. I was born with one, if you may ask.

Quaecumquae…

Apologies aside, I’m actually a softy before I became a toughie. The mushy me ended up in the monastery somewhere in Mendiola. When I began wearing the bully character, I was made to believe that such persona is governed by some rules that have to be played inside out. Ordained under Rule No. 66, a bully should – must! - never show an emotion in the physiological level. The bully is only allowed to keep it inside, but must never let blood rush to his face in times of embarrassment (in fact, must not know the word embarrassment), get rattled when nervous, weaken in the knees in times of adulation, loose footing on solid ground at the sight of a crush, teary-eyed at the sight of Danish black chocolate. A bully has to keep his passion out of people’s sight; hold it with restraint and name it instinct. A gut-feel. Recall your classical studies and you will recognize that a bully is your 20th Century version of a Stoic (it’s time to open your dictionary, honey). Wait, why am I talking about myself?

Quaecumquae…

I don’t even quite sure why I’m writing this entry. Months after I was blogging, I heard somewhere that blogging is the electronic version of a diary, only open to the public. Or simply an upsurge of emotion poured over the keyboard, consequently ending up in the net. A journal.

Is it? I didn’t know that. I thought blogging was a way to show off. Joke (but I can also be serious about that statement).

As theorized, blogging happens when one has to unload bothersome thoughts, ideas, what-have-you’s. However, that idea doesn’t seem to stick with my present predicament. I feel empty. After Bagbag left, there seems to be a deep void existing between me and beings around me, whether animate or inanimate (go get that dictionary again, dearie). I can’t seem to feel my friends’ company, or realize that I was in a café. O, is that a bottle of beer in my hand? If I was having sex, I could be so faking it. At some point, borrowing from Praxedes, I lost my happy feet. No inspiration. But I’m still writing.

When inspiration fails, there’s always talent. Huh!

Quacumquae…

December 25, 2006. Tabang, Guiguinto, Bulacan. Took me some time to finish this entry blamed solely to a line-up of parties. Lat night, Christmas eve, my high school best friend, Anabelrama, and his family adopted me for Christmas eve. Imagine me having a wholesome Christmas in provincial Bulacan complete with a mom (Anabelrama’s mom), a niece (Anabelrama’s daughter), and two sisters (Anabelrama and Anabelrama’s wife). Had so much fun trying to keep Bagbag away from my thoughts by downing anything on the table. Provided it doesn’t move. After gift giving, everyone slept and I was left making some finishing touches on this entry. The cool air, the cool light, and the cool music (ILOVE Limewire) altogether made me realize that I have so much blessing to count this year.


A sumptuous gift from Anabelrama

This morning, I was having coffee at Anabelrama’s backyard overlooking a stretch of rice paddies. At the middle of the yard was a sinegwelas tree. I remembered my childhood in Negros. There was one at my mom’s garden. Unlike this one standing at the backyard, it was enormous. And like the sinegwelas trees I have seen, it looked old, sick, and dying all year round. Or all of the above.

Man, they’re so ugly. Which is good. I have seen so much beautiful things during this season. I, seeing this tree, suddenly contemplated on the essence of ugliness. They bare fruit.

Whatever…

PS. I only have two Christmas greetings: a) Happy birthday, Jesus!; and b) Ang Pasko ay nasa Puso. Merry Christmas, Puso!

Take your pick.

De Questio

I think I should start my own advice column. I don’t know how you call it when it appears in a blog though. But an advice corner nonetheless. Someone asks you a question about life then you write him back with lines so magical they can raise the country’s GNP. Usually, advice column subscribers would write about problems so heavily inane they get thrown off their career path solving them. Before they grab a rope for their necks, they write you asking for a piece of advice as a last resort. You feign concern. You give your 60 cents worth of advice. You write back in an attempt to brighten up somebody’s dark life with a tinged of tender loving care. Then you smile back having thought that you have them constrained from committing suicide using only the power of saccharine words, no matter how trite, yet circumspect. As if.

December 8, 2006. Lunch break at The Patio, PBCOM Tower. I’m not sure where and when I’m finishing this blog. It’s time to rant.

