progeny

As much as I want to, I can’t tell the story of my life. There is no story. The truth is, I don’t know if you can really tell a story using your life as material. I think what happened here, with me, is that the events which came in morsels — nothing more than crumbs — happened to an ambitious homo sapien and were magnified as if they’d figure in history. There is, at work here, a delusion of grandeur. There’s an undertone of pride, a lining of ardor. There is no life story. Only stories that resembled a life.

My paternal grandparents died when I was in highschool. They died only a few months apart; I doubt the other’s love for the other was enough to send him or her –I can’t recall who died first– to a premature death. I think it was more like: “I’m in deep shit and I need some company here.” A summon which was more like a command than a romantic notion. So, they were both gone, leaving thirteen children clawing for what meagre money they had. Eight years later, the lion’s share went to the eldest and my father and the rest of the bunch sighed the whole thing off. They didn’t have much choice.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

You know how grandparents are supposed to be amiable old folks who you’d spend lazy summers with? Well, that’s a far cry from what they were. One christmas day, at noon, we were invited to their house and they served spaghetti which was as bad as what the school canteen served. Mama never made spaghetti which was ketchup-based. No matter how near we edged on penury, we never got a taste of “commercially-produced” food. And you’d think that was the only thing to endure, until an aunt offers you to have rice along with the spag. She said it in a tone so ignorant of how ridiculous the suggestion was, “Hey, have some rice with that. Why won’t you have rice? Tony, tell your kid to get some…”

Rice. With Pasta. Go figure.

The funny thing is, they never fail to surprise. They had a ten-foot christmas tree with gifts at its base. Identical boxes wrapped in that non-glossy printed wrapper which to this day is an eyesore for me. The grandpa started giving out the boxes to the children, very mechanically, wearing that perpetual frown–I fancied he wears for one day the aggregate of the frown my mom would be flashing towards me for her entire lifetime–he also handed me a box. I don’t hink I even opened mine, after seeing that my cousins found Coke crowns inside the Tiger katol boxes.

Was it a joke? If it was, here’s my Ha-ha. If I had known how to make a finger then, I’d have done it I swear to God.

I don’t know how many visits we were forced to go to after that, or before that. But that Christmas day was quite momentous; taught my young mind how people are so varied, even family. That cultures are at work in every household. But see, acknowledging the aberrations does not equate to tolerance of the mutation.

For as long as I can remember I’ve disparaged my paternal aunts and uncles and cousins… We’d pretend to be asleep when they come over our house, just to evade their hands on our foreheads. Even then, we’ve formed a little prejudice. And it grew and spread. In my head there’s a family tree with one side wilting in darkness and the other bathed in wind and sun. I decided, I am the progeny of my mother alone.

I remember there was a night, my biological father shouted at my elder sister: You’re not my daughter! Your mom was pregnant when I met her.

Couldn’t he see? That would never hurt my sister. And by God, I was envious of her. This mad possibility, that she was not his daughter. I wanted to be that child, not of his blood. I wanted to be that child.

But, it was all a baseless rage from a drunkard. My sister was conceived in the confines of marriage…

*   *  *

written 11/11/08. One of these days, I’m gonna pick up where I left off & I’ll only stop when it’s finished. When the people I want dead are dead. When the scars are only skin deep.

untold

By far, this is the most coherent of dreams. And by far, the most disturbing.

In the dream was a man in his prime. On a high-bridged nose perched glasses which made him look formidable. And in the flashes–for the dream was but flashes–of scenes, I saw him constantly surrounded by well-dressed peers. I saw him smiling, dancing, and these flashes were repeated, him clothed differently each time, and each time, that broad smile as if never to fade.

The next flashes were in a dimmed room, the man is ill. Getting worse each flash, until finally, a white handkerchief is laid upon his face in a familiar room.

The man is gone.

He succeeded in telling me his story. That he was once an occupant of that same house. The flashes of the people in merriment had the living room wall as background. The same wall which now housed the odd sepia photograph & a charcoal painting of an old woman by a lamp post.

Does he seek justice? What is a girl to do? Did I whisper a prayer for eternal rest when I awoke? I can’t remember.

There was hearsay that the house was acquired through ill ways. Was the man poisoned? Tricked into signing over the deed to my shrewd paternal grandparents?

