Ascent to Mount Hyperventilate

Tap… tap… tap… So goes the keyboard. Words. Lots of them. Then at the end of the sentence, I highlight the whole thing. And hit delete.

February 13, 2006. Oriental Gardens, Makati. Overlooking Buendia traffic. And bored.

Boredom is a lurking slow death. Its harbinger is quiet pain. It’s the kind of pain that’s devoid of excruciation and molar gnashing but creeps in one’s sleep to give one a hard time to catch the much needed z’s. I don’t know with you, but for me catching z’s is always a hurdle. All kinds of hurdles, imposed by an outside tormentor or self-inflicted, possess a certain kind of pain. Well, it’s still pain nonetheless. Personally, I’m not a pseudo-masochist, but in a certain given sexual tryst I had, I could remember slapping my bed partner once and having the same in return. That was one exceptional pain I enjoyed. Oh, it was good.

Writing is a pain. If brains have legs, I’m having a crunch right now. I was suppose to revise my CV, which I do every six months. Or revise an essay for this anthology something Rollo and I are writing. Doing either is like ascending Mount Hyperion, having to deal with obstacles such as the general prevailing resume lay-out, or how to make a failed love appear funny in print. So I dropped both and started to do my blog instead. My hordes of four fans have been complaining that my blog entries have been absent for quite some three weeks now. These fans! Who do they think they are? Pain in the ass? But then, as an upcoming celebrity, I should start practicing the art of not ignoring the fans.

So halfway to writing my blog, my mind was still wandering the dark passages of nothingness looking for something to write about instead of one that plays over and over in front of me. Yes, there is something I wanted to write about but I refuse to do so for the following reasons, a) it’s about relationships and loves, b) and stuffs… about relationships and loves, and c) it’s freaking cliché to talk about relationships and stuff on the vesper of Valentine’s Day! Grrroooowll…

There. Now that I have vented it out, please allow me to talk about Valentine cards instead. Thank you.

Way back grade school, around my third grade, when Valentines Day comes, I would buy the fanciest of cards. No, not Hallmark. I mean fancy. Hallmark is mush. And their cable shows are cheesy. Having said that let me illustrate what’s fancy. The visuals are felt, I think asbestos. On the cover, the bigger the heart, the better. Not necessarily a red heart. Once I bought a card with a green heart. I am not kidding. At the center of the heart a hole is punched out to reveal what’s pasted inside, a dried twig resembling a rose. Yes, fancy also means tacky.

With my sweet grade school countenance, I would gladly give these cards to my mother, my sister, and my favorite friend, Jane. And why, of course, to my teacher too, Ms. Capiral. All of them would laugh, except Jane. Jane would have her eyes twinkle. Her eyelids fluttering... like the wings of a drosophila.

But no, Jane, it’s just a card. A friendly card.

Eh, kung friendly card lang bakit yung best friend mong si Carlo di mo binigyan?

Hmmmm… I’ll take that as a suggestion. But I’ll have to wait ‘till Carlo and I are eighteen para mas may impact.

Year in, year out, it has been a practice till Grade 6. I stopped giving Jane these cards. I’ve gotten tired of elaborating the limitations of a friendly card. I’d give her a Christmas card and her eyes would still flutter like fruit flies. But without fail the elders would always laugh. Once they argued if it was right to receive Valentine cards from somebody not-a-lover. Innocently, as this anecdote would picture ignorance when I come to age, I butted in the conversation by referring to the pre-printed dedication at the cover.

Pwede po yun. Ayan po, oh, Happy Valentines, Mother!

Mind you, without doubt there is, accordingly, such a thing as a Valentine card for bro, sis, and miss… teacher. Call it marketing.

So, is a Valentine card appropriate for somebody not your boyfriend or girlfriend?

Categorically, my answer is a bittersweet NO. More like a bitter NO.

The Greeks categorized love in three ways. There is filia, or filial love, for a brother, a mother, a sister, a father, a friend, including bothersome relatives. Agape is love for the community, like the love of Christ to God’s people or the kind of love that gave Ninoy Aquino the illusion that Filipinos are worth dying for. Then there is eros, erotic love, love towards a boyfriend or girlfriend. Its difference to filia is that one who is possessed by erotic love is prompted to copulate with the object of one’s affection, or erection for that matter. Otherwise, it’s just Platonic love, which is not even Greek, except the name.

Now, etymology and hermeneutics aside, Valentines Day is a celebration of erotic love. That’s just it. That explains the traffic in Sta. Mesa and the shortage of gift wraps in pink and red rose prints. Ah, the floral carnage – hapless flowers slaughtered in the name of love. Those classic cartolina cupid cutouts! Eeeek…

Any reason to celebrate Valentines with somebody other than the object of your erection is just plain naivety towards some adroit marketing scheme. Well, it’s not really a clever scheme from some printing house, but your gullibility made it so. Making Buddhists celebrate Christmas without the Holy Child, now that’s smart marketing. Go send your mom a card on mother’s day, your brother on his birthday, your sister a spring festival card (whatever that means), and your friend, ahm, well, a get-well-soon card. But not a Valentines card. Do send them a Valentines card at your age, and you’re either a marketing victim or just plain gullible. Or in your misery as loveless you are starting to believe that your love to your parents is reason enough to celebrate Valentines. Twerp!

Damn, I noticed froth dripping out of my mouth while writing this.

You might ask why the agitation for something as simple as a card? Besides, it was me who did send those tawdry cards in my grade school days, not you. I am not known to apologize so let me play up the excuse:

Because of all the occasions in the calendar – thank God it’s not a holiday – Valentine is the most chauvinist. I can’t celebrate Valentine because I’m loveless? Oh, yeah, I can’t. I could just imagine being chastised for being out alone in the street on Valentines Day. The love police interrogating me: Who gave you the right?

Pardon me, Sir, but being single is not my fault. All the men who are available are simply, er… ah, blind. Honest!

And those cards talk like love is forever! It amazes me to think as to where these writers are getting their idea about love and relationships. Hello! Reading them makes me ask, WHO ARE YOU?! The question refers to the one who gives me the card. Translated as: I can’t believe you said that; or I can’t believe this; or, half-sarcastic-half-disgusted, you’re kidding meh!

Does anyone know anyone, or anyone who knows anyone who knows anyone, who proudly announces that he writes poetry for Valentine cards? Either he’s too ashamed to admit it or he’s been hiding now for the lies he’s been feeding us. He can do better in the boiler room operations.

(As I progress on this writing, a text just came in. It’s 11:59 PM of February 13 and the message reads:

Hapi valentine!... baaybag…

This came from a friend. Why can’t he just kill me?! Oh, this guy is not just a friend. He is the lover of my ex. Yeees… I know… I know… I have moved on. I’m ok.)

So, what do we do on Valentines Day? Sit in the corner and wait for the Second Coming. Go to the corner of the street and eat isaw. Ever heard of Singles for Christ? I am curious as to what the group would be doing on Valentines Day. The Sacrifice of the Taken?

But don’t you dare show up at your friend’s date. That would be the death blow to your dignity as a lonely creature.

I leave you to your misery. As for me, I’m staying home. Victor Krum might call. I heard he’s still single.