Friends surround me. They color my life. But sometimes they can color your life with the wrong hue. Blue mixed with black. Or menstrual red and puss yellow. Unintentenionally. Lately, some pasaway unknowingly just did so. It’s not like I’m complaining. Understandably, friends, like anything that you have, do not usually come with sunshine as traditionally thought. They can be chili red hot annoyingly spicy (sic, grammar escapes me) or simply diabetically (sic, I said I’m grammatically indisposed) honeyed.

Weeks ago, Rollo was telling me how he has been turned into a conveyor belt of some friends’ emotional baggage. Friends texting him in the middle of the night needing solace from their emotional plight, commonly in terms of relationships (failed or yet to fail), problems involving career (failed or yet to fail), imagined dilemma, or maybe GMA (the president). This happens when he was about to play hide and seek with the lambs in dreamland. He turns them down and he gets emotionally blackmailed. But most of the time friends simply have the good intention to ask for company in hanging out at the bars, movies, malling, cruising, and all other bonding activities. That’s kind of lovely and dear. Well, not most of the time. By the age of thirty, we get to have those moments when we all just want our space and respite in front of a playing DVD or some time to complete a yarn work on the Last Supper. Not to mention times when we don’t want anybody to know our “whereabouts”.

I get my fair share of Rollo’s dilemma. Once, a friend called me for an advice. Nope, not just an advice. Say company. Over beer. Sounds fun but knowing that this is all about some emotional distress, the discussion of which will certainly take the whole stretch of the night, I suddenly felt the aches of old age. I told the friend that I would be at work tonight. Yes, ‘till maybe 1 AM. The next day, my roster of friends came to less one.

For two weeks now, another friend is in the quagmire of relationships. I was solicitous enough to send my sincere comfort via SMS. I know how it felt having a troubled relationship. That's one I can sincerely sympathize. So last weekend, I texted the friend inquiring as to how he was holding on to dear life. He pretended he was his nephew with this response, “Nasa Arlington na po si Tito. Di na nya kayang mabuhay pang wala si…”

I know that wasn’t true. But for a millisecond I believed it to be true. Instead of being alarmed, I felt offended. This gal is such a good friend of mine, but rattling me with such lines just doesn’t seem to slide well with me. I think my readers know what I mean.

So I switched to bully mode. I texted the “nephew” back that it’s a good thing his “uncle’s” dead. None of my friend is a weakling. He texted back that the burial will be on the coming Sunday. I replied, “Drop by Bed in Malate on your way to your grave. Let’s have one bottle for the road.”

A week prior to that, another good friend of mine wanted company. This time I was really at work till late nights. So instead, I kept him company via text. He wanted to talk about his conquest (that was how he put it), which to others could be understood as achievement. I wasn’t so serious about everything he was discussing then and I was, admittedly, off tuned for joking about everything he was raving not knowing that the dame was already drunk. The next time I received a text response, he was threatening to throw me a bottle of beer. Thank the gods; between us did only Globe Telecoms bridge a vast distance.

I’m not known to conceal the characters in my blog but a clue is always available. They’re both Chinese. There.

Based on the foregoing instances, one can simply picture how I would empathize with my advice column subscribers. If you could call mine empathy. But definitely an advice column. Prepare for heart wrenching insults, unbridled bad jokes, uncalled-for laughter. As reaction to my taunging reply, you may A), B) go violent (at a distance), or C) you can finish off your cuticle between you teeth. But don't tell me I didn't warn you.

Question! (I just have to raise one in order to synch this entry with my title)

Have you watched Casino Royale? Did you see James Bond rise from that beach like a ripped Aquaman? Did you see him being licked by Ms. Shusmita Sen? How bout that morning after bed scene with that tramp? And yes! How do you like him screaming “Yes! Yes! To the right! To the right!” Did we have the same feeling? Did you like what you saw? Huh? Huh?

Now that’s a plenty of questions to justify my title.


Will somebody hand me a rope and a chair?! Quick!


I hate that girl.


I’m supposed to end. But while finishing this entry at Starbucks, Greenhills, Bagbag’s pesky camera phone caught this sight:





Youth itself is beauty said Oscar Wilde. And delectable, I must add.