I dream of the future, I dream of the past. I dream omens, warnings, good fortune… I even dreamt babies into life, I dreamt of death. I am an unripe vessel. I want to understand things without losing innocence. I want to understand things but not at the expense of normalcy.

Lucky Thirteen - ep5|S5

 
House: You’re just mad because the whole time she was doing you, she was thinking about my big…throbbing…d-diagnostic skills.

House: Oh yeah! Penthouse Forum meets medical mystery, maybe there is a god.
–House realizing that Thirteen had lesbian sex with the patient before her seizure

Eche doing a mean Zhang Zhiyi in her crib

 My li’l sis who’s over 2 years old has not fallen into the trick of speech yet. A little late, really, for the five offsprings who preceded her were blabbing away before reaching the first year. She’s constantly surrounded by adults–her siblings & mom; and we seldom baby-talk her; and yet there’s only a few events under the speech department. However, with much prodding, possibly at the brink of annoyance, she can say “Ate” over the phone. Which is good, since it erases the possibility that she’s mute, or has a short tongue. (Her tongue, in fact, is long and wide. She does this big smile and sticks her tongue at the base of her mouth, her Mikee Cojuangco dimples flashing).

It’s sad how I’d miss out on her novel tricks acquired from either my brothers, my Mom, or one she whipped up from her own observations from the boob tube or…the environment. She can identify a dog, a lizard…her sandals… She can flash the symbol for “Loser” or “What-evah” from the popular Bubble Gang skit of Yaya, you’re such a loser…

Another cute event that I missed (Mom relayed this in an sms) was when momma scolded her for repeatedly throwing the milk bottle out of her crib, she put on a serious face, looked straight to momma, and suddenly–hugged & kissed mom. A kid who doesn’t speak yet, but at her own volition, said the sweetest “sorry” without the utility of the word.

And, not to forget, apart from her li’l tricks, she’s a bit of a baby gymnast. This should prove it:
  

dear ol’ sis to appear in a European tv ad

 the “repair” was done by a woman, but probably of the same age as the gay-who-did-the-damage. I have photos of my merry self (if you don’t know me, then you probably missed the sarcasm) before the haircut, after the first cut & then the latest. I went on inside the salon, not knowing that the haircut price is significantly higher in that branch than the first one I visited. No regrets, though, because Hally… or Sally did a fine job.

Less than ten minutes before my alarm was set to go off (to steal me from my reverie and shove me to workdom), Ate Tin called me up from the spa bathroom, relaying a very jolly news of a European soccer superstar filming a commercial at the spa where she worked. The production crew handpicked her from a portfolio of all the spa therapists aboard the Costa Concordia. Nice eh?

Being Asian, AND female– I’ll probably induce Amauri Carvalho de Oliveira’s belligerence by simply not knowing who he is & what he’s worth. Ate is set to massage Amauri, they’ve been filming the entire day but the actual massage probably took place after she said goodbye in haste. Oh and she mentioned about meeting two Brit celebrities, but she forgot the names. Imagine the degree of jealousy the real, die-hard, cut-throat fans would feel. He he.
   

Ate’s been so down prior to this day, so the sound of her cheerful voice on the phone was quite comforting. I’ll be seeing her next week, but there’s an unspoken wish that she’d find better opportunities–like more commercial & cameo stints?– and rethink things. Well, she has a theatre background. I remember how well she played a cunning woman in our state university’s production of Good Woman of Setzuan. Plus, she can speak good English, feign Brit accent, and do a mean Indian in jest. The truth is that she can do anything; maybe she just needs the right crowd.

donning a Jane-do [Jane hair-do–Daria’s bff]

  My dehydrated, protein-deprived tresses are somewhere in some city dumpster by now. I had a haircut this morning & poor old gay hairstylist read the malcontent in my face and kindly asked if there’s anything wrong with the cut, if I wanted to have it modified (repaired?)…I meekly said no, everything’s fine.

It’s really difficult to describe the cut I wanted, (later, at work, Mommy Marga has tagged it as a cut called “evenly layered” Ha ha.) and so I wasn’t really displeased with the guy’s work it was more like I blamed myself, what else can you do but sulk? Hehe…
 

At work it was better because I got the approval of most of the girls & one bad review from my supervisor, a male. Oh, there was one girl who also said, more than asked, “Bakit ka nagpagupit?” as if it was a bad decision.