Domus Amicorum

That bitching spirit has been dormant for quite some time now. I'm still that bullying friend everyone thought about. But somehow, these past days, I have been in so much pleasantries I could not get myself into that bullying mode. Yes, it is a mode rather than a mood. How could I be so mean when, at a short notice, friends would converge to honor you or those who are close to you. Say for instance, last weekend.

Bet your ass, Ninghao?

Bagbag is due for his UN Volunteer assignment in Haiti in fifteen days. My sister-in-law wanted to throw him a farewell party. But my brother offered Shell refinery’s staff house in Pililia, Rizal, provided all of Bagbag’s friends would be there. My brother wanted to fill up the whole place with so many of our friends. He thought the pool is too big for my three nieces. The lawn is too big for that half-poodle-half-oyster of a dog. The staff house is too big for only the eight of us if no friends would come. Or maybe sis-in-law just wanted to worry about how many disposable plates are available for the next meal. As they say, the many-er, the merrier.

If not for Gab, we could have starved.

No more beer... pero maraming kalat.

Plenty of food but no plates.

Too big for the nieces.

This is how the guys gyrated last night.

With a butt like that we definitely need more room.

I’m still having a hang-over from that dispedida. The longest I ever attended. I’m short of words to describe it. Bagbag was teary eyed when he saw the slide show presentation of the photos I made in Baby Macy (that’s my MacBook). So here’s something, an attempt on poetry, to subtly express what I and Babag felt.


Domus Amicorum

You would fill your hearts with joyful sentiments
And wish they’d be free from the spoils of sorrows.

You would spread your tables with fabulous recipes
And wish nothing but only the gourmande’s choice.

Around your garden you sprinkle seeds of blooming colors
And hope that no winter shall welt them away.

In your album of memories you only long to see smiles.
Happily they stare back at you with shiny teeth and ever arching lips.

You keep the good, you cherish the true,
You keep things proceeding in as much the pleasant way.
The things you hold shiny and new.

But nothing lasts.
Nothing is always you .
The surest of all occurrence is end.

And in the midst of these frustrations
A good heart can always find
A room full of laughter.
A roof raised by warmth.
A kitchen churning a pot of good counsel.
A living room laid with tender care.
A bedroom of benevolence.

You find yourself in a house full of friends.

Friends? Family.

Thank you guys. Thanks for Ryoichi, Praxedes, and Cyclopes for taking in my durian burps all the way back to Manila. That’s what you get for not telling me which road and corners I should take. And Nympha for driving all the girls off that night to a gaybar. Bagbag and I had a break from all the aching laughter whenever the group are together. Ang kukulit! But I had my laughs for sending them off to a gaybar that’s waaaay off the distance I estimated. Ninghao was ever fun and loud. Good thing there was no neighborhood to disturb.

Bel Ami productions presents...

Just about to clear the table for that foursome.

"So, nag-enjoy ka ba, Pare?"

Mga pare, trip trip lang ito.

Ayaw pa namin umuwi and we're blocking the cars!

Ah, yes… to my sis-in-law and brother for organizing this trip. You made us all understand what family is all about.

We look forward to Bagiou rhis Feb.

Salamat, Inay at Itay!

Bon voyage, Bagbag!

FOR PORTO AND WHO ELSE!!!

Here's a song Porto and I are singing while smiling so wide our cheeks hurt. And this song is also dedicated for the millions out there who landed on the wroooooong dude!

So hold your lighted candles up and sing with us...


SINCE YOU BEEN GONE
by Kelly Clarkson

Here's the thing we started off friends
It was cool but it was all pretend
Yeah yeah
Since U Been Gone

"Now I can have straight friends without having to be ashamed you used to pretend as one of them. Yukk!"

You dedicated you took the time
Wasn't long till I called you mine
Yeah Yeah
Since U Been Gone

"Since you've been gone I got sexier friends!"

And all you'd ever hear me say
Is how I pictured me with you
That's all you'd ever hear me say

"Yeah, I pictured us in Puerto Gallera. That sucks!"

But Since U Been Gone
I can breathe for the first time
Im so movin on
Yeah yeah
Thanks to you
Now I get
What I want
Since U Been Gone



How can I put it? you put me on
I even fell for that stupid love song
Yeah yeah
Since U Been Gone

"Eeeek! Who was that singer again? Thank gods they're not playing her in the gym."

How come I'd never hear you say
I just wanna be with you
I guess you never felt that way

"Oh, yeah you did say that. And I fell for it. Shit!"

But Since U Been Gone
I can breathe for the first time
Im so movin on
Yeah yeah
Thanks to you
Now I get
I get what I want
Since U Been Gone

You had your chance you blew it
Out of sight, out of mind
Shut your mouth I just can't take it
Again and again and again and again

"Dang, I'm so fuckin' movin' on (ngek, that line was so brothah)!"

Since U Been Gone
I can breathe for the first time
Im so movin on
Yeah yeah
Thanks to you (thanks to you)
Now I get
I get what I want
I can breathe for the first time
Im so movin on
Yeah yeah

"Now I can simply cook for myself without having to please you. Twerp!"

Thanks to you (thanks to you)
Now I get (I get)
You should know (you should know)
That I get
I get what I want
Since U Been Gone
Since U Been Gone
Since U Been Gone

"Thanks to you I got what I want! My Bagbag."

Bow.

Sic Et Non

Is this a vlog or a blog? Sic et non. Yes and no. I don't actually know how to title this entry. O well, I don't even knowhow to start this entry anyway.

Makati. Started this blog in the office. Ending it at Oriental Gardens. And, shit, it's almost 2:30 AM and I still don't know what to say.

Maybe because I had so much fun since Thursday of last week. It all culminated last night as our Muslim brothers are having a hearty meal. Considering the fasting they have gone through, I think hearty is an understatement. Which makes me think, no words could describe the euphoria of being filled of seafoods with friends, fully drunk with the boys, and full of my Bagbag's assurance. As these pictures could tell.

Two weeks ago, an unprecedented communing with core friends. Praxedes, Ninghao and I went out for some drinks blamed wholly to Melenyo who rendered the whole of Manila, and beyond, powerless. The fans are powerless against the evening heat, and we are powerless against boredom. So off we assembled down Malate ‘till the break of dawn. And it’s not even a weekend. The only guilt I had for coming home as the dawn was breaking were the calories I have to burn for eating anything that we find inanimate that night: chicken skin (4 little paper bags), balut (5 pieces), sweetened spicy pusit (5 plastic pockets), Aristocrat bibingka and puto bumbong downed by a cup of thick choco. Should I mention beer? And how many calories does one earn from laughter? Me, Ninghao, Praxedes… ten years of friendship and we’ve never gotten tired of laughing at each other’s foibles.

From Chelu we moved to Aristocrat as Ninghao, who was getting drunk, was beginning to huggle for ownership of the bar from Jeffs Cafe (his real name is Jeff but I don't know his last name so we call him after the other bar he owns).

Across Aristocrat, we took in the first light of the day at the sea wall. Nah, nothing romantic can be conjured in the company of two bitches. We just wanted to poke fun at the time-counting traffic light. Honestly, Ninghao just wanted to poke fun at the male joggers... or maybe more.

Yesterday, Eid’l Fitr, in solidarity with our Muslim bro’s, Bagbag and I planned out a dinner of uninhibited gluttony over crustaceans. My immovable resolve to commit this particular deadly sin has found its venue -- Farmers Market in Cubao now has its own Dampa.

We were joined in by one newfound friend and another not-so-new: Porto (who is now
Ryoichi’s ex) and Maria Leonora T. (he kept singing this Guy & Pip soppy theme to Porto).

We have to hurry on dinner as there were paparazzos in the vicinity. On the second floor railing overlooking our table, two girls were taking picture of us using their cellphones. And we're not even famous. I'm annoyed.

After watching a movie, we found ourselves in Oyster Boy downing beer and, ahm, oysters. The other day, passing by this bar on our way to Palawan, my friend Miranda Priestly (when he calls me in my cellphone, I know he's checking on our next event at the Rainbow Project) thought that Oyster Boy is a gay bar. He got the impression from the word boy. I had this blood curdling feeling. Boys with oysters. Hermaprodites gyrating on Guns 'N Roses.

I'm going to puke. Bye!

FAC UT VIVAS

I wrote this poem as my erotic piece read in the last Bohemain Fridays at the Rainbow Project. Since the event was held vis-a-vis an exhibit of sexy male photographs by Dominique James, the reading writers were asked (in the guise of a requirement) to read erotic poems or essays.