Really, it’s no big deal. I remember growing my hair long and then abruptly cutting it dangerously short–simply to prove to my classmates and stamp on myself the identity of the “I don’t give a damn girl” –feeling all Kat Stratford-ish…

But at the end of the day, I’m trusting the feeling I felt prior to friends’ airing of opinions: The cut makes me look old and plain.

I’m gonna have it repaired somewhere else.

Here’s something from my old blog:

*   *   *

Enough of that exceedingly significant crap about hair.

Now we move along to the serious stuff. — Private post.

the plan

Half of it goes to Mom & the rest of the gang; and half will have to be stretched out til the next paycheck–allowance, toiletries, cabinet food, haircut money –and I’m not sure if it can be squeezed in, but here’s “the plan”

By the end of this week I should be greasing the shutters of one of these:

Samsung EC-S760                                                       Polaroid i733
Weight: 123 g                                                                  Weight: 141 g
Dimensions: 93 x 26.5mm x 62                                  Dimensions: 76 mm x 22.86mm x 62 mm
7.2MP                                                                               7 MP
3x digital xoom                                                               4x digital zoom
shutter speed 1/2000                                                   shutter speed 1/2000
11MB soldered memory                                              16MB soldered memory
Lens f = 6.3 ~ 18.9mm                                                  Lens - 6.2 mm - 18.6 mm===========================================================
Every time I get into some extra moolah, I’d later think in morose penitence, “Where’d it all go?” So taking up Mommy Marga’s philosophy, I am spending part of the year-end reward on something concrete, this time, the above. These two came up as the cheapest, from a three-day web search which involved Shiela & Mommy Marga…

An interesting article posted in an ads paper under “Swappings”
Fighting cock to swap with sweater.

And there’s another funny thing. Under Books & published materials, there was, listed:
MacBook accessories. Ha Ha.

I wonder if next year I’d be thinking along the lines of getting either a notebook, or going on a trip to Macau…Hey, ya gotta dream big… especially when everything’s so bleak in the love department & the fat paycheck will be liposuctioned into oblivion within the next three days.
 

auburn

~A u b u r n~ 

I’m a sucker for auburn-haired women, or women who are too silent. I could cancel out the faces in a crowd and just see hers. She’d be saying nothing, but meaning to say everything. The one with the downcast eyelashes. You can see her temples throbbing, the lips creeping to a half-smile. She agrees, she dissents. Her mind is beautiful. She, therefore, is beautiful.

And that day, I found her. The being of which my Philosophy teacher spoke. Essential being, as opposed to accidental, say, like the flasher who always stood by the phone booth on Kalinawan street. She had red hair sent aflame by the glow of the sun and the fire grew as the wind swift past the strands, she was a torch in midday and there was a song in my head and loads of paperwork on my desk and a sea of excel cells on my notebook, waiting, but the song kept playing. She made me feel insignificant, and the only thing that would validate my being there, this loser gawking at the microcosm of the universe, this bug treading on dead foliage towards the lone leaf kissed by dewdrops–the only thing that would convince me I had a part in the scheme of things, was her abrupt, even inadvertent, glance.

Of course, she had her eyes on the floor. I was safe from her catching me and the lonely, desperate gawk I donned for her. But did I want to be safe? I wanted to make myself known but she was so…difficult. She was too meek, although I know she could well have the ferocity of a straight A stude slash debater, whenever the need arises. How do I make myself known to this creature, head of auburn, pursed lips that would shame a carnation’s pink?

And of course, as you predicted, no introductions transpired between us that day. A non-event to send all my life’s non-events to its glorious summation into — nothing.

Nowhere.

I remain as insignificant as a blinking cursor to a mindless dweeb; a wildgrass on the magnificent Mayon; stardust to the sun.

==========================================================================================

This is one of the many scribbles that I believed to have potential but then I go …nowhere. The creative part of my brain goes haywire & that leaves the story unfinished. This is a disability, one of many, actually.

This is written in a male voice. I’d like to think that if you’re able to put yourself in the shoes of the opposite gender–and get good feedback without the reader knowing you’re a woman, that’s at least one point to getting to the glory of the byline.

But, again, we all know I’m getting ahead of myself…I can’t even finish a damn story.

i can’t let more than two people talk

=================
Esther: Beware. Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair…And I eat men like air.

Holden: Oh, are you Lucas or Plath?

Esther: I am neither and both.

Holden: How is that possible?

Shrugs shoulder

Esther: You must be Mr Caufield?