You stand by the window
Light slapping your bulges
Devoid of decency
I like what I see.

You stare at me
A brooding eye
Sharp double edged dagger
Piercing my soul with desire.
... you are horny.

In return, I'm happy to be here.
So happy, I'm swollen stiff
...down there.

I wish, like Christian Amanpour,
I'd be dodging bullets in Iraq for CNN.
But I'd rather be here with you
....licking your nipplse.

I see myself gorging
Tons of sushi in Saisaki.
But I rather be here
naked
in bed
...you sitting on my face.

I longed to fly over the Pyrenesse
And be awed by nature.
But I am here happier
Swallowing your tongue.

Oh how I'd be now cruising the Carribean
But I'm content, damn you...
my face is stock between your legs.

In your nakedness I see
A Roman centurion
Stripped of armor
Glistening with sweat
Splattered with barbarian blood
Oozing with verility
... I'm wet.
Prompting me to talk dirty in Latin

Fac ut vivas!
Fac ut vivas!

Sounds toilet and nasty.
But what I'm really saying is

Get a life!

BOHEMIAN FRIDAYS @THE RAINBOW PROJECT

Ralph Semino Galan & G.S. Llorren, the Runway Associate, PRESENTS

BOHEMIAN FRIDAYS @THE RAINBOW PROJECT

The Bohemian spirit is back in Malate as The Rainbow Project continues with its series of literary readings and artistic happenings. The second event of “Bohemian Fridays” is a photo exhibit of award-winning photographer Dominique James at the ground floor of The Rainbow Project, located at the Nakpil-Orosa Courtyard, Malate, Manila . The exhibit will be officially launched on Friday, October 20, 2006 at 9 in the evening.

Dominique James is one of Philippines’ finest professional image-makers. In the span of 15 years, he has photographed almost all of the famous people in the country, from celebrated entertainment personalities and top fashion models to high-ranking politicians and prominent socialites. In addition, he has done numerous commercial, advertising and corporate photography. Dominique also regularly conducts several popular models’ and photographers’ workshops. Frequently, he serves as a judge and a consultant to photography contests, model searches, beauty tilts, and talent competitions. To date, he has already presented more than 50 one-man and group photography exhibits. While Dominque is best known for his celebrity portraits, his other favorite subjects include still life, nude, landscape, food, and architecture.

To add more rhapsodies to “Bohemian Fridays”, there will also be a literary reading of prize-winning writers at the second floor lounge of The Rainbow Project starting at 9 in the evening. After the scheduled readers have read their masterpieces, members of the audience may also read their own works during the open mike session.

ADMISSION FOR THE EVENT IS FREE!

For inquiries, contact 536-0781 or 0917-8378717.

ANGELUS IN DOMO BALNEARIO

I wish!

Did you ever come across that pressure to smoke though you don't seem to enjoy it anymore? O, you don't smoke. How 'bout the compulsion to drink in spite of the feeling sick from getting drunk? So you don't drink either. Ok, ok... How about that feeling of wanting to have sex at the same time not wanting to have one for reason of morality, fear of gonorrhea, had too much the past days, whatever...

You will go to hell for being such a phony. But wait! For being a hypocrite, I would have to kill you first.

September 25, 2006. Makati office. Blogging at company expense. Har, har, har...

This has been a long standing entry. Everyday, without let up, I could vividly remember the things that have happened to me after June 21 of 2005. Life since then has never been the same. I think that was the day The Bull was born. I was never known to be the bully before that date. Yes, The Bull was there all along waiting to be born. But the pains of bitterness brought it out in this world. I was so horribly angry that I see things clearly as black and bleak. Especially relationships. Yes, that again. I think it was during those times that I have turned away some suitors (I did not say "so many"; if I did, I'm not taking it back) for the belief that I never, and will never ever again (I sweared – yes, there is an ed) subject myself into such vile human tendency – the tendency to be in-loved (supply silence here). Would you like me to rant once more as to why I hated (stress past tense) the idea? Love? Relationships? Nah, you can read a lot about such ranting in my previous entries. Some of them have even resulted to some ignominious litanies about the one who got away. Thank gods he went away! Good riddance!

This entry, however, is my ode to that cute angel I met at one of the bars (if you can translate my title froms its Latin, you would know it’s more than a bar) down E. Rodriguez (that obviously is a clue). I met him even before I met Bagbag so this is not about Bagbag. It was during those bitter days when I would be restrained from slapping a guy who would approach me with IWANTTOBEYOURBOYFRIEND introductions. Or, if he’s not so cute, I respond by saying IWANTTOBEYOURDEATH. Ok, this boy is around 21 (does one year matter?). He was cute alright so I was a little polite. And kind. And kinder. Until I became even solicitous (say charitable – give my all. Hint!). After some action that almost produced a genetically dreadful entity involving two male chromosomes, the boy engaged me into some casual chat (is it the same as casual sex?). He inquired as to whether I have a lover. I said I just buried one, limbs all separated. He asked if I ever look forward to having one. I asked if this guy should have limbs. I told him I’m not one for a relationship… Anymore! I remember there was fire blowing out of my nostrils when I said that. But like an angel that he was, he interjected that I shouldn’t be bitter at all. In fact, the way I deliver these telegramatic (if you know telegram) statements showed that I was hiding my inner cravings to be in-loved again. To have that relationship I so wanted.

Why can’t I be bitter? It’s legal than committing murder.

Then he illustrated his point with a story:

Once he had a boyfriend. He would hurry from school to be with his boyfriend. He would cook for him. Bathe him. Prepare breakfast for him (shit, I did those). I think he even had a police blotter for not going home (I had one sa Puerto Galera) one night. Then the relationships, just like any relationships (including yours), ended. His bestfriend told him he was on the losing side since he was all dedicated to the guy. For what?

But he said with a sonorous smile, “Nope, I was the happy one.” He did all the things that made him happy. Or simply put, he was happy doing those kind things. He never lost anything for doing the things that made him happy (look, my apologies for thrice paraphrasing the same thought; I’m trying to put it the way the boy put it). One must never get tired about getting in-loved, he pointed out. He agrees that relationships never last. So does being full after a good meal. We go hungry again. And so we eat. No matter how one enjoys sleeping, you have to get up somehow and stop sleeping to do something else again. But never say one will never go back to sleep. Or never eat. Like smoking for smokers. Like drinking for drunkards. Like sex… Hypocrite!

I paused for a ten-second silence. But it felt like hours. Here is a 21-year old lecturing me about what I ought to have known at 36 (I was 36 then; no, this year). Somehow, love is like that. Relationships are like that. Only much much more complicated to refuse. You don’t want it anymore the very same time you want it after all.

Until now, I still think of that boy. He could be one good lover. I hope he doesn’t have to let go of those ideals for a tattoo that serves as a scar for a failed relationship. God bless him. But we already know that.

Scarred for life with a crying eye.

BOHEMIAN FRIDAYS AT THE RAINBOW PROJECT

Hey, guys, I'll be one of the readers in this event. Hope you could all come.

The Rainbow Project is bringing back the Bohemian spirit to Malate through a series of literary events and artistic happenings every other Friday. The spin-off event of “Bohemian Fridays” is a literary reading of award-winning writers on September 29, 2006, from 9:00 in the evening onwards, on the second floor lounge of The Rainbow Project, located at the Nakpil-Orosa Courtyard, Malate, Manila.

The event will feature the literary creations of Eros Atalia, Ronald Baytan, Louie Cano, Carlomar Daoana, Ralph Semino Galán, Natasha Gamalinda, J. Neil C. Garcia, Nerisa del Carmen Guevara, Michael Kho Lim, G.S. Lloren, Roel Manipon, Danton Remoto, Timothy Sanchez, Angelo Suarez, Gerry Torres and Larry Ypil. Open mike follows.

ADMISSION FOR THE READING IS FREE!

Future events will include visual, performing and other creative endeavors.

For inquiries, contact 536-0781 or 0917-8378717.

De Blogsos "Digging into dark secrets, there came light"

(you have to read the link of this blog from Liwaliw at http://glenncruz.blogspot.com/2006_04_01_glenncruz_archive.html to get into the context.)

Hey, glennie! Remember me telling you I so wanted to comment on this blog but rather not? Now I have to. I just want to let this one out of my system.