Holden: Holden. Please.

Esther: Holden, my name is Esther Greenwood.

Holden: So, how do we get down to business? Are you pro-gore, or do you prefer the classic hanging? (No?) Suffocation via water or vehicle exhaust?

Laughs.

Holden: Stones in our pockets as we prance to the river?

Laughs.

Holden: Shit, that was so–

Esther: Emo?

Hayden: God, how degenerately fucked are we? A genre born out of depression? Mass dementia.

Esther: I know, you’d think it would stop at sex, rock, rebellion &…& war. Holy mother of crap.

Holden: Down with that. But eitherway, I’m getting these. (holds up The Bell Jar & a Plath biography) What are you having?

Coffee, black, double.

Ok let’s cancel that one out. I’m supposed to ask.

I thought you did? Haha, I know I know you meant [lifts the book in her hand] This is a Christie to complete my collection.

Curtain. Good one.

Oh, you read Agatha?

Woman, I don’t just read Agatha, we’re—involved.

Uh-Oh, I hear Sir Mallowan turning from his grave.

Holden laughs.

Nah, I’ve read most of her work and that one you got there is the aggregate of Lady Christie’s genius.

I’ll take your word for it …AND I’ll take you up on that offer.

Oh, the one that you so subtly suggested and make me think I made the offer, thereby maiming my pride to a certain notch as a stratagem to

To make your proper acquaintance & stop you from psychoanalyzing an invincible subject
=================
But you see, social creature that we are, no matter in extreme degrees we want to be non-conformists…there are just certain norms we cling to. Because if we deviate from that, the consequences are upon us.

I cannot love her. Not publicly. For she’s a woman, as am I.

Lying is the most fun a girl can have with her clothes on

Rice had said that evil is always possible and goodness is eternally difficult. And superimposing that premise on my writing habits, I find that the flow of ideas are easier when fueled by hatred. But then perhaps unconditional love can bring about the same pace, but that has yet to be…studied. When the occassion rises. For now, hatred drives me.

And it drives me now. Here. In this parchment I wish was your skin and my words carved upon you until the ink reaches the layer where the pigments soil you beyond erasure. You’re tainted. Enemy.

It is beyond all comprehension now, how I came to love you. And that only glorifies you, the great deceiver. The young heart wrapped by veins and veins of incredulity was tamed by the misjudgement that our brainwaves have the same crest and fall.

You were a good friend, a lousy lover. A motherfucking betrayer.

And now you say you need to see me to heal YOUR wounds. I’ve nursed mine without your help.

Get a life, or a grave.

As a philosopher named Marshall Mathers once said, “I just don’t give a fuck.”

the switchfoot weekend

What with the dozen or so times you’d have to turn the stove knob to get the flame going, I’m glad I purchased a gas match/flamer when Ken & Dak got one. With the agency of that li’l kitchen wonder, I lighted a candle inside a jar on All Soul’s; and said a very brief & spontaneous prayer of eternal rest for the departed.

I thought I’d be scared, that there’d be a manifestation or something, you know, me being alone at the apartment. I kept listening hard for sounds of life on the first & third floors, & found that my neighbors weren’t not home, they were just being … solemn? Until their tvs blasted on with the comfortable blabble.

Sunday afternoon was beautiful; and there are less & less beautiful days if you’re away from your family & you’re nearing your quarter life without even an inkling of a life savings. Shit.

So, yeah, Sunday in the pm I was catching up on my reading. The Shining, the first Stephen King I’ve ever read–& damn, how many have been adapted into films? I remember Dark Half, saw it when I was a kid & even then I knew how to tell a good & bad movie apart.

I think reading an eBook with an iPod encourages you to just read page after page because you feel that each “virtual page” is just too short… (Thanks to Joanne & the TS guys for helping me convert the PDF file ebooks into text format & then syncing it on Greg). I was nibbling away on whatever, & I sat there in the living room with the front door open (it seldom is, because I might doze off & leave it welcoming strangers) & the wind was wheezing. If it did that in the night, my skin would crawl, but it was in the cloudy-sunshiny pm of All Souls’ Day & I was reading a good book with the wind on my hair–nothing creepy about that at all. Man, that was a fine afternoon.

And mind you, it was a wheeze, not a whistle. It sounded like something was crumbling, or an auto that wouldn’t start. Odd, but not too creepy, as that was canceled out by the fine sun & wind of which I’ve been raving about so it’s gonna stop here.

eBooks that Greg digested last Saturday:

New Tales of the Vampires [Ann Rice]
The Shining [Stephen King]
Twighlight [Stephanie something]
New Moon [Stephanie…]

For the past weeks I’ve been juggling three novels, not even getting to half of any:
New Tales of the Vampires
The Shining
The Power of One [Bryce Courtenay]– paperback

Things are not good with Ate. I blame the broken mirror. That fuckin’ mirror smashed diagonally; we’ve been meaning to replace it–ate & Joy & myself, until they finally leave and it was up to me. AND when I did go out to find one they didn’t have full-body mirrors. I’d have to go somewhere beyond our barangay to get one & the commute is an issue.

Mom & baby Eche went to the mall last Sunday. I wish I could’ve been there. I’m still so in live with my sister. Bantot, I noticed when I was home in August, I think, he’s also too in love with Eche. You’d think the “gigil” would be diminished now that he has a son, but no. He loves them both. I just love my little siblings for being like that.

Sunday night there was a squabble in my head, I was dreaming again, torn between two dimensions & I was hearing voices. The man was shouting “Listen. Listen!” & the next thing I knew numbers were flashing before me. After I guess two numbers, I got the sense of taking note of them & then I coerced my mind to return to consciousness & suceeded. My thumb was numb & weak from sleep but I was able to key in the numbers & send them to Bantot–he just might get a few bucks from the STL. No word from him yet, so we all know what that means.

Have I said anything even remotely essential? Are you hoping I eventually would? Haha. I do, too. But that’s a long shot.

Now I leave you with Switchfoot:

Faust, Midas And Myself

This one’s about a dream
I had last night
How an old man tracked me home
And stepped inside
Put his foot inside the door
And gave a crooked smile
Something in his eyes
Something in his laugh
Something in his voice
That made my skin crawl off

Said I’ve seen you here before
I know your name
How you could have your pick
Of pretty things
You could have it all
Everything at once
Everything you’ve seen
Everything you’ll need
Everything you’ve ever had in fantasies

You have one life
You have one life

One life left to lead
You have one life
You have one life

One life left to lead

I woke up from my dream
As a golden man
The Girl I’ve never seen
With Golden skin
I jump up to my feet
She asked me what was wrong
I began to scream
I don’t think this is me
Is this just a dream?
Or really happening, happening

You have one life
You have one life
One life left to lead

You have one life
You have one life
One life left to lead

What direction
What direction
I’m splitting up
I’m splitting up
This is my personal disaffection

What direction
What Direction
What Direction now

I looked outside the glass
At golden shores
Golden ships and masts
With golden cords
As my reflection passed
I hated what I saw
The Golden eyes were dead
A thought passed through my head
A heart that is made of gold can’t really beat at all

I wanted to wake up again
I wanted to wake up again
Without a touch of gold
Without a touch of gold

What direction
What direction
What direction
What direction
Life begins at the intersection
What direction
What direction
What direction
What direction

I woke up as before
But the gold was gone
My wife was at the door
With a night robe on
My heart beat once or twice
And life flooded my veins
Everything had changed
My lungs had found their voice
And what was once routine
Was now the perfect joy

You have one life
You have one life
One life left to lead

You have one life
You have one life
One life left to lead

The Oh Gravity album is now in Greg, too. Lovin’ every song. Every single song.

[holloween]

If you watch a film for the second time but it doesn’t bore you, or skiddle into your disinterest then it most probably is a good movie. Juno, for one, is a good re-watch film; and though it’s packaged as a coming-of-age & very light comedy–10 Things I Hate About You falls under that same category as well. And these you can find stacked on the same shelf: Bad Boys II, Galaxy Quest, A League of Their Own, (need I say?) Forrest Gump, Interview with the Vampire, Take the Lead….ah & so much more.

*   *   *
Of Halloween & The Merging of Religion & Culture to Commercialize an Ancient Tradition

Here’s something I came across on my old blog, putting it now in lieu of the holiday:

The Ancient Gaels believed that on October 31, the boundaries between the worlds of the living and the dead overlapped and the deceased would come back to life and cause havoc such as sickness or damaged crops. The festivals would frequently involve bonfires, where the bones of slaughtered livestock were thrown. Costumes and masks were also worn at the festivals in an attempt to mimic the evil spirits
source