Two months into my job of editing Latin manuscripts, I always remember this blog everytime I face the screen to see how much mess the Sri Lankans did in encoding the manuscripts. And everytime, I get to be thrown into a different world. A real one that definitely happened some time in the past. Looking at the manuscripts and seeing them in the angle of context, content, and history. I see myself working on a manuscript that scores of scholars around the world would see. I see how the languages could cause war and peace. I see how the Latin language struggled with the rise of French, English, Spanish and the rest of the lingua franca. And how she died. Some people could just be told why Latin died, but I on my part, I was there in the forensic lab. Amazing! I see myself working on these manuscripts the way medieval monks handed to us the works of the

Ayan, matakot kayoh!

Greeks, from Aeschelus to Zeno of Ilea. I remember St. Irenaeus of Lyon. Do you? Yes, that guy you guys so hated for trashing the Gospel of Judas from the canonical books of the gospels. But, mind you, with what I do right now, I have so much sympathy for Irenaeus. I could very well identify with his predicaments as to which book should give credence to the matter in point, in his case - Jesus and his divinity. I now understand his responsibility of upholding the christology of the Church while at the same time recognizing which and whose writing is/are congruent with such theology. Judas's account just couldn't stand against all four - John, Luke, Mark, Matthew - enough for it to be trashed away. Yep, I could empathize with that. His dilemma is mine.

Part of my job is to see whether the encoders of the Latin manuscripts, say a catholic document on the Reformists particularly John Calvin, correctly tagged (you know xml, right) bible citations in the document as bible citations or mere patristics (citation from the Church Fathers). Turned out, as the encoders are Muslim or Buddhists Sri Lankans, everything is tagged as bible citations. Well, what do they know about the difference between the writings of St. John Chrysostom, Augustine of Hippo, and Matthew? All of them are talking about the same Christ. If Irenaeus was Buddhist -- Matthew, Mark, John, Luke, and Judas... they are all the same. And if he's into xml, he can simply tag them all as bible citations.

Sometimes, the manuscripts I work on would site what seems to be a Bible site but does not quote directly from the bible. I could easily say it's from the Bible if it says Ioh.1.4 (John 1:4) or 1.Reg.4 (1 Kings Chapter 4). But if it says Epis.1.5 or Ep.2.4. I can't readily say the writer is citing from the Epistle of Paul or from the Epistle to the Ephesians. You see, the Church Fathers manuscripts are also cited by early theologians as Epistles (because that's what they are, letters) and are abbreviated as Epis. or Ep. (the latter is easily confused with the Ephesians of the New Testament) followed by verse numbers. Without any quotation or passages to identify the books as a Bible citation, we delve into the whole body of the work to see what the content is all about and compare it to what the Epistle of Paul or Epistle to the Ephesians are saying. Sometimes, we go as far as consulting the Septuagint (Greek version of the Bible) and Vulgate (Latin version). If they jibe, then it must be a bible quote. If not, it was one of those patrological writings, from Ambrose to Tertullian.

Irenaeus has the same dilemma. He was confronted by six, seven, maybe even twenty gospel versions. How to deal with them? Get those that agree with each other, in this case Luke, Mark, Matthew, and John. Treat others as "the others" and that's Judas and the rest in the trash bin. Sounds simplistic but that's how we systemically weed out the preposterous from the authentic (to determine how preposterous and authentic is another story). It's the same system used in the courts. One testimony against several witnesses, well, you know the verdict.

I can only say here what I feel in regards to the concern of Irenaeus, Judas's alleged gospel, and what I do at work. We all have the same dilemma. Someday, if ever I end up like Judas hanging on a tree, or Iraneaus being chastised by future scholars, you can say "Gregg was just a good friend who simply did what he can with those miskeyed manuscripts. Blame it to the Sri Lankans."

Hic Terminum Longissimum Memoriarum

Reminiscing things past that should have been long dead while walking on the sands of Puerto Gallera is so Nora Aunor. Drama, drama, drama…

September 10, 2006. Puerto Gallera. 2 AM! Something’s telling me I traveled quite far just to be haunted. By memories, that is.

In this life, one does not merely come home once. Nor everyday to a single familiar place where home-cooked meal set by Mom awaits an empty stomach. Coming home is a metaphor for that place and places – restaurants, sidewalk, grocery, malls – where the sixth sense is awakened by sights, sounds, taste, and feel of something familiar, pleasant or otherwise. What is sixth sense is that which makes one feel a pat in the back without being touched, taste something when one swallowed nothing, hear something other than what is really audible. Or maybe hallucinating without the aid of hallucinogen. Yes, it’s weird but come to think of it, this kind of coming home calls into being what could have been thrown off into selective amnesia.

Hindi ako Noranian dahil walang himala... dahil my brother is not a pig!

Coming home, the metaphor, is like Nora Aunor coming home after years of being away from her hometown, steps off the tricycle in front of their ancestral home, puts her little luggage on the dusty ground, lay her hands on her breast, one on top of another, surveys the facade as tears begin to ooze out of her eyelids brought by memories that are forever etched on the walls of that facade; but before the tears drop off her anime-round eyes, she picks up her luggage and runs up the stairs calling, "Inay! Itay!"

Yep. Fuck the memories. I party.

I was with Ning Hao visiting the island. I was hoping that nothing could bother me anymore as I have moved on after more than a year of wrestling with the realities of a failed relationship. It was a year and a half since that regrettable Holy Week vacation of 2005. And I say, I should party here once more as I did during the dates that I used to come here prior to 2005. Oh yes I did, I made sure I did, but came 2 AM today sitting at the porch reading Jessica Zafra (while it was unusually quiet…O, this was not Holy Week, what do I expect), I felt I came home to something spoiled and rancid. There I was walking under the scorching sun looking for a lost lover. There I was walking aimlessly along the length of the beach looking for nothing. Under a palm tree, exhausted, I was calling an ex to tell him of my yet another sad news. There I was in our cottage, packing our things teary-eyed, thinking I would have to go back to Manila alone and preparing for the worse. There I was at the police station.

After dishing out to Ning Hao the weird feeling, he inquired as to whether I still feel for the guy. Honestly, it wasn’t like that at all; not anymore when I have Ryoichi as my best friend and a Bagbag who takes care of me. I have begun to comfortably go to the places we used to go to but thoughts of him never bothered me anymore. I never expected the island would be a different kind of catalyst for unwanted reminiscing.

Twelve years ago, in Los Angeles, I used to go to my Mom’s grave by hitching on my brothers’ cars. Their presence never gave me the chance to cry before my Mom’s grave as I would really wanted to do so, like a baby. No comfort is comparable to one that could be had in crying before one’s mother, dead or alive. When I came to buy my first car, I planned to visit her all by myself. There I would weep with all my heart. I drove there twice but I could never make myself drop a single tear. I guess I have gotten used to going there without the fanfare. I have moved on. But then one time, I happend to pass by my sister’s house where I stayed during my early émigré days. My Mom died in that house. I have seen her weaken each day as she approaches her impending demise. My sister, in depression, sent us away on a cold winter’s night, two days before Christmas. Three months later she sold the house. It was long since owned by some Hispanic family but Mom’s wild roses were still lining the iron fences. I parked in front of the property and had my long-standing will to sob. I was home.

Here in Puerto, I refused to cry on these memories. Like Nora who was suddenly possessed by both happy and sad memories, I would rather keep the tears and run to embrace those whom I think are worth my tears. But not these memories. I would definitely hate myself a million times for doing so. This is not to say that I should instead trash away the memories. Contrary to what Rollo was telling me, I am not one to part with my memories though. Say I'm lacking the gift of letting-go but but I see no reason why I should let go. Yeah, to move on. To where? I am not one who graduated from the school of the Stoics. I would rather like to believe that, as humans, we are endowed with the faculty to remember both the pleasant and the unpleasant, and cherish them like treasures of the most precious kind. Nourish them because we brought them into this world. Wean them like a child because we created them. We are their mothers. But we don't have to cry to all of them. This is a matter of fact worth of intellectual debates in the hallowed woods of Aritotle's Lyceum; that it is this very gift that elevates us above all other beings, no matter how advanced they may be (I learned that from Contact and Dark City).

I must admit, I would have to deal with this coming home just as I would with the ones that I have yet to go home to, no matter where; starting here in Gallera… here in the farthest end of memories.

(There. Now nobody can accuse me of being heartless.)